Seeking a higher object.”—LAODAMIA.
“For love and beauty and delight
There is no death nor change; their might
Exceeds our organs, which endure
No light, being themselves obscure.”
THE SENSITIVE PLANT.
AH, yes! What of Ralph? Through all these months, to Marion so weary with suspense3 and ever-recurring disappointment, what had he been about? How came it that he, whom we have heard vowing4 to himself that her happiness should be his first consideration, had allowed her thus to suffer, when, as we know, a word from him at any moment would have set all right, would have made the world rosy5 again, and filled with sunlight even the grim old house at Mallingford?
To explain it all, to show what a strange chain of commonplace mistakes and cross-purposes had, coupled with one small act of deliberate malice6, effected all the mischief7, tortured with doubt and misgiving8 two true hearts, and altogether changed the course of two, if not three, lives—to make all this clear, we must step back some way: to the very time, indeed, we last heard of Ralph. Heard of him, only, incidentally, as having been successful in obtaining the promise of Sir Archibald, or rather, through his influence, that of the powers that be in such matters, with respect to the expected consular10 vacancy11 at A—.
That was the last, I think, that we know of him thus far, excepting, by-the-by, an instant’s peep of him more recently in his mother’s Swiss maison de campaigne, where the Severns were domesticated12 for the summer. To return, however, to the day in March, on which, hopeful and elated, as I think I said, Ralph set out again for Altes, having succeeded in the mission which had brought him across the water.
The journey back was a much more cheerful affair than had been that to England.
Ralph was not naturally by any means given to over-anxiety about money matters—in fact his actual experience of limited means had been but small, for he had always had enough for moderate requirements. But he was a thoroughly13 conscientious14 man. Many would say morbidly16 so, and I daresay there might be nothing exaggerated or unreasonable17 in such an opinion.
Very quiet and reserved people are apt to become morbid15 on some point. They get hold of a notion, and turn it round and round in their minds, till a sort of mental dizziness, very adverse18 to clear judgement, results. It is a grand thing now and then to get a fresh, outside opinion on matters about which we are deeply interested. Nor is the soundness of that opinion of as much moment as might be imagined. Its freshness is the great thing; for assuredly, though directly it may not influence our eventual19 decision, our own powers of judgement will, by its breezy rush through our cobwebbed brain, become marvellously invigorated, and braced20 for the work, which, after all, to be well done, must be their own, and no one else’s!
Such had been on Ralph the effect of his rare confidence in another—that other, as will be remembered, having been the sensible, middle-aged22, but nevertheless quite sufficiently23 “romantic,” Mr. Price. From the date of his long talk with his odd tutor, the young man’s bewilderments, fors and againsts, conflicting duties and inclinations24, ranged themselves with wonderful order and celerity. It was all nonsense, “morbid humbug,” he soon learnt to call it, about his being different from other men, cut off by peculiar25 circumstances from what, after all, in plain, honest English is every man’s birthright—liberty to please himself in the choice of the helpmeet, without which Providence26 certainly never intended him, or any other able-bodied young man, to go through life! Provided, of course, the prospective27 helpmeet saw things in the same way as he; of which, Heaven be thanked, he had no reasonable grounds to doubt.
What he could do, without too much going out of his way, or any approach to unmanly subservience29, to conciliate his mother, he would. But beyond a certain point he now saw clearly it was not his duty to defer30 to her. Should she show herself inclined to be reasonable, which state of things, however, he at present felt far from sanguine31 about: he would be only too ready to meet her at any point on the friendly road, he would, in any case, swallow his pride, to the extent of accepting from her whatever amount of pecuniary32 assistance she saw fit to afford him. Pride, indeed, was hardly the word for it, for in a sense the property was his own, though at present, unfortunately, not to be obtained but by her good-will. And if she took it into her head to stand out and refuse him anything? Well, then, he had the appointment at A—— to fall back upon, the securing of which, his practical good sense and Mr. Price’s advice, had shown him to be the one distinct duty before him; without which as a certainty, however small, he had no right to allow the fortunes of another to be joined to his.
What he had said to Marion, before leaving Altes, had not been on impulse. Each word, each look and gesture, that last evening when she had shown him in her innocence33, the whole depths of her pure, loving heart, and tempted34 him sorely to say but one word more, to press her if but for an instant to his breast—each word and glance that evening he had rigidly35 controlled, and acted throughout implicitly36 as he believed to be for the best. From the light of after results, we now may question if he did wisely; if, after all, it had not been better to have gone further, or not so far? From the top of the hill it requires no great wisdom to look back and say which would have been the best road up: but this is not how we are meant to travel our life-journey. Slowly and toilfully, with but little light, and what there is often dazzling and deceptive37, with bleeding feet and trembling limbs we creep along—one step beyond, often the limit of our darkened view. This is how the Allwise sees fit to train us. Doubt not and judge not. When at last we climb beyond the mists and fogs, though that time may be still a far way off, we shall see that it was for the best.
But no misgiving of this kind came to torment38 Ralph on his way back, as he thought, to the woman, from whom no reasonable barrier now divided him.
“For to put it in its very worst light,” said he to himself (a feat39 by-the-bye your very conscientious people are strangely fond of performing), “even if my health gives way and I have to throw up the A—— appointment, my mother is not so utterly40 devoid41 of natural affection as to let us starve while she is rolling in wealth. And even if I were to die and leave my darling alone, why, we should have had our little hit of happiness, which surely is better than to have had none at all. And if my Marion had a child, or children,” he murmured to himself softly, “it would force my mother to take an interest in her for the old name’s sake. It would not seem quite so bad to leave her if she had boys and girls about her! She seems so very lonely, poor child, except for Mrs. Archer42, who after all is only a friend. Though I really don’t know why I should think myself likely to die. I am perfectly43 healthy, though not very robust44. John’s death, I think, put it into my head that I should not live to be old.”
And then in thought he wandered off to picturing to himself where and when he could best manage to see Marion alone.
“I wonder if she thought me cold,” he said to himself; “I must have seemed so. But still I am sure she understood me. She has a wonderfully quick and delicate sympathy. Yes, I am certain she understood me or she would not have trusted me so. The only unsatisfactory remembrance I have of our conversation is of her sudden distress45 when she bethought herself of what she hinted at as a barrier on her side. What could it be? Some disgrace in her family. Something connected with her father. But that will soon be explained and set straight. Nothing not actually affecting herself could conic between us.”
So he whiled away the many hours of his journey, tedious only in so far as the days seemed long till he could see her again, hear repeated by her own lips the sweet assurance, which, had he been a vainer or more conventional man, he would have read many a time ere now; in her changing colour, the varying tones of her voice, the childlike trust and appeal in her innocent eyes when she raised them to his.
I don’t know that ever Ralph Severn was happier than during this journey back to Altes. Truly, this falling in love of his had done great things for him: sunnied his whole nature, and for the first time revealed to him the marvellous beauty there is in this life of ours; the light and joy which underlie46 it, our intense powers of happiness no less than of suffering. All which things being real and true, whatever be the dark mysteries for the present on the other side; it was, I doubt not, well for him to have had a glimpse of them, an actual personal experience of happiness, however short-lived. We speak fluently of the discipline of suffering? Is nothing to be learnt from its twin sister, joy? Or is she sent but to mock us? I cannot think so. Her visits may be short and rare, but some good gift of enduring kind she surely leaves behind, if only, blinded by the tears we shed at her departure, we did not fail to see it.
Such, however, it seems to me, is not the case with the highest and deepest natures. To them, I think, all life experience is but as fresh and precious soil in a garden where all is turned to good account sooner or later. There may be ugly and unsightly things about; the flowers, when withered47, may seem to pollute the air and cumber48 the ground; but only to our ignorance does it appear so. Under the great Master-hand all is arranged, nothing overlooked. Every shower of rain, every ray of sunshine, has its peculiar mission. All influences tend to the one great end in view, the ultimate perfection of the work. If only the gardener be humble49 and willing, patient, and, withal, earnest to learn. Then even from his mistakes he shall gain precious and lasting50 fruit.
Ralph Severn’s character was no shallow one. His love for Marion was, as I have said, the one great affection of his life. And something his nature gained from its present happiness that it never afterwards lost. Something indefinite and subtle. But an influence for good.
It was late in the evening when he reached Altes. His mother and Miss Vyse, ignorant of the precise hour at which his arrival might be expected, were just about leaving the drawing-room for the night. The children, of course, were in bed; but, in the fulness of his happy heart, Ralph went and kissed little Sybil as she lay asleep.
He only saw Lady Severn and his cousin-by-courtesy for a very few minutes; but even in that time his quick perception revealed to him some slight change in the manner of both. In Florence it was the most marked. Her tone seemed to him more natural because more unrestrained. A sort of contemptuous indifference51 to him, united to something of triumph and secret satisfaction, peeped out in her carelessly good-natured, rather condescending52 greeting. She was looking very well too, exceedingly radiant and handsome. Her white skin appeared positively54 dazzling, her clear black eyebrows55 in their faultless curve, relieving what might otherwise have been too marble-like for attractive living beauty; her glorious hair, in which nestled a cluster of crimson56 roses (of a peculiar and carefully-selected shade, by contrast browning the surface they lay on) shone a mass of burnished57 gold; for by candlelight the tinge58 of red only intensified59 its lustre60 and richness. She stood thus for a moment, under the full glare of the lamp—a rash thing for any but a perfectly beautiful woman to do; but Florence knew herself to be one of the few whose charms are immensely increased by such an ordeal—her eyes cast down—fortunately so, if she were challenging the young man’s admiration61, for wonderfully fine as they were Ralph never could succeed in admiring them, nor her, when he felt them fixed62 on his face. She was dressed in black, something soft and sweeping63, but yet intensely black; and from out of its midst curved her round white arms, rose her beautiful, dazzling neck and throat, on which lay some heavy coils of dull, red gold chain, or beads64. A golden rope was the appearance they presented at a little distance, or “rather,” thought Ralph, as in his moment’s glance he saw the coils heave slightly as she breathed, “are they like some magical snake she has bewitched to serve her purpose?”
It was a silly fancy, but it dispelled65 the momentary67 impression of her great beauty; which, not to have been struck by, one must needs have been less or more than human.
“What can she be after now?” thought Ralph, with some misgiving. “All this very effective get-up must have been done with a purpose. And her uncommonly68 cool tone! Rather a change from the oily manner she used to favour me with, though upon my word I think it’s an improvement. Can she be intending to try to pique69 me? No, she would never be so silly. Besides, they did not know I was coming to-night. I declare I believe she has got hold of some one else. How I pity the poor devil! All the same, from personal motives70, I can’t refrain from wishing her success.” And half puzzled, half amused, he turned to his mother.
“How well you are looking, Ralph!” broke from her involuntarily. And it was very true. For all that he was tired and travel-stained, for he had come in to see his mother before changing his clothes, the young man certainly looked his very best. There was a healthy brown flush under his somewhat sallow skin, which improved him vastly, and showed to advantage the dark, rather too deep set eyes, whose colour I never could succeed in defining. His figure, always lithe71 and sinewy72, seemed to have gained in vigour73 and erectness74. He looked both taller and stronger; his whole carriage told of greater heartiness75 and elasticity76, a quicker and healthier flow of the life-blood in his veins77.
He looked pleased at the gratification involuntarily displayed in his mother’s tone, for till then her manner had chilled and perplexed78 him. She was more cordial than when he had left her, but she looked uneasy and depressed79, and received him with the manner of one almost against her convictions, allowing to return to favour a but half-penitent culprit. Her “So you are back again, Ah, well!” had something rather piteous in its tone of reproach and resignation, but was, at the same time, exceedingly irritating. “Let bygones be bygones,” it seemed to say. “You have been an undutiful son, but I am the most magnanimous and long-suffering of mothers.” Underlying80 all this, however, was a different feeling, an evident anxiety as to his well-being81, evinced by the heartiness of her exclamation82 as to his satisfactory looks. And besides this, he felt convinced she was concealing83 something which she believed would distress him; for, with all her worldly-mindedness and class prejudice, Lady Severn was the most transparent84 and honest-intentioned of women. He could not make it out, nor ask to have it explained; for, joined to his constitutional reserve, his mother and he were not, never had been, on such terms as to allow him frankly85 to beg her to confide21 to him the cause of her evident uneasiness. So they separated for the night. He, happy man, to forget all mysteries and misgivings86 in the thought of tomorrow’s meeting with Marion. Poor Ralph!
The morning came only too soon to dispel66 his dream. He did not see the children at breakfast as usual, and on expressing his surprise was told by his mother that they now breakfasted separately, as otherwise it made them too late for their lessons.
“Then does Miss Freer come earlier now?” was on his tongue to ask, but something in the air of satisfaction with which Florence was sipping87 her coffee, stopped his intention.
“I shall not mention my darling’s name before her,” he said to himself.
A few minutes later Lotty and Sybil ran in “just for one moment, Grandmamma,” clamorous88 in their welcome of their truant89 uncle. While they were still busy hugging Sir Ralph, the bell rang.
“Miss Brown,” quoth Ralph, in haste, “who the—who on earth is she?”
“Our governess, since Miss Freer left,” replied Lotty, (Sybil was as yet incapable91 of approaching the subject of Miss Freer’s departure without tears, and therefore was wise enough to leave the explanation to Lotty’s less sensitive tongue). “Didn’t you know, Uncle Ralph, that Miss Freer had left? She went away with Mrs. Archer, but she would have left off teaching us at any rate. Grandmamma thought she was not ‘inexperienced’ enough for us now we are getting so big. Not instructed enough, though she was very kind. Miss Brown plays far grander on the piano. You can hear her quite across the street. Just like the band on the Place. And she——.”
“Lotty,” said her grandmother sharply, “you talk much too fast. It is not for little girls like you to discuss their elders. Go now, both of you, at once, to Miss Brown, and be good girls.”
Lotty disappeared instantly. Sybil lingered one little short moment to kiss her uncle softly once more, and then followed her sister. What had the child-heart read of the sorrow, the sudden, sharp pang92 of bitter disappointment that thrilled through the strong man, in whom her innocence, she instinctively93 wished to comfort?
For once in his life Ralph felt thankful for Lotty’s tongue. Its chatter94 gave him an instant in which to recover himself, to rally his scattered95 forces and decide on his present course. Perfect silence! He was not in the habit of betraying his feelings, and certainly his powers of self-control must not fail him now, for the gratification of the heartless beauty at his mother’s board.
His first impulse had been to rise in the strength of his wrath96 and indignation, to have done, for once in a way, with conventional restrictions97, and to hurl98 bitter, biting words at her, who in his inmost heart he believed to be the author of all this. It was well he did not do so. Florence was prepared for it, would have enjoyed it immensely, and would certainly have remained mistress of the field. His heroics would have been altogether out of place, as a very few minutes sufficed to show him, and would but have exposed himself and another to ridicule99 and derision. For what would Florence have answered? She had the words all ready.
“My dear Ralph, what do you mean? My dearest aunt, has your son gone out of his mind? How can I, of all people, be responsible for Mrs. Archer’s having been called to India to nurse her husband, or to the movements of the young lady visiting her? Truly, Sir Ralph, you must excuse me, but just ask yourself—why should I be supposed to take so extraordinary an interest in every young lady my aunt sees it to engage to teach your nieces? And still more, what possible reason could I have for supposing this particular young lady to be an object of interest to you? It is not usual, to say the least, for the gentleman of the house, to have an understanding with the governess?”
There is a great deal of nonsense spoken and written about truth, and truth tellers104. The most exalted105 characters in a certain of class fiction can never bring themselves without a tremendous fuss, either to utter or act a falsehood, and if they ever attempt either, they are sure to bungle106 it: spite of themselves “their ingenuous107 nature betrays itself,” “their lips scorn to descend53 to the meanness,” &c. &c. It is not so in real life. I know of no persons who, when they are put to it, can tell a falsehood better, or act it more cleverly, than essentially108 truthful109, because truth-loving natures. The reason, I fancy, lies somewhere in this direction. It takes some strength, some resolution, to do something they thoroughly dislike, and so they, having “gone for it,” feeling the necessity of the disagreeable action, do it to the best of their ability, set their shoulder to the wheel and go through with it with a will. This is how, to my experience, really thorough people tell stories!
Ralph did his bit of falsity very neatly110. All the same, alas111, Florence saw through it! He did not over-act it. He looked up with a sufficiently concerned expression, saying to his mother:
“Dear me! I am sorry to hear Mrs. Archer has left. And Miss Freer too! It must have been a sudden movement.”
“Very sudden indeed,” replied his moving, most completely taken in, and evidently not a little relieved and delighted, “Mrs. Archer was in dreadful distress. She is to sail almost immediately. She would have gone straight to Marseilles from this, but she had some business she was obliged to attend to personally in England.”
“But,” said Ralph, “I don’t understand. What is all the dreadful distress about?”
“Oh,” exclaimed his mother, “I thought you knew. Had you not heard of poor George. Archer’s illness?” Launched on which topic, she sailed away calmly for some minutes.
“And did she take the child with her?” asked Ralph, “the little boy—and the young lady, Miss Freer, did she go too? Are they going to India together?”
“I really don’t know,” said Lady Severn, “I forget, I’m sure, if little Charlie is to go. And as to Miss Freer, I know still less. She was a peculiar young woman, never even mentioned where her home was in England.”
“I always understood,” began Florence, but on Lady Severn’s pressing her to tell what she had “always understood,” she, to use a very charming schoolboy phrase “shut up,” and could not be prevailed on to say more. Murmuring something about “not liking113 to repeat gossip,” she rose gracefully114 from table, and the little party separated.
Later in the morning Ralph sauntered into the drawing-room where the two ladies were sitting.
“It is rather tiresome115,” he said, “Mrs. Archer’s having left before I returned. I had something to send to her husband. I think my best way will be write to her at once and ask directions for sending it to her. Do you, happen to know her address?”
“Oh yes,” said his mother, unsuspiciously, “she gave it to me the last day I saw her. I gave it to you, Florence, my dear, but I remember it. I have a good head for addresses. It is—
Mrs. George Archer,
Care of Mrs. Archer, sen.,
23, West Parade,
Leamington.
That is it, I know. I am right, Florence, my dear, am I not?”
Miss Vyse did not answer for a moment. Then she said slowly, sulkily, it seemed to Ralph, which confirmed him in his opinion that the address was correct, “Yes, Aunt, you are quite right. But I have the address upstairs; if you wish I can run up and refer to it.”
“No, thank you,” said Ralph, “I am quite satisfied.
23, West Parade,
Leamington.
I shall not forget it,”
“A good thing,” he thought to himself, “that my mother really has a correct memory for addresses. Even if that girl showed me an address in Mrs. Archer’s own writing I should not believe it was correct if it had passed through her hands.”
The greater part of that day he spent in writing to Marion. It was all he could do, and he did it thoroughly; entering without reserve into all his hopes and plans, only passing by, rather more slightly, the probable opposition116, his marriage might meet with from his mother, and inferring that any mischief to be apprehended117 on this score was already done by his having, months before, refused to marry as she wished. He impressed upon Marion that he was far from rich, that indeed for many years to come their life might be a struggling one, and told her the object and success of his visit to London.
He begged her to reply at once, and to confide to him the “imaginary” (he called it) obstacle on her side, the remembrance of which had so distressed118 her. That it was imaginary only, he told her he felt assured, for nothing not affecting her personally would he allow to come between them. Whatever it was, he begged her to tell it to him. Lastly, he entreated119 her to send him word where and when he might see her. At any moment, he wrote, he would hold himself in readiness to set off for England, to see her in her own home, or wherever else she might appoint.
One possibility only he did not allude120 to, for as yet it had not seriously occurred to him, that of her perhaps having determined121 on accompanying Mrs. Archer to India. Later, he wondered at its not having struck him.
So he wrote his letter, and enclosed it to the care of Mrs. George Archer, to be by her forwarded, or delivered immediately. And having posted it with his own hand, he felt rather lighter122 of heart than had been the case with him since his grievous disappointment of the morning. He tried to reason himself out of his excessive depression. “After all,” thought he, “it is nothing to be so miserable123 about. It is merely a question of a week or two’s delay. And now I can console myself by counting the days till her answer can come.” But it was not much use. From the first moment that he had heard her departure carelessly alluded124 to, he had somehow lost hope, felt an irresistible125 conviction that she was altogether and for ever gone from him. “It was very childish,” he said to himself, “childish and unreasonable.” But he could not help it. Still he did not allow his depression to paralyse or weaken his efforts to obviate126 the harm, too likely, in one form or another, to have been caused by Marion’s sudden and unlooked-for departure.
More he would gladly have done; for once his letter was written and despatched, the forced inaction and miserable suspense tried him terribly. Many times in the course of the next few days he was on the point of starting off again for England, but on refection he always discarded the idea. He was so utterly without knowledge of Marion’s past history and present circumstances. What, where, or who her friends were, he had no idea. Of everything in fact, save herself, her own sweet personality, he was entirely127 ignorant. Were he to find his way to her by means of his only clue, the address of the senior Mrs. Archer, it might do more harm than good, might injure his cause irretrievably. The father, to whom she had all alluded with more dread112 than affection, concerning whom there was evidently some sad or shameful128 page in her young history, what might he not be? How might not Ralph’s unlooked-for appearance irritate or exasperate129 him, how might it not pain or distress her, whose peace and well-being were truly, as he had said, his first consideration? There was no question of it, he decided, calmly and dispassionately; he had done well to write to her in the first place, and till he received her answer, he must take no more open or decisive steps. It might be, though hardly to himself would he own the dreadful doubt, yet it might be that on her side the obstacles would prove stubborn, even altogether insurmountable. In that case, with the terrible possibility before him, he would do well, for her sake, far more than for his own, to guard his secret, to save her name from even a breath of coarse innuendo130 or reproach, which, once under the acknowledged shelter of his love and protection, would fall harmless; but might, should it attack her without such defence, wound and sting her through all her pure, guileless innocence of thought and deed. To know that she was spoken of as “that Miss Freer who tried her best to catch Sir Ralph Severn, but who found it no use, as Lady Severn discovered that so-and-so, or such-and-such was the case,” would be too horrible! From this at least he could save her.
Sometimes it struck him as hard that she had left no message for him, no farewell greeting or word of remembrance. But then again, when he recalled the particulars of their last conversation, the extreme reserve and guardedness with which purposefully he had referred to his plans and intentions, the fears he had expressed that his efforts might be in vain—all this, to which he judged it right to confine himself, so that in case of adverse results she might in no wise consider herself bound to him—he could not find it in his heart to blame her. No girl, in her place, could have been expected to do more. Few, very few, would have trusted him as she had done.
So he waited, to outward appearance patiently enough, for the coming of the earliest day on which he might reasonably expect an answer to his letter.
During these days the mystery of Miss Vyse’s altered manner, and continued succession of gorgeous “gets-up” was to some extent explained.
She had really succeeded in attaching another string, and that other by no means a despicable one, to her bow!
The first day of his return they dined, as usual, alone. Florence complained of being tired, and left the drawing-room early. The following morning Lady Severn informed her son that dinner was to be half-an-hour later, that day, as she expected a guest.
“A gentleman,” she added, as if she wished Ralph to enquire131 further. But he was too profoundly indifferent to do so; and forgot all about the matter till just before dinner-time, when, to his amazement132, on entering the drawing-room, he descried133, seated side by side, on a sofa, in very suspicious proximity134, Florence the magnificent, and our old friend the substantial and inconsolable widower135, Mr. Chepstow!
“So he is the poor devil I was pitying in anticipation,” thought Ralph, “On the whole I think the sentiment is uncalled-for. His back is broad enough, and his susceptibilities not too acute. Besides which, he is the kind of man that must be ruled, and perhaps when he is incorporated as a part of her precious self, Florence may not treat him badly. She will have no more need for plotting and planning on pecuniary grounds, anyhow.”
Mr. Chepstow was all beaming with the effulgence136 of prosperity and good-humour, delighted to see Sir Ralph again, hoped he had enjoyed his visit to England, etc., etc.
Ralph felt rather at a loss how to demean himself. The thing was so very palpable, he wondered if he was expected to congratulate the happy pair forthwith. But as there had been no announcement made to him, he decided that it was better to be on the safe side, and risk no premature137 good wishes.
It was a very tiresome evening. Mr. Chepstow bored him inexpressibly; the more so, that being his mother’s guest, he felt bound to be civil to the good-natured millionaire. After dinner he was doomed138 to a very exhausting tête-à-tête, in the course of which the stout139 widower unbosomed himself, described in glowing terms his admiration for Miss Vyse, and ended by expressing his hopes that Sir Ralph would look favourably140 on the proposed alliance.
“I am very happy to hear of it, I assure you, Mr. Chepstow,” replied Ralph. “But you are mistaken in thinking my approval has anything to say to the matter. Miss Vyse is very distantly related to me, and though she has been staying with my mother for some time, I am very slightly acquainted with her. She is, I believe, quite her own mistress. It think her fortunate in the prospect28 of a kind husband; and you, on your side, I need not tell you, will have an exceedingly handsome wife. May I ask when the—what do you call it?—happy event, isn’t that the proper expression, is to take place?”
“We have not exactly fixed. In fact, my dear Sir Ralph, Miss Vyse is a young lady of such exceedingly delicate feeling—I had wished her to name an early day, but she rather objects to our marriage taking place till the anniversary of the late Mrs. Chepstow’s death has passed.
“Oh indeed!” said the younger man; “then that anniversary falls about this season, I suppose. Ah well, a few weeks’ delay will give you time to know each other better! I forget by-the-bye how many years you have been a widower.”
Mr. Chepstow looked still more uncomfortable.
“My late wife, Mrs. Chepstow,” he said, “died in June. I thought I mentioned that Miss Vyse wished to postpone142 matters till after the anniversary was passed.”
“Your late wife only died last June then?” exclaimed Sir Ralph, feeling considerably143 disgusted. “Then I certainly agree with Miss Vyse as to the propriety144 of deferring145 the present affair a little longer.”
This was rather a damper even to the obtuse146 Mr. Chepstow. He looked rather ashamed of himself, and appeared glad to agree to his host’s proposal that they should return to the drawing-room.
“I wonder what sort of a person the first Mrs Chepstow was?” thought Ralph somewhat cynically147, as he observed the devotion of the fat lover, the cool affectation and airs de grande dame148 of the beautiful fiancée. It was amusing to watch the change in her manner already. She had altogether thrown aside her gentle deference149 and fawning150 amiability151, and seemed to go out of her way to seek for opportunities of covertly152 sneering153 at Sir Ralph, or annoying him with ingeniously impertinent innuendoes154, and his real, unaffected indifference to it all galled155 her not a little.
“How can it be,” thought he, “that two women can exist, so utterly, so radically156 different as this girl and my Marion?” And as the thought passed through his mind, he glanced at Florence. She was looking at him, with a strangely mingled157 expression on her face. Regret, remorse158, even a shade of pity, seemed to cross her beautiful features. But for a moment, and then she hastily turned aside and began chattering159 nonsense to Mr. Chepstow. But a new direction had been given to Ralph’s mediations.
“Why does she look at me in that way?” he asked himself: “she has doubtless discovered my secret. Can it be that after all she is possessed160 of something in the shape of a heart that is capable of pitying my bitter disappointment? It is possible, I suppose. Moralists say there is a spark of good in the worst of us.”
Florence, by-the-bye, scolded Mr. Chepstow furiously when she discovered that he had confessed to Sir Ralph that the first anniversary of her predecessor161’s death was not yet past!
Henceforth there was nothing but Chepstow. Morning, noun, and night it seemed to Ralph he never entered his mother’s drawing-room without coming upon that worthy162 there ensconced. He grew very tired of it; but finding at last that the millionaire never took offence at anything, came to treat him somewhat unceremoniously, and found it rather convenient to shuffle163 on to his broad shoulders some of the gentleman-of-the-house duties so unspeakably irksome to his unsociable self.
The day came on which an answer to his letter was to be expected. It passed, bringing him nothing. Likewise its successors, one, two, and three, and Ralph began to be very miserable. He waited a few days longer, then thought of writing again; but to what purpose? Why should a second letter fare better than its predecessor? Suddenly a new idea struck him. He was walking near the Rue St. Thomas at the time, and acted at once on the notion.
Hitherto he had avoided passing Mrs. Archer’s house. He dreaded164 the sight of it, and especially of the little terrace; a corner of which was visible from the street.
As he stood now at the door after ringing the bell, he heard merry voices above. He stepped back a little and looked up. On the terrace he saw the figure of a young girl about Marion’s height, playing and laughing with some children. They were utter strangers to him; happy, innocent creatures, but at that moment he felt as if he hated them.
He was recalled to himself by the voice of Mme. Poulin at the door. She recognized him, and enquired165 civilly how she could serve him.
“Do you happen to know Mrs. Archer’s address?” he asked. “Did she leave it with you before she went? I have some letters of importance to forward to her.”
“But yes, certainly,” replied the brisk old woman; “Monsieur shall have it at once. It is mademoiselle that gave it to me. Already have I sent letters, a little bill by example, that madam, in her distress, failed to pay. And I have received the answer with an order for the money. ‘Ces dames166 étaient gentilles, mais bien gentilles. Cette pauvre Thérèse a bien pleuré leur départ! Eh le petit, ah qu’il était mignon.”
“But the address,” reminded Ralph.
“Ah yes, the address! I go to seek it.”
And she disappeared, in another moment returning with two or three ready directed and stamped envelopes in her band, on each of which was written in a clear girlish hand—
“Mrs. George Archer,
23, West Parade,
Cheltenham.”
“Cheltenham!” exclaimed Ralph, “by Jove, and I put Leamington. My mother’s mistake, evidently, and that snake of a girl suspected my secret and encouraged my mistake. Heaven forgive her, for I can’t. And now—
Mme. Poulin saw that something was wrong.
“Monsieur fears then that this address will not reach ‘ces dames.’ It is true, they were soon to depart pour les Indes. Mais il faut éspérer—-”
“Pour les Indes,” interrupted Ralph, eagerly, “were then both the ladies going there? The young lady, too?”
Mme. Poulin looked puzzled.
“Mais oui,” she said, “that is to say at least, I have always thought so.” Evidently the contrary had never occurred to her. But a bright idea struck her. “I go to ask Thérèse,” she said; “she spoke103 much with Mademoiselle. Without doubt Mademoiselle will have told her if it were not so.”
And the old woman disappeared for the second time. In a few minutes she returned, bringing her daughter to assist at the consultation167. Ralph heard their voices chattering shrilly168 along the passage, and a few words reached him. “Aux Indes,” “la petite demoiselle,” “Mais non, ma mère, assurément,” and so on. Those few moments seemed hours to him!
Thérèse’s opinion to some extent relieved him of this new terror. Though on close cross-examination she did not appear to have very certain grounds for her belief, yet the impression she had received while the little family was with them, was evidently that the young lady was not going to India, was not, in fact, a permanent member of Mrs. Archer’s household.
“That I am aware of,” said Ralph; “all I want to know is, did she ever allude in any way to India, or to her perhaps going there?”
But Thérèse could not remember that she had ever done so. So with this negative satisfaction, Ralph was forced to be content, and thanking the mother and daughter for their good-nature, went his way, the precious envelope in his hand, to think over what next to do.
After all he decided, there was nothing for it but to write again. This time, of course, to the right address. The same objections remained in full force against his going to England and trying there to find Marion for himself. So he wrote at once. Two letters. One to Mrs. Archer, enclosing, as before, another to Marion. Then, unfortunately, he changed his mind, and sent them separately. That to Miss Freer, to the care of Mrs. Archer, &c. That to Cissy, merely a few words, begging her at once to send him Miss Freer’s address, or if by any possibility she were actually accompanying Mrs. Archer to India, to let him know whence and how they were going. If from Marseilles, he would start at a moment’s notice to meet them there on their way.
This letter reached Cheltenham a few days after Cissy had left. It lay for some time in the senior Mrs. Archer’s house, that lady being ill or away from home, and was then sent on to India, where Cissy received it by the same mail as another letter from Ralph sent to India direct, which we shall hear about presently.
The other letter, that directed to Miss Freer, never reached its destination, never, at least, as we have seen, came to Marion’s hands. Its history was never known. Probably enough it arrived at Mrs. Archer’s house, and some stupid or officious servant, seeing the unfamiliar169 name, may have said, after the manner of her kind, it was “not for us,” and sent the poor letter adrift again.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
ascend
|
|
| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
vowing
|
|
| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
rosy
|
|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
misgiving
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
rue
|
|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
consular
|
|
| a.领事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
vacancy
|
|
| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
domesticated
|
|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
morbid
|
|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
morbidly
|
|
| adv.病态地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
unreasonable
|
|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
adverse
|
|
| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
eventual
|
|
| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
braced
|
|
| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
confide
|
|
| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
middle-aged
|
|
| adj.中年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
inclinations
|
|
| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
providence
|
|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
prospective
|
|
| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
subservience
|
|
| n.有利，有益；从属（地位），附属性；屈从，恭顺；媚态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
defer
|
|
| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
sanguine
|
|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
pecuniary
|
|
| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
innocence
|
|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
rigidly
|
|
| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
implicitly
|
|
| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
deceptive
|
|
| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
torment
|
|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
feat
|
|
| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
devoid
|
|
| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
archer
|
|
| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
robust
|
|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
underlie
|
|
| v.位于...之下，成为...的基础 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
cumber
|
|
| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
lasting
|
|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
condescending
|
|
| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
eyebrows
|
|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
burnished
|
|
| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
tinge
|
|
| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
intensified
|
|
| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
lustre
|
|
| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
sweeping
|
|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
beads
|
|
| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
dispelled
|
|
| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
dispel
|
|
| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
uncommonly
|
|
| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
pique
|
|
| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
motives
|
|
| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
lithe
|
|
| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
sinewy
|
|
| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
vigour
|
|
| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
erectness
|
|
| n.直立 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
75
heartiness
|
|
| 诚实，热心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
elasticity
|
|
| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
veins
|
|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
perplexed
|
|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
underlying
|
|
| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
well-being
|
|
| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
concealing
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
misgivings
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
sipping
|
|
| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
clamorous
|
|
| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
truant
|
|
| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
instinctively
|
|
| adv.本能地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
chatter
|
|
| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
restrictions
|
|
| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
hurl
|
|
| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
ridicule
|
|
| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
memorable
|
|
| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
destined
|
|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
tellers
|
|
| n.（银行）出纳员( teller的名词复数 )；（投票时的）计票员；讲故事等的人；讲述者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
exalted
|
|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
bungle
|
|
| v.搞糟；n.拙劣的工作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
ingenuous
|
|
| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
essentially
|
|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
truthful
|
|
| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
neatly
|
|
| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
gracefully
|
|
| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
tiresome
|
|
| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
apprehended
|
|
| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
distressed
|
|
| 痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
entreated
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
allude
|
|
| v.提及，暗指 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
lighter
|
|
| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
irresistible
|
|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
obviate
|
|
| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
shameful
|
|
| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
exasperate
|
|
| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
innuendo
|
|
| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
enquire
|
|
| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
descried
|
|
| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
proximity
|
|
| n.接近，邻近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
widower
|
|
| n.鳏夫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
effulgence
|
|
| n.光辉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
premature
|
|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
doomed
|
|
| 命定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
favourably
|
|
| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
hue
|
|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
postpone
|
|
| v.延期，推迟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
considerably
|
|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
propriety
|
|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
deferring
|
|
| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
obtuse
|
|
| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
cynically
|
|
| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
dame
|
|
| n.女士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
deference
|
|
| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
fawning
|
|
| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
amiability
|
|
| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
covertly
|
|
| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
sneering
|
|
| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
innuendoes
|
|
| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
galled
|
|
| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
radically
|
|
| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
chattering
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
predecessor
|
|
| n.前辈，前任 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
shuffle
|
|
| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
dreaded
|
|
| 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) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
enquired
|
|
| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
dames
|
|
| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
consultation
|
|
| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
shrilly
|
|
| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
unfamiliar
|
|
| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |