And grip them to their grief,
As sudden as the redwings come
At the full fall of the leaf.
“And sudden as the swallows go,
You pass away before we know,
And wounded hearts are we.”
W. P. L.
“Rue3 des Lauriers, No. 5:” last thought in her head at night, first when she woke in the morning. In her dreams too the words had been constantly before her: “No fear of my forgetting the address,” said Marion to herself.
Breakfast over, she arranged with Thérèse and Charlie, to accompany them in their morning walk about twelve o’clock. And then she fidgeted about, unable to settle to anything; rather frightened, if the truth must be told, at the thought of what she was about to do.
It is a crisis in our lives, when, for the first time, we take what we believe to be an important step, entirely4 on our own responsibility. Well for us when this crisis does not occur too soon. Well too, when it is not deferred5 too late. Of the two extremes, doubtless the latter is the more to be dreaded6. Better some sad tumbles and bruises7; better indeed a broken limb, than the hopeless feebleness of members, stunted8, if not paralysed for want of natural use. Experience is truly a hard schoolmaster, but we have not yet found a better one. Some day we must be self-reliant, or else be utterly9 wrecked10 and stranded11. So, if for no higher motive12 than mere13 prudence14 and expediency15, it is well not to delay too long the testing of our own powers, the trial of our individual strength.
Cissy had said truly that Marion was a curious mixture of simplicity16 and wisdom, child and woman. I wonder if in this lay her peculiar17 charm? But this, indeed, I cannot tell. The charm I have felt, deeply too, but like other sweet and beautiful things, I endeavoured in vain to analyse or define it.
The girl tried to read, or write or work; but all her attempts were useless. Like a naughty schoolboy, who has resolution enough to plan it truant18 expedition, but fails to conceal19 his excitement beforehand, so Marion was on the point a dozen times that morning, of betraying her strange intention. Had Cissy not been tired and sleepy when Marion peeped in to wish her good morning, she would infallibly have detected some unusual signs of excitement in her young cousin’s manner. A word from her and the whole would have been in her possession, and then — Marion’s life might have been more happily common-place, and this story of it would, in all probability, never have been written.
However it was not so to be. Twelve o’clock came at last, and with her little cavalier and Thérèse as escort, Marion sallied forth20. The Rue des Lauriers she learnt from Thérèse, was about a quarter of a mile only from the street in which Mme. Poulin’s house was situated21. Anxious that Charlie’s walk should not be curtailed22 on her account, and perhaps not sorry in her secret heart to delay, if only for half-an-hour, the task she had set herself, Marion proposed that they should in the first place take a stroll beyond the town. The day was much cooler than the preceding one. Indeed, it was cloudy enough to suggest the possibility of not far distant rain. Marion’s beautiful mountains were all but hidden in mist, and it was difficult to believe in the blue sky of yesterday. Still there were now and then breaks in the mist and clouds, showing that the loveliness was veiled only, not destroyed, Charlie’s remarks apropos23 of everything, from the fog-covered bills to the sisters of charity with their enormous flapping caps, were amusing enough. But Marion was too engrossed24 by her own thoughts to listen with her usual attention. As they reached the end of Rue des Laurier’s, a slight drizzle25 began to fall and Marion told Thérèse to hasten home with Charlie, as she herself had a call to make some little way up the street.
“Tell your mamma, Charlie,” she cried, as they separated, “if she wants me, that I shall be home in a very little while.”
No 5 was at the other extremity26 of the street, avenue almost it might have been called; for it was prettily27 planted with trees at each side, and the gardens of the houses, standing28, many of them, detached or semi-detached in villa29 fashion, were bright and well kept. Those at the upper end were evidently of older date. No. 5 especially had a somewhat venerable air. It was built round three sides of a court laid out with turf and flower-beds, in the centre of which a little fountain was playing lazily, A damp, drizzling30 day, however, is hardly the occasion on which such a place is seen to advantage, and Marion decided31 mentally that she would have been sorry to exchange the little terrace on to which rooms opened, for the quaint32 old court-yard, however picturesque33.
She rang bravely at what appeared to be the principal door, which to her surprise was opened by an old woman who informed her that the apartment of Miladi Severn was on the other side, au premier34. The entrance opposite was open, so Marion ascended35 a flight of stairs and rang again at the first door that presented itself. This time she felt sure she was right, for a man-servant in English-looking attire36 appeared in answer to her summons. In reply to her enquiry as to whether she could see Lady Severn on a matter of business, he said that he would ask, and ushered37 her into a very pretty sitting room, opening, to her surprise, on to a pleasant garden. The mystery as to how she found herself again on the ground floor without having descended38 any steps, was explained, when she remembered that the Rue des Lauriers was built on a steep hill, at the upper extremity of which stood No. 5. How it came to be number five instead number one was a problem never satisfactorily solved.
Marion waited a few minutes and then the servant re-appeared, to say that Lady Severn would be ready to see the young lady almost immediately, if she would be so good as to give her name.
Here was a poser! Marion could not, yet bring herself to say “Miss Freer.” But a lucky compromise occurred to her.
“I have no card with me,” she said, “but Lady Severn will know who I am if you say I have come from Mrs. Archer39’s.”
The name apparently40 was all required, for in another moment Lady Severn entered the room. She came in looking rather puzzled, but shook hands kindly41 enough with Marion, saying, as she did so, that she hoped. Mrs. Archer was not feeling ill or that anything was wrong with little Charlie.
“Oh dear no, thank you,” said Marion, “they are both very well. At least, my cou—Mrs. Archer is only a little tired still from the long journey. I should have remembered that you would be surprised at my calling so early, but I trust you excuse my having done so. The truth is I called on my own account, not on Mrs. Archer’s.”
“Indeed!” Lady Severn, looking still more puzzled, when a bright idea suddenly striking her, she exclaimed “oh, perhaps you have some friend, Miss Freer, who you think might suit me as governess for my little girls. A sister possibly,” she continued, for the expression of the girl’s face did not seem to contradict her assumption.
Profiting by Cissy’s dire42 experience of the day before, Marion took care to speak in a natural, regular tone, which she was pleased to find her companion heard perfectly43. Probably her voice was rounder and fuller than Mrs. Archer’s, but however this may have been, the result was eminently44 satisfactory, and very possibly, still further prepossessed Lady Severn in her favour.
“Not exactly that,” she replied, “I have no sister. But what I have to propose is myself, as governess to your grand-daughters.”
“Yourself, my dear Miss Freer,” exclaimed lady Severn in amazement45, “but how can that be? Are you not engaged already to Mrs. Archer? I supposed that you had accompanied her from England. And, excuse me, Miss Freer, but I should think on no account of interfering46 with any arrangements Mrs. Archer may be depending upon, even though you may not consider yourself exactly bound to her. You must not mind my speaking plainly, Miss Freer. Young people, and you look very young, are not always as considerate in these matters as they should be.”
In spite of herself, Marion felt a little indignant. This was the first slight taste of the disagreeables and annoyances47 (“insults,” a hotter-tempered and less calm-judging girl would have called them) to which, by the strange and almost unprecedented48 steps she had taken, she had exposed herself. What is commonly called “a dependent position,”—though whose are the independent positions I have not yet, in the course of is long life, been able to discover,—has, I suppose, peculiar trials of its own. Yet I am anxious in the present case not to be misunderstood as exaggerating or laying undue49 stress upon those attendant upon governess life. Much harm has been dome50 already in this way, and were I desirous of entering at all upon the subject, I would much prefer to draw attention to the bright side of the picture; side which, I am happy to say, my own personal experience call vouch51 for us existing. It is a false position which is to be dreaded, and which is, in the evil sense of the word, a dependent one.
Marion seldom, if ever, blushed. But now, when this speech of Lady Severn’s roused her indignation, she felt the strange tingling52 sensation through all her veins53, which agitation54 of any kind produced upon her, calm and self-possessed as she appeared. She replied quietly:
“If I were capable of behaving in any dishonourable way to Mrs. Archer, I should not think myself fit to be entrusted55 with the care of your grand-daughters, Lady Severn. But I assure you there is no such objection to my proposal. I only came from England with Mrs. Archer as a friend. We are indeed very old friends. I should not think of leaving her for more than a part of the day. What I was going to propose was that I should be the little girls’ daily governess—morning governess, I should say, for I should require to spend all my afternoons with Mrs. Archer.”
“Oh, I see,” replied Lady Severn. “You must pardon my not having quite understood the state of the case at first. What I wished, however, was to meet with a residential56 governess for the young ladies, my grand-daughters.”
Marion winced57 again, but pulled herself up in a moment. “Certainly,” thought she, “it must sound rather free and easy my speaking these children, whom I have never seen, as the little girls.” So she answered demurely59,
“I understood that a residential governess was what you wished for the young ladies, but my idea was that in the meantime, while you have not succeeded in meeting with one, I might at least be able to employ the morning hours profitably. I think any rate I could kelp them from forgetting what knowledge they have already acquired.”
“Certainly, certainly,” replied Lady Severn graciously. “I have no doubt you could do far more than that, and I really think your idea, a very good one. I should, however, like to consult with my niece, Miss Vyse, before deciding anything. She takes a great interest in her little cousins, and is herself most highly accomplished60. And as to terms, Miss Freer. Have you thought what you would wish to have as compensation for your morning hours?”
“Thirty pounds; I mean,” she added hastily “if I were staying at Altes six months, and I taught the lit—the young ladies all that time would fifteen pounds a quarter be too much?”
Something in the child-like wistfulness of the sweet face appealing to her, so timidly and yet so anxiously, touched a chord in the not unkindly, though somewhat self-absorbed nature of the eider lady, and she exclaimed impulsively62,
“Fifteen pounds a quarter too much, my dear? No, certainly not. I should much prefer making it twenty. But, my dear, you are so very young. Are you sure this is a wise step for your own sake? Would not your friends prefer your making a real holiday of this little time abroad with Mrs. Archer?”
How much those few words left to be inferred! They came very close home to Lady Severn’s heart. “No mother!” A sad little picture, as far as possible removed from the truth, but none the less touching64 on that account, rose before her mind’s eye of this motherless girl’s probable home. But though somewhat curious to hear more, she made no enquiry, which for aught she knew, might have touched some tender spot. She only said very gently:
“Poor child,” and then went on more briskly, “Well then so far there appears no difficulty. The sum I named would quite satisfy you, Miss Freer? Twenty pounds each quarter.”
“Twenty,” repeated Marion; “that would be forty pounds in six months. Oh no, thank you. I would much rather have only fifteen. Truly I don’t want more,” she added earnestly.
“But my dear, do you know you will never get on in the world if you are so very—the reverse of grasping?” remonstrated65 the old lady, half laughing at this very eccentric young governess; “your friends, even if they do not interfere with you in general, would certainly disapprove66 of your not taking as high a salary as is offered you, and which indeed from what I see of you, I feel sure you would do your best to deserve. Besides I should look to you for a good deal. My grand-daughters” (they were no longer the young ladies) “have several masters, for music, drawing, German, and so on. But I should wish you to superintend their preparations for their masters, as much at least as you found time for, besides yourself directing their English studies. You would feel able to undertake all this I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” said Marion. “I think I could do all that would be required by girls of their ages. I can play pretty well, I believe,” she said, with a pretty little air of half-deprecating any appearance of self-conceit—“at least I was well taught. I don’t draw much, but I could help them to prepare for their master, and I have studied German a good deal and Italian a little.”
“Do you sing too?” asked Lady Severn. “You should do so, and well, to judge by your voice in speaking which is peculiarly clear. Indeed, it is very seldom I can hear anyone as easily as you. I should like the children to sing a little now and then. Not much, of course. Not so as to strain their voices while they are so young, but I should like them to learn a little. Some of the simpler parts of glees, for instance. Their uncle, Sir Ralph Severn, is very fond of music, and has a remarkably67 fine voice. We often have little concerts among ourselves in the evenings, and it would be nice for Charlotte and Sybil to be able to join in them.”
“I do sing,” said Marion. “Not very much, though. But I could teach them in the simple way you wish, I am sure.”
“Then this terrible money appears the only obstacle?” said Lady Severn, smiling; “but, my dear, you must really think what your friends would say.”
“I assure you,” replied Marion, “l am quite free to judge for myself. Indeed, when I came to Altes I had no intention of making any money in this way. It was only hearing of your difficulty in meeting with a governess; it struck me I might do temporarily, for I was very anxious to make thirty pounds while here. Not more, truly. My friends could not object, for it was—” she went on hesitatingly, feeling she was getting on unsafe ground, “it was for one of them, the nearest of them, that I so much wanted the money at present.”
“Very well, then,” said Lady Severn, “very well. As you wish it, we will leave it so at present:” adding to herself, “though you shall be no loser by it in the end, poor child,” And then aloud, “If you will call here to-morrow at the same time, I will give you my decision, and introduce your pupils to you. As to references, there need be no delay,” (fortunate that Lady Severn was thus easily satisfied, for references hail never entered poor Marion’s head) “for your being a friend of Mrs. Archer’s, is quite enough. And at your age, you cannot have had much former experience of teaching.”
“No,” replied Marion, “I never taught anyone regularly before.”
“I thought so, but I do not regret it. The children will probably be all the happier with you, than if you had been older and more experienced. And, for so short a time, it will be no disadvantage.”
So, with a cordial good morning from Lady Severn, and a kindly message or remembrance to Mrs. Archer, Marion took her departure. With a curious mixture of feelings in her heart, she slowly descended the flight of stairs to the courtyard, so wholly absorbed in her own cogitations, that she all but ran against a gentleman just entering the doorway68, whose attention on his side was engrossed by the endeavouring to shut a rather obstreperous69 umbrella. A hasty “Pardon,” and he passed her, quickly running up the stair. She noticed only that he was slight and dark, and that he had on a very wet “Macintosh;” in those days, when but recently invented, not the pleasantest of attire, unless one had a special predilection70 for the odour of tar71 and melted India-rubber combined. “How can anyone wear those horrible coats?” said Marion to herself. But very speedily she was forced to confess that she would not be sorry were she to find herself magically enveloped72 in such a garment; for it was pouring, literally73 pouring, with rain. No longer drizzle, but good, honest, most unmistakable rain; and, of course, with her head full of blue sky and brilliant sunshine, as the normal condition of weather at Altes, she had brought no umbrella. There she stood, rather despondently74 staring at the fountain, which seemed to her in a much brisker mood than when she had observed it on entering. As far as she herself was concerned, Marion really was by no means afraid of a wetting, but then she knew the sight of her with drenched75 garments would seriously annoy Cissy, whom at this present time she was most especially anxious to conciliate. She thought of turning back and borrowing au umbrella from Lady Severn, but she felt rather averse76 to doing so, and had just made up her mind to brave it when a voice behind her made her start.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” it said, “il parait que vous n’avez pas de parapluie, et il pleut à verse. Permettez moi de vous ofrir le mien77.”
The French was perfectly correct, the accent irreproachable78, but yet a certain something, an undefinable instinct, caused Marion to hesitate in her reply, as she turned towards the speaker. She stopped in the “je vous remercie” she had all but uttered, and for it substituted a hearty79 “thank you,” as her glance fell on the gentleman who had a few minutes before passed her on his way in.
“Thank you,” she repeated, “you are very kind indeed.”
“Ah,” he said, with, she fancied, a slight expression of amusement on his quiet, grave face, “my accent still betrays me, I see. But I am not sorry it is so in the present ease, as nothing is more ridiculous than forsaking80 one’s native tongue unnecessarily. I think,” he added, “my umbrella is a good-sized one, and will protect you pretty well, opening it he spoke81. This was more easily managed than the shutting had been, and, with repeated thanks, Marion had turned to go, when suddenly recollecting82 that she was in ignorance of the name and address of the owner of the umbrella, she stopped and asked if she should return it to number five.
“Yes, if you please,” he replied, “I live here. You will see my name on the handle. But do not trouble about sending it back at once. Any time in the next few days will do. I believe I have another somewhere. And, indeed, I much prefer being without one. These charming coats are much better things,” he added, regarding his attire with supreme83 satisfaction.
“Charming they may be to the wearer, but assuredly not becoming, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is.” said Marion to herself, as she crossed the courtyard under the shelter of the friendly umbrella. “I do think it was very kind of him, though, to lend me this, so I should not laugh at his queer appearance in that hideous84 coat, By-the-bye, I wonder what his name is.” By this time she was in the street, and stopped for a moment to decipher the letters on the handle: “R. M. Severn.”
“How funny!” thought she, “really my introductions to this family are rather peculiar. How amused Cissy will be!”
But, with the thought of Cissy, came hack85 rather uneasy sensations. Marion’s satisfaction at the success of her visit to Lady Severn, had for the moment caused her to forget the still more awful business before her: the confessing all to Cissy, and extorting86 from her a promise of co-operation, without which her scheme must infallibly fail. The part of the whole which she least liked to think of, was the being known under a false name. And yet this very mistake of Lady Severn’s had been one of the strongest inducements to her to offer herself as governess to these children; for, as Miss Vere, she felt that she could not have ventured on so bold and unusual a proceeding87. Now, however, that the Rubicon was passed, it appeared to her that the turning back would entail88 greater annoyances and mortification89 on both herself and her cousin, than they could possibly be exposed to by perseverance90 in her intention. This she hoped to be able to demonstrate to Cissy, and thus to induce her to refrain from opposition91. But the more she thought of it, the more she dreaded the coming interview. No use, however, in delaying it. She had hardly made up her mind as to how she should enter upon the awful disclosure, when she found herself at their own door, which was standing open, Cissy anxiously looking out for her.
“Oh, Marion,” she exclaimed, “how very naughty you are to stay out it the rain! I have been in such a fuss about you.”
“Oh, Cissy,” replied the delinquent92, “how very naughty you are, to stand at the door catching93 cold!”
“Don’t be impertinent, Miss, but come in and take off your wet things, and then tell me what you have been about. Oh, I see, you had an umbrella. What a great, big one! Is that your own one?”
“No I got the loan of it,” said Marion hastily closing the conspicuous94 umbrella before Cissy had time to observe it more particularly. “Go into the drawing-room, Cissy, and I’ll be with you in five minutes, and tell you all my adventures in the rain.”
The five minutes had hardy95 elapsed when Marion rejoined her cousin. The damp day had rendered a tiny fire acceptable. Cissy was seated near it, and Marion knelt down on the rug before her, looking up into her face with a curious, half-anxious expression on her own.
“What is the matter, May? Have you really any adventures to tell me?” asked Mrs. Archer.
“Yes,” replied the girl quietly, “at least I have a confession96 to make to you. What do you think I have done, Cissy?”
“What do I think you have done? How can I think till I know? Don’t frighten me, May: tell me quickly what you mean.”
“Well, then, I will tell you quickly, Cissy. What I have done is this: I have engaged myself as daily governess to Lady Severn’s grand-daughters, for three months certainly, and, if possible, for six.”
“Marion,” said Cissy excitedly, “you are joking. You don’t mean that you have really done such a mad, unheard-of thing. You, Marion Vere, a daily governess! You Uncle Vere’s daughter! No, nonsense, you can’t be in earnest.”
“Yes, Cissy, I am, thoroughly97 and entirely in earnest. It came into my mind yesterday, when Lady Severn mistook me for Charlie’s governess. I saw before me a simple, easy way of making the money I required to pay back poor Harry98’s debt, and I determined99 to carry out my scheme without telling you of it till it was done.” And then she gave her cousin a full account of her interview with Lady Severn, and the arrangements proposed; and without giving Cissy time to make any remarks, or to urge any objections, she went on to show her how easily and naturally the thing might be managed without anyone’s ever being in their secret. How Lady Severn’s mistaking her name, and the fact of her being a perfect stranger in Altes, would effectually prevent her identity with the daughter of the well-known Mr. Vere ever being suspected.
“And after all,” she continued, “it is such a very thrilling thing. I shall only be away for a few hours in the morning, and often indeed shall be home almost before you are dressed. The work itself, such as it is, will be exceedingly good for me in every way. I am really looking forward to it with the greatest pleasure.”
“It is not that part of it I am thinking of so much,” said Cissy gravely, “it is the disadvantage it may be to you in a hundred indirect ways, which you are too childish to think of. Even supposing, as may be the case, that the truth is never suspected, there is something very anomalous100 and undesirable101 about the whole affair. Especially the being known under a name that is not yours. Fancy, in after life, if it came out in the queer way that things do, that you had spent six mouths abroad under an assumed name! You must own, Marion, that it is enough to startle me to think of what you may be exposing yourself to; and to think it is all for the sake of that wretched money! As if I would not twenty times rather have lent you six times as much, whether you ever repaid it or not.”
“But Cissy, you couldn’t, and that settles the matter. You couldn’t have lent it, and I certainly wouldn’t have borrowed it without repaying it properly. The choice lay between my doing what I have done, or applying to Papa; and rather than go to him for it, I really think I would be a governess all my life. Besides,” she added, “seeing that so much is done, can it be undone103? It seems to me the attempting to undo102 it, would entail all manner of disagreeable things; explanations of private matters to Lady Severn, a perfect stranger to me, and personally hardly better known to you. One thing I am quite sure of, and that is, that she would not forgive the part I have acted in the matter. Indeed I myself should feel dreadfully small! As far as my chances of enjoying my visit to Altes are concerned, which you, dear Cissy, think so much of, I assure you I am more likely to do so, as Miss Freer, Lady Severn’s daily governess, than as Marion Vere. I couldn’t get over the mortification, at having appeared so cunning. If I really earn the money, I shall feel that I am working for Harry, and somehow that prevents my feeling as if I were deceitful or scheming.”
And the more they talked it over, the more awkward appeared the complication. Or at least, Marion talked Cissy into thinking there was nothing for it but to go on with the plan.
“For indeed,” said Marion, by way of triumphantly104 summing up her argument, “I am under promise to Lady Severn to undertake the post, if she thinks me suitable. And I couldn’t go back from a promise.”
So, tired of discussion and rather bewildered by Marion’s eloquence105, poor Cissy gave in, sorely against her will.
“It really will be great fun, putting every thing else aside,” said Marion. “Remember, Cissy, you must never call me ‘my cousin,’ or ‘Miss Vere.’ Fortunately we have no English servants with us, and Charlie always calls me May. Then all my letters, which won’t be many, come under cover to you. It will all answer beautifully.”
”I am sorry I can’t join you in seeing anything beautiful about the whole affair from beginning to end,” said Cissy,” but having given in, I must not be cross about it. I know you did it from the best of motives106, but all the same it was fearfully rash. I believe it’s leaving off raining,” she added, as a sudden gleam of sunshine entered the room, “that reminds me, May, where did you borrow that great umbrella? Did Lady Severn lend it you?”
“No,” replied Marion, and then, not sorry to distract her cousin’s thoughts, she related her little adventure.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Archer, “that must certainly have been Sir Ralph. But don’t feel flattered by his civility, Marion. At this moment I have no doubt he has not the slightest idea if the person he lent it to was an ugly old woman or a pretty young girl. Very probably he would have lent it all the more heartily107 had you been the former.”
“Very likely,” said Marion, laughing, “outward appearance evidently does not trouble him much.”
And then, as it had really cleared up wonderfully, they set of for a walk.
“Remember, Cissy,” said Marion, “that Dr. Bailey is coming this afternoon.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Archer, “I had not forgotten it. But Marion, if I give in to this mad scheme of yours, you must instruct me what I am to do. Must I introduce you on all occasions in this new character of yours?”
“There will very seldom be any necessity for introducing me at all. You can speak of me and to me as you always do, which will seem quite natural. I told Lady Severn we were very old friends, and that I had just come abroad with you for the pleasure of the visit.”
“Very well,” said Cissy, “you shall hear me introduce you to Dr. Bailey, as a deserving young person whom I have a very good opinion of.”
But this introduction proved to be unnecessary. Dr. Bailey had hardly sat down before he remarked to Mrs. Archer, how pleased he was to hear that her young friend had undertaken, temporarily, the charge of the studies of the little Misses Severn. “An excellent arrangement,” he pronounced it, “your new pupils, Miss Freer,” (he had heard the name even!) “are charming children. The younger one especially is a great friend of mine. She has been far from strong, poor child, but is now much better. I should not, however, advise her being pressed forward in her lessons. Time enough for that, time enough.” And so he chattered108 on in a kindly, uninteresting way; told Mrs. Archer the names of the principal families, English, French, Russians, and Germans, who intended this year wintering at Altes; advised her by all means occasionally to dine at the table d’h?te of the “Lion d’Or,” as the variety would be good for her and the cooking excellent; and then took his leave with the promise of a speedy visit from the ladies of his household.
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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rue
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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bruises
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stunted
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utterly
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wrecked
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stranded
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motive
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mere
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prudence
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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18
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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curtailed
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| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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24
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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25
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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26
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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28
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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29
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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30
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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31
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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32
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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34
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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35
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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39
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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40
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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41
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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42
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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43
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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45
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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46
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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49
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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50
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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51
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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52
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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53
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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59
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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63
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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65
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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67
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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68
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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69
obstreperous
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| adj.喧闹的，不守秩序的 | |
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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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71
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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74
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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75
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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76
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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77
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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78
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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79
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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80
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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81
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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82
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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83
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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84
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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85
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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86
extorting
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| v.敲诈( extort的现在分词 )；曲解 | |
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87
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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88
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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89
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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90
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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91
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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92
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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93
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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94
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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95
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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96
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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97
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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98
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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99
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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100
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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101
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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102
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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103
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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104
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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105
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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106
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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107
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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108
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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