Was troubled sore, ne wist well what to weene;
Ne could by search nor any means out find
The secret cause and nature of his teene.
* * * * * *
If aught lay hidden in his grieved thought,
BY this time April was pretty far advanced.
Suddenly, after an interval4 of some weeks’ temperate5 weather succeeding the usual spring rains, Altes grew intolerably hot, and every one began to desert the poor little town as if it we plague stricken.
Some weeks previously6, Lady Severn had engaged for the six months’ summer, a villa8 at Vevey, and thither9 she now decided10 on removing herself and her rather cumbrous household. Much to Ralph’s disappointment. He was heartily11 sick of living abroad in this unhomelike fashion, and had been for long hoping that the approaching summer would see Medhurst once more inhabited. But to this wish of his, his mother was as yet unwilling12 to agree. She still shrank from returning to the place where the light of her eyes, her eldest13 son, had met his death, and succeeded in persuading herself that on every account, Sybil’s especially, it was better for them all to remain on the continent for another year.
So they left Altes at the end of April.
Sufficient time, however, had elapsed to Ralph to have received an answer to his second letter, but none arrived.
He came at last to a new determination. At all risks, he resolved, after seeing his mother and her party safely established at Vevey, to go to England, and with the help of the Cheltenham address in his possession, seek to discover his lost Marion, and learn the reason of her strange silence.
Mrs. Archer14’s not having replied to his enquiries did not surprise him. He began to feel sure that she must have set out on her long journey eastward15 before his letter had arrived at her mother-in-law’s house. The fear that Marion might have accompanied her to India, he resolutely16 determined17 for the present to set aside. Time enough to think of it when he discovered it to be actually the case.
As ill-luck would have it, some considerable time elapsed before he found himself free to turn northwards. Half way on their journey to Switzerland Sybil fell ill—grievously ill, poor little dove–and he could not find it in his heart to leave her, even had he thought it right to do so. It was a very miserable18 state of things. Their resting-place was a small provincial19 town near the French frontier, where, as may be imagined, the accommodation was far from luxurious20. They succeeded in securing the best rooms in the best hotel, which sounds gorgeous enough, but practically speaking was the very reverse.
The little inn was built round a small courtyard, on to which opened the windows of all the rooms. Considering that in this courtyard were performed all the unsightly, though doubtless unavoidable household duties, such as scouring21 of pans, washing of cabbages, and killing22 of chickens; that herein also took place all the gossiping, bargaining, and scolding of the neighbourhood; and that, to crown all, the weather was stiflingly23 hot, and cleanliness, but a pleasing recollection of the past, it may easily be imagined that it was hardly the spot one would choose to be ill in. The poor child suffered terribly. Her constant cry was for “Uncle Ralph,” in whose arms, at all hours of the day and night, she seemed alone to find ease or repose24. And for a whole fortnight they knew not what to think or hope.
Lady Severn was wretched. She, too, in her suffering and anxiety clung closely to her son. It drew them very near together—this time of dread25 and watching—and did not a little to reveal to the poor lady the true character of her quondam favourite, Florence Vyse. The beauty, as might have been expected, behaved with utter heartlessness and selfish disregard of every one’s comfort but her own; grumbling26 fretfully whenever she thought Lady Severn could not hear her, at the hardship of being detained in this “odious hole,” and all but saying openly that if only they could get away from this “horrible place,” she cared little whether the child lived or died.
But sweet Sybil’s life-battle was not yet to end. She recovered, and, as is the way with children once they “get the turn,” as it is called, amazed them all by the speediness of her convalescence28.
Spite of all the disadvantages of her surroundings, by the latter half of May she was able to be moved, and the end of the month saw them all comfortably established in the pretty Swiss “maison de campagne.” Then at last Ralph began to think of executing his project. But before he had had time to enter into any of its details, the whole scheme was unexpectedly knocked on the head.
The first morning after their arrival in Vevey, he was passing along the principal street on his way to look up the doctor in whose care they had been advised to place Sybil, when, some way in front, he saw a familiar figure advancing towards him.
An Englishwoman evidently, as he could have told by her walk, even had he not known her. Middle-sized and broadset, ruddy-complexioned and reddish haired, coming along with that peculiar29 swing of mingled30 hauteur31 and nonchalance32, affected33 by one type of that curious genus, the fast young lady; there was no mistaking our old acquaintance Sophy Berwick.
Ralph, looked about him nervously34 for a chance of escape, but on neither side was there any. He was not quite capable of turning round and actually running for it, though he felt not a little inclined to do so.
In another moment she saw him, and he was in for it. Almost before she was within hearing she began to speak, as fast as ever. At the present time his appearance was a perfect godsend to her; she was burdened with the weight of a whole budget of uncommunicated Altes gossip.
“So you are here, Sir Ralph!” was her greeting. “Upon my word, wonders will never cease! The last person I expected to see. I thought you had gone back to England for good. I am very glad to see you though. Fancy what a piece of news we have just heard. Frank is going to be married! You will never guess who the lady is. For my part, I can’t imagine what he could see in her. Little milk-and-water idiot in my opinion. Do guess now who it is.”
It was useless for Ralph to protest his incapacity for ever guessing anything, especially the present puzzle. Sophy had, metaphorically35 speaking, button-holed him. There was no escape.
“It’s not Miss Freer,” proceeded Sophy; “I wish it were. She had more sense. It’s that doll, Dora Bailey! And, just imagine, it was all settled before Frank left, only they agreed to keep it a secret for three months for reasons best known to themselves. Now confess, aren’t you surprised?”
Knowing all he did of Frank Berwick’s private history, Ralph could honestly say he was. Having listened to a few more comments from Miss Sophy on this subject, he began to hope he might be allowed to pursue his way, but such was far from the young lady’s intention.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said she; “I’ve lots more to tell you and ask about. Is it true that your cousin is going to marry that jolly old Chepstow? That, too, I heard the other day.”
“It is true, certainly,” said Ralph, “that Mr. Chepstow and Miss Vyse are engaged to be married. But whoever told you the young lady was my cousin made a mistake. However, that does not signify.”
“Oh, and about that pretty Mrs. Archer,” pursued the relentless36 Sophy, “she went off in such a hurry—to nurse her husband, was it not? I heard of her from some friends of mine who knew her, and were going out at the same time. About the middle of April they set off—she and Miss Freer. They will be near their journey’s end now. Only, by-the-by, they were going up to the hills, I believe—somewhere near Simla. I was just thinking how queer it would be if Frank and Marion Freer came across each other again out there, when I heard of his engagement to that stupid Dora. Though I daresay it’s just as well. There’s no doubt Frank was tremendously smitten37 by her—Marion, I mean—but then she was already disposed of. And I don’t think she was the sort of girl to break off an engagement, even though her heart was not in it. Do you, Sir Ralph?”
From sheer want of breath the girl at last came to a stop. All too soon, however, for her auditor38; who, though tortured with anxiety to hear more of the dreadful things the thoughtless rattle39 alluded40 to so carelessly, yet could not, for a moment or two, find voice to utter the inquiry41 on his lips. Fortunately, at this juncture42, Sophy’s attention was attracted by something passing in the street. When she turned round again he had perfectly43 recovered himself.
“It is not pleasant standing44 here, Miss Berwick,” he said. “I am in no hurry; suppose you allow me to walk so far on your way with you, and we can compare notes about all our old acquaintances.”
“By all means,” replied Sophy, delighted with his unusual urbanity, which confirmed her in her often expressed opinion that ‘Ralph Severn only wanted shaking to be a good fun as any one.’
“What were we talking about?” added she.
“Miss Freer,” he said, carelessly. “I think so at least. You were saying she had gone out to India, were you not? I did not know she lived permanently45 with Mrs. Archer?”
“She didn’t,” said Sophy. “At Altes she was only visiting her. But she was going out to India to be married. Mrs. Archer told me so herself one day, and Marion was very angry. She wanted it kept a secret. Her husband-to-be is enormously rich, much older than she, I believe. I am almost sure she did not like the idea. Her manner was so queer when it was referred to. I expect she had been forced into it. She was so poor, you know.”
“You don’t happen to know the gentleman’s name, do you?” in a voice that would have sounded startling in a strangeness to any one less obtuse46 than his companion.
“No,” she said, consideringly. “I did not hear it. Mrs. Archer was just going to tell it me, but Marion got so angry she stopped. She was to be married as soon as she got there. Why, she will almost be married now—in another month any way! Doesn’t it seem funny?”
She looked up in Sir Ralph’s face as she spoke47—her bright, good-humoured eyes fixed48 on his face in all good faith and unconcern. She thought she was speaking the truth. Ralph looked at her, and saw that she meant what she said.
He accepted it.
Something in his glance struck even Sophy as peculiar. Whispers had once or twice reached her at Altes that he too, the unimpressionable baronet, had at last been “attracted”—if not more. And by whom, of all people in the world, but by that quiet, pale girl, the Miss Freer, who gave daily lessons to his nieces! It was very strange, the Altes magpies49 said to each other, what there was about that girl that gentlemen found so charming. Very strange and incomprehensible; above all, that Sir Ralph Severn, who might marry “any one,” should think of her. He was odd, certainly, but then there was his mother. She would never hear of such a thing! So, as no further material was provided for the growth of the report, it died a natural death, and was quickly succeeded by other and more exciting topics.
Like a dream, the hints she had heard returned to Sophy’s memory. “Could it have been true?” she asked herself, and again she glanced at her companion. He was walking along quietly, his eyes fixed on the ground. In another moment he spoke.
“And what more news have you for me, Miss Berwick?” he said lightly. “Let me see, we have done a good deal of business in the last few minutes. Assisted at three prospective50 marriages, and made our comments thereupon. The last we discussed seems to me the least satisfactory. That poor girl, Miss Freer, I pity her if she is forced into a mercenary marriage.”
“Yes,” replied Sophy, “I suppose she is to be pitied. “But provided she does not care for anyone else, she will get along well enough with her husband, I dare say. Particularly if he is so rich. It is much easier to keep good friends when there is plenty of money.”
“Do you think so?” said Ralph, indifferently. How the girl’s words stung him! “Provided she cares for no one else.” But he answered so carelessly and naturally that the Sophy was quite deceived, and dismissed as groundless the idea that had occurred to her. They walked on together some little distance; Ralph skilfully52 drawing her out, but to no purpose. She had evidently told him, and apparently53 without exaggeration, all she knew on the subject.
He went home. What he thought and felt and suffered, those who have marvelled54 at themselves for living through similar bitterness and disappointment, will know without my attempting the impossible task of describing it. Those, on the other hand, who have not hitherto passed through such anguish55, may yet have to bear it. And to many, even the feeble words I might vainly employ, would appear exaggerated and unnatural56.
The result of that day’s meeting with Sophy Berwick was the following letter to Mrs. Archer, containing an enclosure for Miss Freer. He wrote both letters at once. He could not rest till he had done so; though, by the rule of contrary again, he found when they were written, that he had missed the mail by two or three days only. So they did not go till the following month. And it was July ere Cissy received them, additional delay resulting from their going round by the headquarters of Colonel Archer’s regiment57 in the first place; the only address which Ralph felt confidence in after his late disastrous58 experience. This was what he wrote to Cissy:—
“VEVEY
“JUNE 3rd, 18—
“MY DEAR MRS. ARCHER,
“Before this you may have received a letter I sent to your Cheltenham address, trusting it might reach you before you left. As, however, I have received no answer to it, I suppose it must have been too late. It will, therefore, probably be sent after you. It consisted merely of a few lines, begging you at once to send me the address of your friend, Miss Freer, to whom, on the chance of her being there, even had you left, I wrote at the same time. To that letter neither have I received any answer. Only to-day have I learned the reason—that she accompanied you to India last April. This news was a great shock to me. Still greater the information that accompanied it—that Miss Freer went out to India the betrothed61 wife of a gentleman to whom she was to be married very shortly after her arrival! The person who told me this, mentioned having heard it directly from yourself at Altes, some months ago. I may as well tell you that my informant was Sophy Berwick. She had no reason for telling me. She did incidentally. Nor can I see that it is likely she was mistaken. Certain words and allusions62 of Marion’s own confirm me in believing it. Still there is a chance—a mere60 chance—that it may not be so; and on this I now write to you, begging you as speedily as possible to tell me the truth. At the time Marion, under pressure of strong excitement, let fall the hints I refer to, she evidently did not consider herself irrevocably bound. She alluded to some concealment63 concerning herself, some obstacle connected with her father’s wishes. Had I only then dared to speak more openly of my own hopes and intentions all might have been well. But I thought it right not to do so; and since I have been free to speak, a series of cross-purposes, beginning with your sudden flight from Altes, and ending with my last letters missing you (previous ones having shared the same fate through an incorrect address), has, I fear, separated us—for ever. It is very terrible to me to realise that it probably is so. As to her, I must try to be unselfish enough to hope that all this may have fallen more lightly on her younger and more elastic64 nature. I do not know if you ever guessed this secret of mine? I almost wish now that I had confided65 it to you. The enclosed letter contains a full explanation of all in my conduct, that to my poor darling must have seemed mysterious and inexplicable66. If, when you receive this, she be yet by any blessed chance free, give it to her. All then will, I feel assured, be well. If, on the other hand, as is more probable, she be already bound to another, even perhaps by this time married, return it to me as it is; and never, I beseech67 you, mention my name to her. Better far she should forget me, despise me even; than that, by learning that I, alas68, have not ceased, never can cease to care for her, her married life with another should be embittered69 by vain regret. And in no case, mind you, do I blame her. I am ignorant of the circumstances which must have compelled her to agree to a marriage, into which she could not enter with her heart. Whatever they may have been, she, I am sure, is to be excused. Her youth and unselfishness of disposition70 would render her easy to persuade to such a sacrifice. I have said more than I intended. Selfishly too I have omitted to express my hopes that you found Colonel Archer in a fair way to complete recovery. I do not send any message to him, as I must beg you, on every account, to consider this letter and all it contains as strictly71 private. I shall be very grateful to you if you will answer this as soon as possible. Believe me,
“Yours faithfully,
“RALPH M. SEVERN.
“P.S. I am forgetting to mention that if the letter I sent to Cheltenham to Miss Freer, has, with yours, been forwarded to India, it is not either way of much consequence. Fearing it might not reach her directly, I purposely made it short and formal. Merely expressing my regret at not having seen her again, and asking for her address that I might send her some books, &c. This (and everything else) is fully27 explained in the enclosed.”
“The enclosed” was three times the length of the foregoing. It contained, as Ralph said, a full explanation of all that had occurred since the last evening at Altes, when they parted, as they thought, for the fortnight merely of Ralph’s visit to England.
Now began again for Ralph a period of weary waiting, till the answer, or answers, to his letters might be expected. It was a long time to wait—four months or thereabouts! He grew sick of the summer, the constant sunshine and brightness, and longed for the time when he should see the leaves beginning to turn, when among the trees he should perceive the first whisper of autumn. “For by then,” he thought, “this suspense72 at least will be over. And at the worst I shall be free to begin to live down my disappointment.”
So it came to pass that at the very same time both Marion and he were waiting with anxious hearts for news from the far-off East. Whereas, had they only known it, but a few days’ journey and a few words of explanation, would have sufficed again, and for life, to unite them.
What, for two or three weeks, Ralph thought was to be his only answer, came to him, as to Marion, in the advertisement sheet of the “Times;” where one morning early in October, he saw the announcement of poor Cissy’s death. It shocked him greatly.
For a week or two he knew not what to think or do. Then one morning, as he was all but losing hope of any further or more satisfactory reply, he received an Indian letter. A bulky letter with a deep black border round the envelope, and addressed in an unfamiliar73 hand. He turned it about, as people always do when particularly anxious to learn the contents of a letter, stared at the address, the stamps, and the black seal, as if they could reveal the secret of the inside!
At last he opened it, and drew out a second envelope likewise addressed to himself, but in a different hand, and with no black edge. This again he opened, and out fell, on to the floor at his feet, a letter that was no stranger to him. His own letter to Miss Freer, somewhat crushed and worn-looking from its much travelling, but otherwise exactly as it had left, him, the seal unbroken, the whole evidently untampered with. And his own words to Cissy recurred74 to him,—“If on the other hand she be already bound to another, even perhaps by this time married, return it to me as it is, and never, I beseech you, mention my name to her.
He understood it. Poor Cissy had obeyed him, and no fear that now she would betray his confidence. But looking again at the black-bordered outside envelope, he saw that it still contained something. A short letter only, written almost immediately after his wife’s death by George Archer, whose was the writing which Ralph, not having seen for many years, had failed to recognize. It ran thus,
“LANDOUR, N.W. PROVINCES.
“AUGUST 20TH, 18—
“MY DEAR SEVERN,—
“Already you may have chanced to hear of my great loss. Considering all the aggravations; our long separation; her hastening out to nurse me at risk to herself; my inexcusable selfishness in having suggesting it; I think you will not despise me for confessing to you that I am perfectly prostrated75, utterly76 heart-broken; even though yet at times unable to realize it. One of her last requests to me was that I would, without delay, forward to you a letter which would find in her desk—‘written,’ she said, and ‘ready to be addressed.’ She was very ill at the time and must have been confused in what she said, for the enclosed I found as I send it, all ready, save the stamps, to be posted. I need hardly tell you that I am in entire ignorance of it contents, and perfectly satisfied to remain so always. My poor child told me it related to some private matters of your own, as to which you had consulted her. She was evidently anxious about the matter, so whatever it be, I trust it may end well. You will forgive my not writing more just now. Remember me to Lady Severn, and thank her for the kindness she showed to my wife and child last winter.
“Yours most truly,
“GEORGE ARCHER.”
That was all! Ralph folded the letters. His own to Miss Fryer he destroyed.
“And so,” he said to himself, “my story is ended.”
He wrote at once to Sir Archibald, declining the appointment at A——, which till now, his old chief had with some trouble kept open for him.
He remained at the Chateau Mornier with his mother till in the autumn she left it for a more genial77 climate. And one day soon after receiving Colonel Archer’s letter, he read, in the newspaper, of the death of the well-known and distinguished78 Member for ——, Hartford Vere, and bestowed79 a moment’s passing pity on the scantily80 provided for orphan81 children of the great man!
The Severns did not winter at. Altes. That was spared him. He persuaded his mother to try Italy for a change. Yet more, he obtained from her a promise that should all be well, the following spring should see the family re-established at Medhurst. Once there, he felt he should be more free to leave them; and travel by himself where the fancy seized him, or rather, wherever he saw the most encouraging prospect51 for the furtherance of the special studies which he was now determined to resume in earnest, and in which he hoped to find sufficient interest to prevent his life from becoming altogether a blank. His mother was ready enough now-a-days to agree to his wishes, even, when possible, to forestall82 them. Since Sybil’s illness at Lusac, there had been a great change in Lady Severn. She had learned to cling much to her hitherto little valued son. And something had reached her, in some subtle, impalpable way, of the sorrow, of the bitterness of disappointment through which this summer had seen him pass. She knew no particulars, her private suspicions even, were wide of the mark; but she could see that he had aged7 strangely of late. Always grave, he had grown more so, and it was long since any of the bright, sudden flashes of humour had been heard, which of old relieved by their sparkle, his usual quiet seriousness.
Something of her anxiety about him, she one day endeavoured to express to him; but she never tried it again. With perfect gentleness, but irresistible83 firmness, he put her aside; and in her inmost heart she felt she deserved it.
He could forgive, even, in a sense, forget. But as to taking into his confidence, accepting the sympathy of the mother, whose previous indifference84, narrow-minded prejudice, and love of power, had greatly been to blame for the great sorrow of his life—it was asking too much.
Still, though too late for confidence, there was perfect peace between mother and son; undisturbed even by the continued presence of through the winter of Florence Vyse, who had taken it into her head that the éclat of her marriage would be much increased by Medhurst being the scene of the interesting ceremony; in consequence of which the ardent85 Chepstow had to agree to its being deferred86 till the spring. Florence found it rather good fun being “engaged.” She kept her stout87 admirer trotting88 backwards89 and forwards between England and Italy all the winter; which was rather a profitable arrangement so far as she was concerned, as on each occasion of arrival and departure she was presented with a new and gorgeous “souvenir” of the about-to-be absent Chepstow, or token of his remembrance of her when in distant lands. His devotion was really “sweetly touching,” as ladies’ maids say; and paid well, too, for long before she became Mrs. Chepstow, the beauty had accumulated a very fair show of jewellery and such-like feminine treasures, not a few of which, in justice to her be it recorded, found their way to the humble90 little house standing in a “genteel” row, in one of the northern suburbs of London, where dwelt the mother and sisters on whom what she possessed91 of a heart was bestowed. She was more genuinely amiable92 and good-tempered this winter than she had yet shown herself. To Ralph in particular her manner had become gentle, almost humble. Prosperity suited her, and she could afford, now that the cause of her jealous irritation93 was removed, almost to pity the man, in every respect so immeasurably her superior, whose happiness she had yet, in a moment of pique94 and mean spitefulness, deliberately95 endeavoured to destroy. She too, before leaving Altes, had heard and believed Sophy Berwick’s romance; and had seized with delight the opportunity of delaying, till too late, all communication between Sir Ralph and the girl who, she fancied, had usurped96 her place with him.
Yet now, when she looked at him sometimes, and, despite all his proud self-control and impenetrable reserve, descried97 symptoms of a grief it was not in her self-absorbed nature to understand—now, when all was smiling on her, and she had begun to think herself decidedly better off with the manageable Mr. Chepstow, than she would have been as the wife of the incomprehensible Ralph, there were moments in which she wished she had not done that ugly thing, not said those two or three words, which even her easy conscience told her were neither more nor less than that which we prefer to call by any other name but its own—a cold-blooded, malicious98 lie.
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1
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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canto
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| n.长篇诗的章 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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stiflingly
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| adv. 令人窒息地(气闷地，沉闷地) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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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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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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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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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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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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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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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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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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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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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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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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82
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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83
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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90
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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92
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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93
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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94
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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97
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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98
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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