Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.”
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.
THOSE few days had been dull enough for Marion. The weeks of happiness, unquestioning, if not thoughtless, that had preceded them, had ill prepared her for the sudden change. For that there was a change, that some mysterious influence had come between Ralph and her, she felt convinced. At first she was inclined to ascribe it to Cissy’s unlucky allusion4 to Frank Berwick that afternoon on the terrace. But on further reflection she became convinced that though this might explain part, it did not throw light on the whole. If Ralph’s feelings to her were merely, as she had for long believed, those of kindly6, almost pitying friendliness7, there could be no reason why the suspicion of her attachment8 to another should interfere9 with their pleasant intercourse10. If, on the other hand, as of late she had half unconsciously begun to hope, his interest in her was of a far deeper nature, why should he have allowed all these weeks of almost daily intercourse to elapse, and then suddenly on the mere5 shadowy appearance of a possible rival, withdraw without a word of explanation offered or demanded?
No, if Ralph indeed “cared for her,” as she softly worded it to herself, there must be some other obstacle in the way, some more important influence at work than any mistaken dread11 of the young officer. Marion to some extent misunderstood Ralph. She had no idea of his extreme self contempt, his rooted notion that in all respects he was utterly12 unattractive, and unlikely to win a girl’s affection. She, in her sweet humility13, so looked up to him that she could not realize his complete unconsciousness of the loftiness of the pedestal on which she had placed.
But this obstacle, this hindrance14, in what then did it consist? wherein lay its insurmountably? A more worldly-minded or experienced girl would at once have found an answer to this question in the fact of her dependent position; but with respect to Ralph himself, this did not somehow occur to Marion as of much consequence. Yet she was by no means ignorant of the conventional importance of social position, and had indeed been keenly alive to the slights, and still more objectionable condescension15, which in her r?le of governess she had not failed to meet with. Her unworldliness showed itself rather in her perfect trust, her childlike confidence that were there no other difficulty in the way, Sir Ralph would not refrain from asking her to be his wife because he believed her to be a governess. And indeed, though she knew it not, it was only at times that she realized her present position. It was too new to her, and she was too conscious of its unreality, for it to influence save in a passing way her estimate of herself or others. When with Sir Ralph, she always felt herself to be herself—Marion Vere—his equal in every sense. In every sense, at least, in which a true woman would wish to feel herself the equal of the man she loves. And, in an utterly illogical way, it seemed to her almost as if her knowledge that this was the case, her assurance that not even from the social point of view could she be regarded as other than a fit wife for him, must somehow or other be instinctively16 recognised by Ralph Severn himself.
In all these ideas, as we have seen, she was partly right and partly wrong.
From her own side, what troubled her most, was the consciousness of the deception17 she had practised. This indeed, were it known, might give Lady Severn a fair and reasonable excuse for the growing antipathy18 towards her, of which Marion had for some time felt conscious, while rightly attributing it to the specious19 influence of Miss Vyse. And far worse than this—for Sir Ralph, she knew well, was not the sort of man to like or dislike at the bidding of another, even though that other were his nearest relation—what might not be the effect on the young man himself of the revelation of her falsehood, for such in deed, if not in actual word, she felt that it deserved to be called? Would he ever forgive it, ever make allowance for the temptation which had prompted it? It was not like an isolated20 act, she said to herself in her sharp self-condemnation, it was a long series of deception into which she had been led, or rather allowed herself to fall. All these months she had been living under false colours; his very kindness to her even, seemed to her at times to have the scorch21 of “coals of fire.” Nay22, for aught she knew, anything beyond this same kindness was purely23 the work of her imagination, and the little she was sure of, the gentle, almost fatherly care which he had always shown her, not hers it all, but belonged to Miss Freer, the poor little governess, who had upon him the claim that all weak and dependent beings have upon the strong and prosperous. So she tormented24 herself, her mind revolving25 in a circle of ever increasing wretchedness, doubt and self-reproach.
Then again, in those long, dull afternoons when she sat by Cissy’s bedside, or longer, duller evenings, when she had nothing at all to do but dream by herself in the little salon26, there would come gleams of brightness, beautiful and sudden. A glance round the room, lighting27 on some book he had opened when last there, or the terrace where they had spent such happy hours, or even on the glass which some few days before had held the flowers he had brought her—any one of these things had power to shed sunshine through her heart. What did they not recall? Words all but spoken—slight, lingering touches of her fluttering hair, the ribbons of her dress, or the bracelet29 that clasped her round, white wrist—looks and tones more eloquent30 than words. Ah, how many silly, sweet trifles came crowding into her mind! Each with its own precious message of hope and assurance.
She rose from her seat at last. (It was the evening of the very day on which Ralph had met Frank and Mr. Price.) She rose from her seat, and stood erect31 in her maidenly32 dignity.
“I will believe,” she said to herself, “I will believe and trust him. I cannot remember his eyes, his voice, and not think him true. It may be he is not his own master; he is perhaps fettered33 in some way; I do not, and probably never may know. But for all that I believe he loves me. My love has not been given unsought, though it may be he hardly knew he was seeking it. I will no longer yield to this horrible mortification34, this doubt of myself and of him. Come what may, Ralph Severn mid2 I have loved each other.”
And thereupon Marion found peace. Peace indeed of a somewhat hopeless kind, but nevertheless infinitely35 better than the miserable36 state of doubt and unrest which had preceded it.
And as she sat there alone and silent, dreaming, till even the long, light evening was drawing to a close, she gave the reins37 to her fancy, in her endeavour to picture to herself the nature of this barrier, which, she felt convinced, stood between herself and Ralph.
One theory after another she rejected as untenable; but curiously38 enough the real obstacle, Ralph’s actual want of means, his dependence39 on his mother, never once occurred to her. She was not after all intimately acquainted with the family history of the Severns, and naturally enough, seeing Ralph the head of a house, whose possessions were generally spoken of as considerable, the idea of associating poverty with one in his position, would have appeared to her absurd.
Suddenly a new solution struck her. Could it be that he was bound in honour, though not in affection (of the latter she was very sure), to his beautiful cousin, Florence Vyse? The more she thought of it, the better it seemed to answer the riddle40. Not much of the Altes gossip, so far as the Severns were concerned, had reached her. Her position in the family, and her evident dislike to hearing their affairs discussed, had prevented her hearing much of the tittle-tattle which had been freely circulated about them.
Still, now and then, hints had reached her of an “understanding” on the subject, a family arrangement, of which the principals were Sir Ralph and the beautiful Florence. Her own observation had long since discovered that if such were not the state of things, it was from no backwardness on the part of the lady: but hitherto her thoughts had never rested on the possibility of there being any foundation in fact, for the rumours42 she had heard; for Sir Ralph had been at no to hide his aversion for his so-called cousin, his more than indifference43, his absolute dislike to her society. Nor had he spoken of her with any prejudice or exaggeration, which might have been attributed to some other motive44. He had simply allowed it to be plainly seen that he did not like, even while he could not but, in a sense, admire her. One expression of his, Marion recalled distinctly. Agreeing with her one day when she happened to allude45 incidentally to Miss Vyse’s great and peculiar46 beauty, she had heard him whisper, mutter rather, to himself: “Beautiful, yes, no doubt. But there are some kinds of beauty, than which I would rather have positive ugliness.”
All this had long ago decided47 Marion that the reports which had reached her on the subject were mere foundationless gossip; never before this evening had it come home to her girlish heart, with all its fresh belief in “love,” as the necessary precursor48 of marriage; never before had she realized that the case in question might be a sad exception to her rule—that heart and hand do not always go together—that Ralph himself might be bound in honour to marry the beautiful Florence, while his heart had been given to the simple, trusting girl, who long ago had allowed him to steal away hers in exchange.
Her quick imagination, once it had seized the clue, was at no loss to follow out its discovery. “It is all plain to me now,” thought Marion, “clear its daylight. And it is all over.”
But as she lay down to sleep her last thought was:
“I am content with my share. I would rather have his heart. I have got it and,” she added almost fiercely, “I will keep it.”
She had sat up later than usual that evening; and the next morning she was somewhat behind time in making her appearance. The clock struck the half hour after eight as she finished dressing49. Just as she was leaving her room she heard the front door bell ring; and curious to see who could be so early a visitor, she passed quickly through the drawing-room on to the terrace, which sideways overlooked the entrance to the house. There to her amazement50 she descried51 Sir Ralph Severn! What could he be come about at so unusual an hour? The little mystery however was soon explained. A slight bustle52 in the room within, and in another moment Lofty and Sybil, laden53 with lovely, fresh flowers, made their appearance on the terrace.
“Lotty! Sybil!” she exclaimed “where in the world have you got these lovely flowers?”
“From the market,” answered Lotty. “Aren’t they beautiful, Miss Freer? But they are really more from Sybil than from me. She thought of them first.”
“Most from Uncle Ralph, Lotty,” interrupted Sybil, “he wouldn’t let me pay for them. They are Charlie’s mamma, Miss Freer, to make the room look pretty when she gets up in the afternoon. Won’t she be pleased?”
“I sure she will, you dear children answered Marion. “They are lovely. We have never had such pretty ones before. And Cissy is so fond of flowers. Pray thank Sir Ralph very much for getting them, and let me kiss you, Sybil darling, for having thought of them. You too, dear Lotty. How early you must have got up!”
“Oh, yes, we have been up two hours. We were so afraid of being too late to go to the market with uncle. All these flowers are for Charlie’s mamma, Miss Freer, but this one is for yourself, Uncle Ralph said,” and as Sybil spoke28, she took out of a corner of her basket where it had been carefully placed, one perfectly54 pure white rose.
Marion took it from her, and held it carefully. “Is it not a beauty?” said Lotty, but Miss Freer did not answer.
She turned, and went out again on the terrace. There she stood for a moment, till Ralph, happening to look up, caught sight of her. His face flushed, and a smile came over it when he saw what she held in her hand. But he only bowed, and seemed to have no intention of entering the house. So she went back to the children and thanked them again for their pretty gift, and advised them not to keep their uncle waiting.
When they were gone she at down to her solitary55 breakfast, with her heart full of strangely-mingled feelings; while Ralph walked home absent and preoccupied56, and answering much at random57 to the incessant58, chattering59 questions of his merry little nieces.
It is curious how sometimes when we have made up our mind to a certain course of action, the most unexpected outward occurrences seem, as it were, to happen on purpose to confirm us in our resolution.
So it seemed just now to Ralph. The English letters arrived this morning as he sat at breakfast, after his early visit to the market. Among them, to his surprise, he recognized one in the handwriting of his “old chief,” as he called him, Sir Archibald Cunningham.
“Curious,” thought Ralph as he opened it. “Very, that I should hear from him just at this crisis. The last man on earth to write a private letter if he can avoid it.”
Its contents were, in themselves, unimportant enough, merely requesting Sir Ralph to forward to him by post one or two additional notes on the neighbouring patois60, which, when in England, he had not thoroughly61 revised. The gist62 of the letter, so far as Ralph was concerned, was contained in the postscript63.
“I would not have hurried you about these notes,” wrote Sir Archibald, “but I have decided to leave England much sooner than I expected, remaining some weeks in Switzerland on my way east. I start, if possible, next week. I am only delayed by my wish to find out whom I am likely to get instead of Cameron.”
“Next week,” thought Ralph; “that’s quick work. I must see him before he leaves town.”
And that day saw a letter written and despatched to Sir Archibald announcing Ralph’s intention of seeing him in London with as little delay as possible, and giving him some idea of the nature of the business he was specially64 anxious to discuss with him.
Lady Severn was not a little annoyed, when she learnt her son’s intention of starting again for England on the morrow.
“It was very strange,” she said, “that Ralph could not have finished all he had to do in town when he was there before.”
And she did her best to discover the reason of this sudden move. But she obtained little satisfaction on the subject from her son. The remembrance of the last private interview he had had with her, in which a certain delicate, and to him most unpalatable subject, had for the first time been openly discussed between them, did not incline him to be confidential65 till he was obliged.
“I shall be only too ready to tell you all about this business of mine when there is anything to tell, my dear mother,” he said; “at present I can only assure you such is not the case.”
Miss Vyse did not mend matters by privately66 confiding67 to Lady Severn, her belief that Sir Ralph had taken such a dislike to her, that he seized every occasion for absenting himself from the home circle of which she was at present a member.
“I am sure I don’t know why he dislikes me so, dear Aunt,” she said sweetly, with tears in her lustrous68 eyes. “It is only of late. I can’t help fancying sometimes”—— but then she stopped.
“What, my dear Florence? Do tell me, I beseech69 you. I cannot indeed understand my son’s conduct; strange and unaccountable as he often has been, his present behaviour surpasses all. Oh, my dear child, if only John had lived, you would not have been thus unappreciated! He had such taste and such amiability70 of character; and after his wife’s death, per little thing, he only saw with my eyes. But what is it you fancy?”
“Pray do not blame me for it, dear Aunt. But I cannot help thinking that there has been some outside influence at work to turn Sir Ralph from me—and indeed from you. It is only since his intimacy71 with Mrs. Archer72 and her friend that he has changed so to me. And I am sure I don’t know why they should dislike me! But I would rather go home, dear Aunt,” she went on, “truly I would rather go home” (though she was further than ever from thinking of anything of the sort) “than stay here to be the unhappy cause of coldness between my dearest, kindest friend and her son.”
“Go home, my love, go home! Indeed you shall not think of such a thing,” exclaimed Lady Severn. “You, my dear Florence, shall not be allowed to suffer for that foolish boy’s mad infatuation. He forgets, I think, all that is in my power. But you, my dear, must not dream of leaving me till you do so for a home of your own.”
Not so bad for Florence after all! It was the first time she had succeeded in obtaining from Lady Severn a distinct invitation to take up her quarters permanently73 in her household, and she took care by her vehement74 expressions of gratitude75 to clench76 the proposal, which in a calmer moment the old lady might not have been in quite such a hurry to make.
It was not very cordially that Lady Severn bade adieu to her son that evening as, accompanied by Miss Vyse, she drove off to an elegant entertainment given by Mr. Chepstow in the gardens of his pretty little villa77 a couple of miles out of Altes.
Sir Ralph was to leave very early the next morning, and therefore thought it expedient78 to make his farewells overnight. He thought himself very fortunate in that, his farewells not being confined to the ladies of his own household, Mr. Chepstow’s entertainment left him free to spend the rest of the evening as he chose.
But it was no easy task he had set before him. Far from it, for to tell the truth, he had by no means made up his mind as to what it consisted in. He was as determined79 as ever, in no way to allow Marion to commit herself to any promise, till he felt that he had a better right to ask such from her. On the other hand, the thought of leaving Altes even for a few days, without some greater assurance (than that of Frank Berwick’s communication) of the true state of the young girl’s feelings towards him, was unendurable.
Still more repugnant to him was the thought of the strange and unfavourable light in which his own conduct must appear to her, were no sort of explanation to take place between them; the worst of all, he could not bear to go away haunted by the remembrance of her pale face and anxious eyes, telling of suffering and disappointment of which he was both the object and the cause.
He must say something, however little. That was all that he could make up his mind to.
What it should be, or how it should be said, circumstances must decide.
He wondered, as in the cool or the evening he walked to Mrs. Archer’s, how he should find them.
Would Marion be alone, her friend not yet well enough to be in the drawing-room? In that case what should he do? Could he ask for Miss Freer? Charlie’s “Madymuzelle.” He had never yet done so, and he dreaded80 servants’ tongues, even that of the discreet81 and amiable82 Thérèse. He felt considerably83 at a loss, and when he got to the top of the Rue1 St. Thomas, twice turned back and walked some few yards in the opposite direction while trying to decide on his next step. He might have saved himself the trouble. Just its he was preparing to ring the bell, the door was opened—by Marion herself.
She started slightly when she saw him,
“Oh,” said she, “I thought it was Dr. Bailey. I heard steps stop at the door and I ran to open quietly. I wanted to see him alone to ask how he thinks Mrs. Archer really is.”
“Is Mrs. Archer worse then?” asked Sir Ralph with interest.
“No, oh no. I think she is better. Almost well again indeed. But still I am not satisfied about her somehow, and Dr. Bailey is one of those people that talks to invalids84 as if they were babies. I thought perhaps if I saw him alone he would tell me the truth.”
“Are you not going to ask me to come in, Miss Freer?” asked Sir Ralph.
Marion looked uncomfortable, but could hardly help smiling as she replied:
“Mrs. Archer has gone to bed.”
“Then I shall not have the pleasure of seeing her. All the same, I think you might have the civility to ask me to come in.”
“You are expecting Bailey?” he said; “did he say he would call this evening?”
“Yes, at nine o’clock. He wanted to see how Cissy was, after her drive this afternoon.”
“At nine,” said Ralph, consulting his watch. “That’s still a quarter of an hour off. Are you busy, Miss Freer, or may I stay a few minutes?” adding to himself mentally, “I must take care that old gossip Bailey does not catch me here, A nice amount of mischief87 he would make, if he went chattering to my mother while away.”
“Oh no, I’m not particularly busy,” replied Marion, rather sadly, it seemed to Ralph. “Indeed my evenings have been rather dull lately, but I hope Cissy will soon be all right again.”
“I hope so too,” said Ralph, and then he sat still, utterly at a loss what more to say, and how to say it. Marion seemed calm and subdued88. Perfectly free from nervousness or embarrassment89, but yet in some subtle way he was conscious of a change in her.
He looked at her as she at there opposite him, so quiet and pale. Spirit-like, she seemed to his fancy, in her white, thin dress: the faint colourless evening light seeming rather to shadow than illumine her slight girlish figure. A sort of shiver ran through him. She looked so fragile, so gentle and subdued. What if this were the beginning of the end? What if he were thus to lose her? Lose her, before indeed he could call her his. It was all he could do to control himself, to refrain from gathering90 this fair, clinging, child-like creature in his arms, and telling her that there she should be held for ever.
But he kept firmly to his resolution. Something of what was in his heart he would say; but not yet the whole.
“Miss Freer,” he began. “I wanted particularly to see you this evening, for to-morrow again I am going away.”
She looked up at him gravely, but hardly seemed surprised.
“Then,” she said with a slight, the very slightest, quiver in her voice— “then you have come to say good-bye.”
“Not for long, I hope,” he answered. “I am very loth to go, but I think it is my best course. In a week or two I hope to be back again, and if I succeed in what I am going to try for, I shall, you may be sure, make no delay in finding my way here again. I cannot explain to you, Miss Freer—Marion. I cannot explain to you at present my strange, inconsistent conduct. But I could not bear to go away without asking you not to think worse of me than you can help—to trust me for a little. Just now I cannot defend myself, but I beseech you to think gently of me. If indeed”—and here in spite of himself his voice grew husky—” indeed, I am not mistaken in thinking you are likely to have me in your thoughts at all. If I am mistaken I can only ask you to forgive my presumption91.
“You are not mistaken,” said Marion, gently, but very clearly. “You are not mistaken, and now I am not ashamed to tell you so. I do not altogether understand you, but I do not ask for any explanation till you can give it me. And if that time should never come I will still not blame you, and I will not, even then, feel ashamed of having told you so. I know that in some way you are not your own master, not free to act as you wish. But I would not feel towards you as I do, if I did not believe you cared for one thing more than for me.”
“One thing?” asked Ralph.
“Yes,” she said. “Doing right, I mean.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “Thank you for all you have said. Above all, for trusting me. You are right in what you suspect. I am indeed not free, but it will not be my fault if I do not succeed in becoming so. I may fail; in that case I must not ask you to remember me. But, in any ease, Marion, my dear, true-hearted little friend, thank you for all you have been to me; and, above all, for not, misjudging me now.”
He had risen and come nearer her. She too stood up, and did not withdraw the hand he had taken. But suddenly she started back, snatching it away almost violently.
“No, no!” she cried; “I am not as good as you think me. I am not worthy92 of you. I have deceived you in letting you think me— Oh, what shall I do? Must I tell you? Please, don’t ask me to tell you yet. Some day it may be different, but not just now. You would blame me so.”
“Hush93, Marion; hush, my dear child. I don’t understand you. We both have mysteries, you see. But don’t distress94 yourself so. Tell me nothing you would rather not tell. Some day, as you say, when I can explain all my strange behaviour to you, you shall then tell me what you please. Do you think, my poor darling, that I cannot trust you as you trust me? Only tell me this much. It is nothing that need come between us two, if, as I hope, in a week or two from now I can see my way clearly.”
Marion looked relieved, but anxious.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It need not come between us if you still wished it—cared to have me, I mean. It would depend on that, and on my father,” she added. “If he would for once agree to my wishes. I have never opposed him yet; never in anything.”
But at that moment the clock struck nine.
“I must go,” said Ralph, “or Bailey will be here. I don’t think your secret obstacle will be insurmountable from what you say. Probably, you exaggerate its importance. But before long I trust we may be able to talk over together all our difficulties and anxieties, which will be the best way of making an end of them. A fortnight at most will see me back again. Till then we must hope the best and trust each other. Now I must go. Good-bye, my darling. You are not angry with me for calling you so? Good-bye.”
He held her hand for a moment firmly in his, dropped it suddenly, and was gone.
Marion sat down again in her corner, still feeling the strong but gentle pressure on her hand; still hearing the deep, earnest ring of his voice.
It was all very strange! Very strange and bewildering and anxious. Just yet she felt too confused to recall all that had passed. Only the one strong impression remained in her heart. Ralph Severn loved her, and she was very happy.
What was he thinking?
“I hope I have done right. I hope and trust I have done right. I could not have said more nor less. It would never have done to tell her beforehand, sensitive as she is, of the sacrifice, as it would be called, that I must make to win her. No, now that I am sure of her I must have everything else settled and done before she hears of it. But then, again, some difficulty she hinted at on her side, connected, I have no doubt, with the family disgrace I suspected some time ago. Her father, she mentioned. Can he have some marriage in view for her? I should not wonder. Mrs. Archer said more than once that she was not always to remain a governess. There is something queer about their affairs I am certain, for even Mrs. Archer, inconsiderate as she generally is, is reserved about them. But there can be nothing that would affect my Marion herself. Nothing, now that I am sure she cares for me. But I wish I were back again! As soon as possible on my return I must see her, and explain to her my position clearly. Then she must decide for herself, if she can venture to be a poor man’s wife. A very poor man by all appearances. But she has a brave spirit of her own! Fortunately, the quarrel with my mother was not owing to her; so she need have no feeling of responsibility about it. If there had been no other woman in the world I would not have married Florence Vyse. Yes, I see what I must do. As soon as I return with the promise I hope for, I shall lay the whole before Marion, and, in return, hear from her the fancied obstacles on her side. Then I will speak to my mother, and give her a last chance of retaining my affection and respect. But not till I have first had a thorough explanation with Marion. And supposing my mission is unsuccessful? Time enough if it is so. I am tired of caution. It must succeed.”
And so, full of hope and bright anticipations95, he started for England the next morning.
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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intercourse
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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utterly
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humility
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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instinctively
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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specious
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isolated
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scorch
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nay
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purely
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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25
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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26
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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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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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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35
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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40
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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41
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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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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43
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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44
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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46
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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51
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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59
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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63
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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76
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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77
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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78
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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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80
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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81
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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82
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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83
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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84
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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85
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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86
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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87
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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90
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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91
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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92
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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93
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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94
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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