MACBETH.
“L’incertitude est vraiment le pire de tous les maux parcequ’il est le seul qui suspend nécessairement les ressorts de l’ame, et qui ajourue le courage.”
OCTAVE FEUILLET.
MR. VERE breakfasted alone that morning. He was surprised at his daughter’s absence, more particularly as he was considerably1 later than usual, having had a sleepless2 night. In spite of himself he was beginning insensibly to feel pleasure in Marion’s society. Of late he had felt strangely weakened and unhinged, and when obliged by utter weariness to rest from his usual occupations, he found it soothing3 and refreshing4 to watch his gentle little daughter. She was just the sort of woman one could imagine at home in a sick room. Calm, cheerful, and with immense “tact” of the very best kind—that which springs from no worldly notions of policy or expediency5, but from the habit of consideration for others—the quick instinctive6 sympathy which may be cultivated, but hardly, I think, acquired.
So, as the breakfast was getting cold and no Marion appeared, Mr. Vere fidgeted and fussed, and ended by ringing the bell, and desiring Brown to enquire7 the reason of Miss Vere’s absence.
The servant soon reappeared.
“Mrs. Evans wished me to say, sir, that Miss Vere is rather upset this morning. Indeed she thinks Miss Vere must have had some bad news, and she would be glad, if so be as you could step up to her room, sir, as before you go out.”
“Bad news!” exclaimed Mr. Vere, “nonsense. If there had been any bad news I should have heard it.”
But his hand shook as he hastily emptied his coffee-cup; and without further delay he hastened up to his daughter’s room. It was the first time for years that he had been in it, and, as he entered, he was struck by its plainness and simplicity8. It was the same room she had had as a child, and her innocent girl life might almost have been read in a glance at its arrangements and contents. There were the book-shelves on the wall, the upper ones filled with the child’s treasures she had not liked to set aside; the lower ones with the favourites of her later years. There were the plaster casts she had saved her pence to buy many years ago, now somewhat yellowed and disfigured by London fogs and smoke. The framed photograph of Harry9 over the mantel-piece, and a little water-colour sketch10 of the dear old cottage at Brackley, the only pictures on the walls.
Somehow it all came home to the father’s heart, and for almost the first time a strange misgiving11 seized him. Had he after all done wisely in the life he had marked out for himself? Had he not deliberately12 put away from him treasures near at hand, which, now that failing health of mind and body was creeping upon him, might have been to him the sweetest of consolations—strength to his weakness, comfort in his need?
Nor were his misgivings13 merely from this selfish point of view. Something of fatherly yearning14 towards his child, pity for her loneliness and admiration16 of the gentle, uncomplaining patience with which, of late especially, she had borne his coldness and irritability17, caused him to speak very kindly18, and touch her very softly, as he stood beside the bed on which, in her paroxysm of grief, she had thrown herself, her face buried in the pillows.
“Marion, my dear,” he said, “you alarm me. What can be the matter, my poor child? Surely, surely,” he went on hurriedly, as for the first time a dreadful possibility occurred to him, “there can be nothing wrong with Harry?”
She sat up, mechanically pushing back from her temples the hair, usually so neat and smooth, which had fallen loose as she lay. Her father caught her upraised hand, and held it gently in his. But she seemed hardly conscious of the unusual kindness of his manner.
“No, not Harry,” she replied, “but, oh, Papa, look here,” and as she spoke19, with her other hand she pointed20 to those dreadful four lines in the newspaper lying on the pillow beside her, “it is Cissy, my dear Cissy—the only sister I ever had—my own dear, kind Cissy.” And the sobs22 burst out again as violently as at first. Mr. Vere, hardly understanding what she said, stared at the place she pointed out, but for a minute or two could not decipher the words.
When their meaning at last broke upon him, he staggered and almost fell.
“This is very dreadful,” he said, “very sad and dreadful. So young and bright and happy! My poor little Cissy! It is like her mother over again. Marion, my dearest child, you can hardly feel this more than I do. You don’t know all it brings back to me.”
And Marion, now glancing at her father, saw his face pale with deep emotion, while one or two large tears gathered in his eyes.
It was the best thing to bring her back to herself.
“My poor father,” she thought, “how I have misjudged you!” And with a sudden loving impulse, she threw her arms round his neck, and clung to him as she had hardly, even in her confiding24 infancy25, ever clung to him before. Nor was she repulsed26.
In a little while her father spoke to her; kindly and gently, in a way she would hardly have believed it possible for him to speak; he, in general, so cold and satirical, so unbending and severe.
He left her in a short time, promising27 to write at once to Cheltenham for details of this sad news; and volunteering also to send for Harry for a day or two, that she might feel less solitary28 in her grief.
This kindness soothed29 and calmed her, and in an hour or two she crept down stairs, and tried to employ herself as usual. But it would not do. Ever and anon it rushed upon her with overwhelming force, the remembrance of those dreadful printed words:—
“On the 10th of August, Cecilia Mary Vere.”
“The 10th of August,” that was the time she and Harry were at Brighton, possibly the very day they were talking and laughing with M. de l’Orme!
And then another thought, of aggravating30 misery31, occurred to her. With Cissy had gone the last, the very last link between herself and Ralph! Ralph, whom more than ever in this her time of sorrow, she hungered for; Ralph, whom she could not live without.
“If only he were here,” she thought, “merely to sit beside me and hold my hand, even though I knew he was never to be more to me afterwards! Oh, if only, only, he knew of my bitter grief, he would, I know, find some way to comfort me. But he will never, never know it, never hear of me again. For most likely my poor Cissy never got my letter at all. Oh, why are things so cruel upon me? Why may I not be happy? Why could not my one, only woman friend have been left me? It is more than I can bear, this losing Ralph again. For I had been counting so on Cissy.
And the sad, weary day went by, followed by others as sad and weary, and Marion thought she had drained sorrow to its dregs. She had only one comfort—her father’s continued kindness and gentleness. She clung to him wonderfully, poor child, in those days; but more was before her that she little thought of. In her absorption she did not observe Mr. Vere’s increasing illness; but when Harry me home on the following Saturday he was much startled by it, and amazed, too, at the strange, unwonted softness and tenderness almost, of his father’s manner to both his sister and himself, though especially to the former.
Before leaving Marion on the Monday the boy debated with himself whether he should confide33 his misgivings to her. But he decided34 that it was better not to do so.
“It is not as if she could do any good,” thought he, “and after all I may be exaggerating the change in my father. I think it is as much his unusual kindness as his looking ill that has struck me so. May has trouble enough already.”
Still it was with a strange feeling of anxiety and impending35 sorrow, that he shook hands with his father and kissed his sister that Monday morning, when he left them to return to his tutor’s.
His presentiments36 were realized only too correctly. On the following Friday he was telegraphed for, and arrived at home to find his father already dead, and Marion sitting by his bedside in speechless, tearless sorrow.
“Just as he was beginning to care for is a little,” she said, in a dull, husky voice, that did not sound the least like her own. “Oh, Harry, I am so lonely, so miserable37! I have only you, and soon you will be going away. Except for you I wish I might die.”
It was very pitiful. These two solitary children clinging to each other in their great desolation, as, long ago, they had clung to each other for comfort in their little trifling38 child!
“It,” Marion whispered to her brother, “had been very sudden, dreadfully sudden.” Mr. Vere had been presiding at a large public meeting the day before that or his death, and had come home late, saying he felt tired.
“But I never thought he was really ill, Harry,” said Marion; “I had no idea of it. At breakfast yesterday morning he seemed very well. He got several letters, and read them while he eat his breakfast.”
“Could there have been anything in his letters to startle or annoy him?” suggested Harry.
“No, I think not. I have them all here. Among them was one from young Mr. Baldwin—Geoffrey Baldwin, you remember, Harry?—saying that he would come to see him, as he wished, ‘to-morrow or Monday.’ Papa seemed pleased at this, and gave me the letter to read. He began to speak about Mr. Baldwin, and told him he had appointed him our guardian39, or trustee, in his will. It surprised me a little his talking this way to me. He has generally been so reserved about these sort of things.”
“He must have known he was very ill,” said Harry. “He said something to me about his will last Sunday. He told me that he wished to give a little more attention to his private affairs than he had found time for, for some years past. Indeed, Marion, I may be mistaken, but I have a sort of idea that though every one has seemed to consider my father a rich man, he was not really so. He has spent an immense deal of money on public matters one way and another. That contested election two years ago, and lots of subscriptions40 and things always going on. It’s always the way with ‘public men,’ they neglect their own affairs to look after everybody else’s. I hope I may be mistaken, but I have my fears that we shall not be rich by any means.”
“I don’t care,” said Marion; “I would be just as miserable if we had millions. I don’t care for money. But I wish you would not talk about money, Harry. It seems too horrible—so soon—only yesterday!”
“Don’t think me heartless, dear May,” said the boy. “For myself I truly don’t care. I could go to India. It was only for you. Did my father say nothing more to you?”
“No,” replied his sister; “at least only a word or two almost at the last, before he became unconscious. He went up to his room after breakfast, and about half-an-hour after, Brown heard a heavy fall. He ran upstairs and found him, as he told you, in a sort of fit. I don’t understand what it was exactly. He lifted him on to his bed and sent for a doctor before telling me. Poor Brown, he was very kind and thoughtful! A little after the doctor came Papa grew slightly better, and asked for me. I was beside him. He signed for me to kiss him, and whispered to me: ‘You have been my dear little daughter. It was a great mistake, but you will forgive me. Poor Harry too.’ Then he grew uneasy, and muttered something about ‘sending for Baldwin, hoping it would be all right for them, poor children.’ I bent41 down and said, ‘Yes, clear Papa, it will be all right.’ He seemed pleased and smiled at me, but he did not speak again to me. Only I heard him whisper to himself very, very low—no one else heard it—the prayer of the poor publican, Harry: ‘Lord, be merciful to me a sinner.’ Then he lay quite still, seeming not to suffer at all. I had laid my head down for a minute when the doctor spoke to me. Then l knew, Harry. Oh, poor papa! Poor Papa! We did not think we cared so much for him, did we, Harry?”
“No,” said the boy, “nor that he cared for us.”
There was no exaggeration about their grief. Mr. Vere had not been an affectionate father, and his death was far from being to them the overwhelming, utterly42 prostrating43 blow, that the loss of a parent is felt to be in some happier families. Nevertheless it was, more especially from its suddenness, a very terrible shock, to Marion, in particular, whose life for several months had been one of constant suspense44 and disappointment, culminating in the great grief of her cousin’s death. And young natures after all, with rare exceptions, are sweet and generous, ready to forgive and forget, not backward to give their love on slight enough encouragement.
Mr. Baldwin came late on Monday evening. Harry received him, but Marion was tired, and begged not to be asked to see him, or any one, till after the funeral was over. Mr. Vere had left directions that this should take place very quietly; in consequence of which only a few of his most intimate friends were present. It was evident that he had for some time past suspected the state of his own health. Only two days before he had called on his lawyer about some slight addition to his will, which however there had not been time to execute; and had left with him a letter of directions; as to the arrangements of his funeral, in case of his death occurring suddenly, as he had been warned might possibly be the case.
So though the papers were full of the sudden death of the great man, each vying45 with the others as to the extent and accuracy of their biographical notices, the actual mourners were few; and with but little of outward parade or ostentation46, the mortal remains47 of Hartford Vere were carried to the grave.
Ralph Severn, sitting at breakfast that morning in his mother’s villa48 at Vevey, observed casually49 that the Member for —— was dead.
“A useful man he was a very useful man. His party will miss him exceedingly. There are rumours50, I see, that his private affairs are in some confusion. Always the case with these public men. I hope, however, it may not be true.”
“Was he a friend of yours, then?” asked Florence.
“O dear, no,” replied he, “I have seen him, of course, and heard him speak. But I never spoke to him. I am far too small a person to be hand in glove with the leading politicians of the day. But I should be sorry to think that a man who had spent his life, as he believed, for the good of his country, should leave his family unprovided for.”
“Has he left a large family?” asked Lady Severn.
“No,” said Ralph, consulting the paper; “a son and a daughter, I think it said somewhere. His wife died many years ago. By the bye, she was one of those beautiful Miss Percies of Merivale, mother. You remember Merivale, of course? That queer old place near my Uncle Brackley’s. It is sold now, but the last time I was in Brentshire I went to see it. The Veres were Brentshire people, too, were they not?”
“Oh dear, yes, one of the oldest families there,” said Lady Severn, who prided herself on her genealogical accuracy, and was supposed to be particularly well up in Brentshire family lore51, Lord Brackley, the great man of the county, being her step-brother. “I remember them well long ago. But the present head of the family, this Mr. Vere’s uncle or cousin, I forget which, married a great heiress, and emigrated to some other country.”
“Ah, indeed!” replied Sir Ralph, for whom these details possessed52 no peculiar53 interest, and whose thoughts were just then painfully engrossed54 by private troubles of his own, complicated of late in an altogether unexpected way. “Ah, indeed!” said he, and straightway forgot all about the death of Mr. Vere, and fell to thinking of very different matters.
To return, however, to our poor little Marion.
On the morning of the funeral she received at last what she had so long been looking for—an Indian letter! Not, alas55! in the familiar hand that was wont32 to cause her such pleasure; for in all the seven years of her married life in the East, Mrs. Archer56 had seldom allowed a mail to pass without writing to her little cousin—that dear handwriting she would never, never see again. This letter had a deep black border, and the address was written in a firm, large hand, very different from Cissy’s characteristic scratch. It was from Colonel Archer.
Some few, sad details, it gave of Cissy’s last illness and death (the first Marion had received, for the elder Mrs. Archer had been ill, and unable to reply to Mr. Vere’s enquiries), the suddenness of which had been its most distressing57 feature, for she had suffered little, poor Cissy. Some blunt, strong words of his own agony, at losing, her, which told that poor George Archer’s heart was all but broken. And then her last message to Marion, when too nearly gone almost to speak. George had written them down, he said, at once, for fear of possible mistake—the faint, fluttering words of the tender, affectionate heart. “Tell dear May,” she had said, “I have done what she wished, and I hope they will be very happy.”
That was all—the message, and a little lock of the bright fair hair Marion knew so well, cut off, gently and reverently58, from his dead wife’s head, by the husband she had loved so devotedly59.
All, but how much! Enough to turn the grey world rosy60 again, to bathe all around her in golden light, to fill her heart with joy and thankfulness, which she tried in vain to banish61 by the recollection that today her father was to be buried.
“Oh, am I wicked, am I heartless?” she asked herself. “God forgive me if I am. But I was so broken down, so hopeless, and now all seems so different! By now even, this very day perhaps, Ralph will know it all, will have received Cissy’s letter, explaining away all the trouble, so far, at least, as I was concerned. Sooner even than to-day, for Cissy must have written before her illness began. Yes, sooner, surely. Any day I may look for a letter from him if, as I feel convinced, some mistake or misapprehension has been at the root of his strange silence.”
And in proportion to her previous hopelessness and despair, was her present sanguine62 belief that all would soon be well.
In the afternoon of that day, when “all was over,” as people say, the will read, and the few guests departed, Harry ran upstairs to beg Marion to come down to see Mr. Baldwin, who was going to remain with them for a day or two. Her presence at the reading of the will had been suggested, but not after all considered advisable; for as Harry, poor boy, had feared, the will itself, and still more Mr. Crooke the lawyer’s comments thereupon, had revealed that the state of the dead man’s affairs was the reverse of satisfactory, and it was thought well that Marion should be spared the shock to her feelings of such a disclosure in public.
Some hint of this Harry gave to his sister as they went downstairs together. He was somewhat disappointed that she did not say again, as she had said the other day, “I don’t care about money, Harry, truly I don’t.”
“After all, I fear she does care,” thought her brother. Mr. Baldwin was in the library, Harry said, and thither63 they went.
When they entered the room he was standing23 with his back to the door, looking out of the window. A tall, powerful figure, hands in pockets, clad in tweed and velvet64 shooting coat, for which, by his young host’s permission, he had already exchanged the uncongenial black, in which he had performed his part as second chief mourner in the morning. But he started when Harry’s voice reached him; he had not known that the boy had gone to fetch his sister.
“I have persuaded May to come down to make tea for us, Baldwin,” said Harry.
Geoffrey Baldwin wheeled round suddenly, and his handsome face flushed.
“Miss Vere,” he exclaimed, almost before he saw her; “that’s too bad of you, Harry—not to have warned me, I mean. I thought we were to be alone. Miss Vere, you must excuse me, really. I had no business to change my clothes, but I didn’t know I should see you to-day.”
Even as he finished the words he had begun, a curious expression came over his face, and seemed to affect the tone of his voice. Marion hardly at first understood it.
“Never mind,” she said quietly, “I am sure people’s clothes have nothing to do with their feelings.”
Mr. Baldwin did not reply. He stood staring at her, regularly staring, in a way that in any one else would have been offensive and rude. But he did it so simply, so unconsciously almost, that the only feeling it aroused in Marion was an extreme, almost nervous wish to laugh. Then it flashed upon her.
“I know why you look so amazed, Mr. Baldwin,” she exclaimed. “You can’t remember where you saw me before. I can tell you. It was at the railway station, nearly a year ago,” she added, with an imperceptible sob21 in her voice.
A look of extreme satisfaction overspread his face.
“Thank you for reminding me. I am so very glad. Yes, it was just then. You had a little boy with you?”
“Yes,” she replied, “little Charlie Archer. I was on my way abroad with his mother. Harry!” she turned to him appealingly. It was too fresh yet for her to tell it herself. But he understood her, and in a few words explained to Mr. Baldwin what Marion could not find voice to tell.
The fair face before her was softened65 by a look of almost womanly commiseration67, though all he said was the commonplace phrase,
“I am very sorry to hear it.”
He was wonderfully good-looking, and of a thoroughly68 manly66 type of beauty. Tall, as I have said, but firm and compact, the features almost perfect of their kind, and the colouring unusually rich and mellow69, if such a word can be applied70 to a human face. The hair was of that bright, sunny hue71, on which, however in the shade, some light always seems to linger; the eyes unmistakeably blue, honest, laughing, what I have heard called “well opened eyes,” set round by thick, soft fringes, curling like a girl’s. A pleasant mouth too, lips closed in repose72, though usually open enough to show the clear, even, white teeth within. But nothing in the mouth or lower jaw73 to spoil the beautiful whole, as is not unfrequently the case in such great physical perfection, by its confession74 of spiritual weakness, undue75 preponderance of the lower part of our nature over the higher. No, if Geoffrey Baldwin’s mouth told tales at all, they were of too great sensitiveness, too quick a sympathy, too impulsive76 a heart, to be altogether well managed and directed by the intellectual powers with which nature had gifted him. For although of average ability and intelligence, he was certainly not a clever man, in the ordinary sense of the word. “An illiterate77 clod-hopper,” he called himself, but that was far too severe. Feel deeply, very deeply, he could, and often, perhaps on the whole too often, did. But as for thinking deeply! It made his head ache, he said, and after all what was the good of it?
He knew well and thoroughly all required of him in his daily life, which was that of a gentleman farmer, and so long as that was the case, he couldn’t for the life of him see what more learning he wanted.
But honest as the day, brave as a lion, and tender as a lamb, chivalrous78, with a chivalry79 that is fast going out of fashion, generous and unsuspicious to a fault—though he went to sleep over Tennyson, and preferred a ride across country to the most exquisite80 music ever heard—after all, the world would not be the worse of a few more like you, Geoffrey Baldwin.
Then they talked a little of old days, and Geoffrey blushed more than Marion, when some of their escapades were referred to—their tumbling into the brook81 and his fishing them out; their “hare and hounds,” when the hare, and she, perched on Geoffrey’s shoulder, the terrible horseman pursuit. And another remembrance came to Geoffrey’s mind, though this he kept to himself. Of a day when, in return for some special act of kindness, little May had clambered on to his knee and kissed and bugged82 him right honestly, while she promised, voluntarily too, that if only “Jeff” would wait till she was big she would marry him, she would indeed, really and truly, or “in truality,” which was her childish mode of asseveration.
“What a little tomboy I must have been,” said Marion, and then she added dreamily, “I wonder if I shall ever see that Brackley cottage again!”
“I hope so,” said Harry cheerfully, but he looked uncomfortable, and glanced appealingly at Geoffrey, who in turn frowned slightly, and seemed at a loss. So Harry spoke.
“May, dear,” he said, “I must go back to Woolwich so soon, and Mr. Baldwin too has little time to spare, that if you don’t mind, I think we had better explain to you a little how things are. It won’t take long. We need not go into details with you, but you see we shall not have much time to consult together.”
“No,” said Marion, “we shall not. I am quite ready to listen. I don’t understand business matters much, but you won’t mind?” she added, half appealingly, to Mr. Baldwin; “I know Papa told me he had asked you to take charge of things for us. I am very glad. It is so much nicer than a stranger.”
She spoke quietly, but with a slight sinking at her heart, why, she could hardly have told. Was some fresh trouble before her? Some new obstacle in her path, just as she fancied it was going to be made clear? Supposing she were utterly penniless. What then? She might be obliged to become a governess in reality. How might not this affect her possible relations to Ralph? Would it be right for her, in that case, to think of him, or rather, to allow him to think of her? All this flashed through her mind in a bewildering, perplexing whirl. She had time to think a little, for Mr. Baldwin appeared to hesitate somewhat to begin his statement.
“Please tell me,” she said at last. “Never mind how bad it is. I would so much rather know. Have we nothing at all to live on? Is that it?”
“No, no, May!” said Harry, eagerly.
And “Oh, no, Miss Vere! Indeed, no!” exclaimed Mr. Baldwin. But her thus fearing the worst made it easier to tell the whole.
Of their father’s large property, but a comparatively small portion, after all liabilities were cleared off, remained to them. For many years, it was evident that Mr. Vere must have lived beyond his income, though he himself, not improbably, had been unaware83 of the fact. Then, when this state of things had been suddenly brought before him, how or when, no one knew, it appeared that by hasty, ill-considered speculation84, he had endeavoured to retrieve85 himself. In vain; more and yet more had been sunk, and still he had persisted in more deeply involving himself, till at last all was gone, save some few thousands of ready money, originally intended as a settlement on his wife, but of which the deed had never been executed. So, in all probability, had his life been extended, this would have gone the way of the rest, and his children might have been left beggars.
“I see,” said Marion, “but I am sure Papa did it for the best. Don’t say any more about it, but just tell me how much there is left. How much we shall have to live on, I mean.”
“I can’t tell you quite exactly,” said Mr. Baldwin, “till we decide what to do with this house, the furniture, &c. There is a long lease to dispose of and the furniture, I suppose, is valuable. But to give you a rough idea,” he went on, consulting a note book in his hand. “I should think, after all is cleared, you and Harry will have about—mind I only say about—four hundred a year between you. The ready money is at present in the Mallingford hank, the bank of which my father used to be the head, you know, Miss Vere. If the other trustee, a cousin of your father’s, who is at present abroad, wishes to put it anywhere else, I shall have no objection, though for my own part I think it may as well stay where it is. The old bank’s as safe as can be. All my own money is there, which shows what I think of it. Still I don’t profess86 to be much of a man of business and I should like to have Mr. Framley Vere’s opinion. I am sadly afraid I shall make a very poor trustee! I don’t like to say “guardian,” to such wards15, for I honestly believe you are both much wiser than I. I fear your poor father must have credited me with some of my own father’s long-headedness as to money matters, and if so the result will prove he was mistaken. I however can only do my best. Only pray don’t ever ask me anything I should not consent to, for I could not possibly refuse you.”
He spoke lightly, and as if to both, but his eyes rested on Marion. She was touched by his frankness and simplicity, his kindness of voice and manner, and, in all innocence87 and child-like confidence, she held out her hand to him, saying warmly, “Thank you, Mr. Baldwin for explaining it to me so kindly. I am quite sure I shall never wish for another guardian any way.”
Geoffrey took the little hand, softly, reverently almost, in his own great strong one. A deep flush spread over his face, for though sunburnt, he was naturally so fair that as a boy at school his quickly changing colour had procured88 for him many undesirable89 epithets90; and there came a grave, earnest look into his eyes, which added to their depth, without diminishing their softness. Without speaking, he pressed gently the hand that lay in his, held it for a moment, as if mentally sealing a vow91.
Harry had turned away before this little scene occurred, and all that Marion thought of it was, “How kind and brotherly Mr. Baldwin is! Were it necessary I almost think I could take him into my confidence.”
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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enquire
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simplicity
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harry
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sketch
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misgiving
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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yearning
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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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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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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21
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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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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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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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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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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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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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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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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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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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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vying
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| adj.竞争的；比赛的 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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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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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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72
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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74
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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75
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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78
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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82
bugged
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| vt.在…装窃听器（bug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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83
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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84
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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85
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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88
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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89
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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90
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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