To have spoken once? It could not but be well.
* * * * * *
Upon their dissolution, we two rose,
There—closing like an individual life—
In one blind cry of passion and of pain,
Like bitter accusation3 ev’n to death,
Caught up the whole of love and utter’d it,
And bade adieu for ever.”
LOVE AND DUTY.
THERE was a terrible silence in the little arbour.
Outside, in the garden, the sun and the flowers, the birds and the insects, went on with their song of rejoicing as before, but it reached no longer the ears of the two human beings who but now had re-echoed it in their hearts.
Was it hours or only minutes that it lasted —this silence as of death.
At last Ralph spoke1, quietly—so very quietly, that though Marion could not see his face, his voice made her start with a strange, unknown terror.
“No one,” she replied; “no one did it but myself. You can’t understand. Ralph;” and the anguish6 of appeal and remorse7 in her voice made it sound like a wailing8 cry. “You can never know all I have endured. I was so wretched, so very wretched; so utterly9, utterly desolate10 and alone. And then I heard that of you, and I lost my trust, and it nearly killed me. Your own words had warned me not to build too securely on what might be beyond your power to achieve.” Ralph ground his teeth, but she went on: “I thought I was going to die, and I was glad. But I did not die, and he was kind and gentle to me, and I was alone. And I thought—oh! I thought, Ralph, till this very morning, that I had torn you out of my heart. The scar, I knew, would be always there, but the love itself, I thought it was dead and buried; and only just now I sat here thinking to myself in my blindness and folly11, that I could even see the grass be ginning to grow on the grave.”
“And your husband?” Ralph asked, in the same dead, hard, feelingless tone. “Your husband—I forget the name you told me—do you then care for him? Do you love him?”
“Love him!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Ralph, have mercy! I did not mean to deceive him! I told him I could not give him what he gave me; for he, I know, loves me. He is good and true, and very kind to me. And he urged it very much, and said he was not afraid; he would be content with what I said, what I thought I could give him. For remember, Ralph, that other I thought was dead—dead and buried for ever. I care for him too much to have yielded had I known it was not so. But ‘love him!’ When I think of the days when first I learnt what that word means, when you taught it me, Ralph—you, and no other! And now you ask me, calmly, if I love him! You of all!” She stopped suddenly, as if horrified12 at herself; and then, her excitement changed to bitter shame and self-reproach, she cried in an anguish, “Oh! what am I saying? Why has it all come back when I thought it was gone? You are making me wicked to Geoffrey. Ralph! Ralph! why do you mock me with these cruel questions? Have mercy! Have a little mercy!”
“Mercy!” said Ralph, turning from the door-post on which he had been leaning, and rising to his full height as he spoke. Standing13 right in front of her, and with a strange change in his voice. “ ‘Mercy!’ you ask? Yes child, I will have mercy. Mercy on you and on myself, who have done nothing, either of us, deserving of this hideous torment14. You are ‘married’ you tell me—married to another man—but I tell you, you are not. That was a blasphemous15 mockery of a marriage! I am your husband, I, and no other! You are mine, Marion, and no one else’s! My wife! my own! Come away with me, child, now, this very moment, and have done at once and for ever with this horrible night-mare that is killing16 me. For I cannot lose you again! Oh, my God! I cannot!” And as he spoke, he tried to draw her towards him, not gently, but roughly, violently almost, in sore passion of anguish which was enraging17 him.
Hitherto, since he had begun to speak, Marion had allowed him to hold her clasped hand in his. But now, as she felt the hold of his fingers tighten18, and as the full meaning of his wild, mad words broke upon her, with a sudden movement she rose from the bench on which she was sitting, and tore herself from his grasp, growing at the same moment as if by magic, perfectly19, icily calm.
But only for an instant did her instinct of indignation against him last. One glance at the dark, passionate20, storm-tossed face beside her—so changed, so terribly, sadly changed in its expression from its usual calm, gentle kindliness—and her mood softened21. She laid her hand trustingly on his arm.
“Ralph,” she said, “poor Ralph, hush22! If you are for a moment weak, I must be strong for both. This is terrible that has come upon us—so terrible that just now I do not see that I can bear it and live. For you know all my heart, and you can judge if it is not to the full as terrible for me as for you.” (This she said in her innocent instinct of appealing to his pity for her.) “You at least are alone—are bound by no vows23 to another, and that other, alas24, so good and kind. I had rather, ten thousand times rather, he were hard and unloving and cruel! But though just now I can see nothing else, this one thing I see plainly—you must go Ralph, you must leave me now at once, and we must never, never see each other again. There is just one little glimpse of light left in the thought that hitherto we have neither of us done anything to forfeit26 the other’s respect—unless indeed that deceit of mine?—but no,” she added, glancing at his face, “I know you have not thought worse of me for that. Do not let us destroy this poor little rag of comfort left us, Ralph. Let me still think of you as good and brave—yes, as the best and bravest. And do not tempt27 me, Ralph, to say at this terrible moment what in calmer times might cause me shame and remorse to remember.” And she raised her face to his with a very agony of appeal in the grey eyes he loved so fervently28.
“Child,” he said, still with the hard look on his face, “child, are you an angel or a stone? Have you a heart or have you none? If after all you are just like other women; utterly incapable29 of entering into the depths a man’s one love; at least you should pity what you cannot understand, instead of maddening me with that conventional humbug30 about mutual31 respect and so on. Who but a woman would talk so at such a time? But I will do as you wish,” he went on, lashing32 himself into fury against her, “I will not stay here longer to tempt you by my evil presence to outrage33 your delicate sense of propriety34, or to say one word which hereafter you might consider it had not been perfectly ‘correct’ or ‘ladylike’ to utter. Good God! what a fool I have been! I had imagined you somewhat different from other women, but I see my mistake. It shall be as you wish. Good bye. You shall not again be distressed35 by the sight of me. Truly you do well to despise me.”
And with a bitter sneer36 in his voice, he turned away. It was at last too much. The girl threw herself down recklessly on the rough garden-seat. She shed no tears, she was not the sort of woman to weep in such dire37 extremity38 of anguish. She shook and quivered as she lay there, but that was all.
But soon the thought came over her “was it not better so?” Better that Ralph should thus cruelly misjudge her, for in the end it might help him to forget her. Forget her—yes. This was what she must now pray for, if her love for him were worthy39 of the name.
“Ah but he might have said good-bye gently,” broke forth40 again from the over-charged heart. “He might have spoken kindly41 when it was for the last, last time.”
As the wish crossed her thoughts, and she half unconsciously murmured it in words, she felt that some one was beside her. An arm raised her gently and replaced her on the seat. It was Ralph again. Something in his touch soothed42 and quieted her. She did not this time shrink from him in alarm, but for a moment leant her throbbing43 head restfully on his shoulder.
“Marion, my poor child. Marion, my lost darling, forgive me.”
“Forgive you, Ralph? Yes, a thousand times, yes,” she replied. “But do not so grievously misjudge me. It is no conventional humbug, as you call it. It is the old plain question of right and wrong.”
As she said the words there flashed across her mind—or was it some mocking imp25 that whispered it?—the remembrance of some other scene, when this same phrase, “a plain question of right and wrong,” had been used by herself or another. When was it? Ah yes! Long, long ago, the first morning in the little house at Altes. She recalled it all perfectly. The room in which they sat, the position of their chairs. And she heard Cissy’s voice saying, timidly, “I don’t pretend to be as wise as you, May, but are you quite sure there is not a plain question of right and wrong in the matter?” And, to add to her misery44, the thought darted45 into her mind—what if she had then allowed herself to see it thus? If instead of acting46 as she had done to screen him, she had encouraged Harry47 bravely to appeal to her father, how different might all have been? This terrible complication avoided, her life and Ralph’s saved from this irremediable agony? Could it indeed be that this terrible punishment had come upon her for this?
Well for us is it, truly, that our sins and mistakes are not judged as in such times of morbid48 misery and exaggerated self reproach we are apt to imagine!
The remembrance of that bygone scene at Altes flashed through Marion’s mind in an instant, but not too quickly to add its sting to her suffering. And, half mechanically, she repeated:
“Yes, the old plain question of right and wrong.”
“I know it is,” said Ralph, “and I knew it in my heart when you just now said it. I was mad, I think, doubly mad. First, to torture you with my wild, wicked words, and then to turn upon you with my sneers49. So I have come back to you for a moment, just for one little last moment, child, to ask you to forgive me and say goodbye. Look up at me, dear, and let me see that you forgive me.”
She looked up at him; looked with her true, clear eyes into his, while he gazed down on her—oh, with what an agony of earnestness, as if he would burn her face into his brain for ever!
For a moment neither spoke.
Then he said:
“It is as if one of us were dying, Marion, though that I think would be easy to bear compared with this. ‘The bitterness of death’ they talk of! All, they little know! Good-bye, my own true darling. My one love, my life’s love—goodbye.” And as he said the words he stooped and kissed her—gently, but long and fervently, on the forehead.
Poor Ralph! It was the first time.
Was it wrong of her to allow it? Those who think so may judge her, and I for one shall not argue it with them.
She stood with bent50 head, motionless, staring at the ground, but seeing nothing. Then she looked up hastily, with eyes for the first time blinded with burning, slow-coming tears. Tears that bring no relief, wrung51 from the sore agony of a bleeding heart.
But he was gone!
And so “the old, old story” was over for ever for these two; as for how many others, whose suffering is never suspected!
Ralph walked back slowly to the inn, along the very garden path which half-an-hour before, half a lifetime it seemed to him, he had paced so light-heartedly. The same little stiff box-edging he had noticed before, the same scent52 from the roses and honeysuckle, the same sun and sky and air. Then, he remembered he had said to himself, it was all sweet and bright and fair. Could he have said so? Was the change in himself only? “Could it indeed be,” he asked, as we all do at these awful times, beating our poor bruised53 wings against the bars of the inexorable “it is”—“could it be that nature should remain thus unmoved and indifferent when human beings were riven in agony?”
And a feeling of intensest disgust, amounting almost to rage, seized him at the sight of the hateful, heartless, beautiful world! But when he found this mood coming over him he checked it violently.
“I shall go mad,” he thought, “if I yield to this just now. I must not think of my part of it yet. Time enough for that soon— Time enough, surely, in the desolation of the long years stretching away before me.” And he writhed54 at the thought. “What can I do?” he asked himself, “what can I do to lighten it to her, or to strengthen her to bear it? Oh, my darling, my darling. I that would have sheltered you from sorrow as never yet woman was sheltered. And to think that of all living beings on this earth, I am the one who must ever to you be less than nothing! But I am maddening myself again.”
A sudden idea struck him.
“Yes,” he thought. “I should like to see him. One glance at his face would give me a better notion of him than anything I could gather by hearsay55. And it will be a sort of satisfaction to know in whose hands my poor child’s future lies.”
But on thinking it over he remembered that actually he had heard and asked nothing about this same “him.” In the absorbing personal interest of his interview with Marion he had forgotten all but themselves.
Whom she had married, what his station, where they had met—was utterly unknown to him. Nor, indeed, if she had attempted to tell would he have cared to listen. All, in that first bitter, bewildering agony, was to him comprised in the fact that she did in truth belong to another.
He walked on slowly through the garden, the hot sun beating on his head, trying as he went to recall the name which he half fancied had been once mentioned by Marion. But in vain. When he got to the house he was seized upon by the landlord and obliged to listen to a long string of apologies for the over-done state of the unfortunate chop. Various emissaries had been despatched, it appeared, to inform him that his “something in the way of lunch” was ready, but had all failed in their mission. “Not expectin’, sir, as you would have strolled beyond the garden, which as being so you must please excuse.”
“Certainly,” replied poor Ralph, feeling that indeed his cup had not been full if he were now to be called upon to partake of this wretched chop in the presence of landlord, waiters, and stable boys, as appeared to be their intention. But he succeeded in dismissing them; and, thankful for silence and solitude56, sat down to his semblance57 of a meal in the little parlour opening out of the hall.
While eating, or making a pretence58 of so doing, he kept his mind directed to the consideration of his present object; a sight for himself of the “him,” the husband who possessed59 for him so strange an interest. After a time he rang the bell, intending to enter into conversation with the waiter, and to gather from him indirectly60 the information he sought. In the meantime, however, a new arrival had distracted the attention of the household of the Peacock, and his summons was not at once obeyed. While waiting he turned to the window and stared out vacantly, as we so often do when utterly indifferent to all passing around us. But Ralph’s indifference61 was not of long duration. A carriage drove into the little court-yard, drew up at the door, and a gentleman alighted—jumped out in a light-hearted, boyish fashion, hardly waiting till the horse had stopped. He was smoking, and had several letters in his hand, one of which he appeared to be in the act of reading. He stood still for a moment, then sauntered leisurely62 into the porch and remained there while he finished the perusal63 of his letter. It was Geoffrey.
From where Ralph stood at the parlour window, he had an excellent view of the young man, whom he no sooner caught sight of than he felt an intuitive conviction that here before him was Marion’s husband.
Geoffrey for a wonder was in a thoughtful mood, or looked so at least, as he stood there reading his letter under the shade of the honeysuckle and clematis climbing over the porch, the sunlight between the branches falling softly on his bright brown hair. A pleasant picture truly; and so Ralph owned to himself as he looked at him. The tall, manly64 figure, the fair, almost boyish face, made an attractive whole. It was a strange position. The two men, as to years nearly of an age, but in all else so marvellously dissimilar. And yet though utter strangers to each other, with the one absorbing interest in common. Ralph, from his concealment65, gazed at the young man, standing in perfect unconsciousness full in his view, as if he would read every smallest characteristic, every hidden feeling of his heart. Never did anxious mother scan more narrowly the man to whom she was asked to confide66 her darling’s happiness, than did Ralph the countenance67 of his unconscious rival, the being who had robbed him of all that made life worth having.
Just then some one from within came to the door and spoke to Geoffrey. It was only a servant with some trivial message, but Ralph, still watching earnestly, noticed the gentle courtesy, the smile sunnying over the clear, honest eyes and mouth, the frank, bright readiness with which the young man looked up and answered. Then refolding the letter he had been reading, replaced it in his pocket, and sauntered away in an opposite direction.
“Yes,” thought Ralph, “I am satisfied she spoke truly. He is ‘good and true and kind.’ And attractive too, personally, very. Most women would not find it difficult to love that man. But then, alas, my poor child is not like most women! Come what may however, I don’t think that man will ever be unkind to her. Heaven knows I am not vain, but it would be nonsense to pretend to myself that I think she will ever come to feel for him, good fellow though I don’t doubt he is, what I know she has felt for me. But yet, in time and when totally separated from all associations connected with me, I trust a sort of moonlight happiness may yet be in store for her.”
Here Ralph’s reflections were interrupted by the tardy68 entrance of the servant, who waited to receive his orders.
“How soon will the horses be ready?” asked he.
“Whenever you please, Sir,” replied the man. “In a quarter of an hour at most your carriage can be round.”
“Very well,” said Ralph, “you can order it to come round in twenty minutes from now. In the meantime, bring me pens and ink and paper, as I have a letter to write,” adding as the man was leaving the room, “By-the-by, who is the gentleman that drove in just now?”
“Mr. Baldwin, Sir. Comes from Brentshire, I believe. Least-ways the lady’s maid does. Mrs. Baldwin is here too, Sir. A walkin’ in the garden she is, I believe. Were you wishing to speak to Mr. Baldwin, Sir? He has just stepped round to look at a horse which the ostler was thinking might carry the lady while here, but I can run after him if so be you wish to see him, Sir.”
“I; oh dear no, not at all,” replied Ralph, who began to think a more appropriate sign for the little inn would have been “The Magpie69.” “Only be so good as bring in the writing materials at once.”
When they were brought, he sat down and wrote; quickly and unhesitatingly, as if perfectly prepared with what he had to say. His letter folded and directed, he sauntered out into the garden again.
“There’s just a chance,” he thought, “that I may get it unobserved into her own hands, otherwise I must post it, which, however, I would much prefer not to risk.”
Looking about he spied a small boy busy weeding. He called the child to him and led him, to the top of the long narrow path, at the end of which was the green with the peacock bush in the centre, and the old arbour at the side. He felt no doubt that Marion was still there, her husband fortunately having gone to the stables.
“Now, my boy,” said he, “run as fast as you can to the summer-house down there and give this letter to the lady you’ll see there. If she is gone bring it back to me. Be as quick as you can and I’ll have a shilling ready for you when you come back.”
The child was soon back again.
“Was the lady still there?” asked Ralph.
“Yes, Sir,” said the little messenger, glowing with delight at the thought of a day’s wages so easily earned. “Yes, Sir, the young lady were there, and she said, ‘Thank you, and would I give this to the gentleman,’ ” holding out a little turquoise70 ring, as he spoke. A simple, common little ring enough. She had had it from childhood. He had often seen it on her little finger. He seized it eagerly, and turned away. Then recollecting71 himself, he gave the boy the promised reward, thanked him quietly, and returned to the house.
At the door the post-chaise stood waiting, and in another minute he was gone, thankful at last to feel free to think over, as he phrased it, his part of the day’s tragedy. Think of it! Did he ever not think of it during that weary day and night, and many a weary day and night to come? Women say men do not know what it is to be broken-hearted! That little turquoise ring might have told a different tale.
“I wonder,” thought Ralph as he drove along on his solitary72 hopeless journey. “I wonder what she will think it right to do. She said her part was the worse to bear. I fear it is. She is stronger and more unselfish than most women, but, on the other hand, she is truthful73 and ingenuous74. Will she be strong enough for his sake to leave things as they are, to let him think that at least she is giving him no less than she promised? Or will it be impossible for her to live with him without to some extent confiding75 in him, even though by so doing she wrecks76, for the time at least, his happiness, poor fellow, and what chance she has of any herself? I see no distinct right or wrong in the case, but I wonder what she will do. Oh, if I could have saved her this! Suffering for myself I can bear. If only I could have borne it all, my burden would have seemed lighter77!”
He caught the express at Bexley and went on in it to London. For no reason, with no object, save that he felt it would be a relief to him to escape the unendurable cross-questioning which would certainly have awaited him, had he returned straight to Friar’s Springs.
Late in the evening, as he travelled on through the twilight78 into the intense darkness of a moon-less midsummer night, a strange feeling came over him, bringing with it a faint, slight breath of consolation79.
“She said truly,” he thought, “that I was more fortunate than she in that I am free and unfettered, bound by no uncongenial ties to another. For me at least it is no sin to love her still, for I know it is not in my nature ever to replace her by any other woman. And who knows but what some day in the far future, though I may never see her again, I may in some way be able to serve her, to lighten the lot it is so bitter to me to think I have been the means of darkening.” And somehow there came into his mind the remembrance of a well-known, simple little German ballad80, that years and years ago, as a mere81 boy, he had liked and been struck by. For he had been peculiar82 as a boy—dreamy, morbid and sentimental83. The two last verses rang in his ears that night, over and over again he heard them. And ever after they were associated with what this bitter day had brought to pass. And the face of the dead maiden84 on the bier grew to him like that of his own lost love.
These were the words that thus haunted him—
“Der dritte hub ihn wieder sogleich
“Dich liebt’ ich immer, dich lieb ich noch heut,
Und werde dich lieben in Ewigkeit.”
From London a day or two later he wrote to his mother, telling her simply, and in as few words as possible, that the hopes he had confided85 to her, were utterly and for ever at an end. He begged her to spare him the pain of entering into useless particulars, and enjoined86 her never, if she valued his peace and comfort, to allude87 to the affair directly or indirectly to him or anyone else.
Lady Severn obeyed him implicitly88, and only in the recesses89 of her own heart, as I said, abused “Sir Archibald’s niece” for the sorrow she had brought upon her son.
Late in the autumn, after seeing his mother and nieces comfortably re-established at Medhurst, and assisting at the gorgeous nuptials90 of Florence Vyse and Mr. Chepstow, Sir Ralph left England for an indefinite time: to travel in strange and distant lands, in search—not of happiness—but of interest and occupation sufficient to make life endurable.
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1
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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2
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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3
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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5
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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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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7
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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8
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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9
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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10
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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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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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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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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enraging
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| 使暴怒( enrage的现在分词 ) | |
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tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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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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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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21
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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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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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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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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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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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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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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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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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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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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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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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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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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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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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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wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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83
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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84
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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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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86
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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