And reason why you are wrong:
You wanted my love—is that much true?
And no I did love, so I do:
What has come of it all along.”
R. BROWNING.
SO time went on, as it always does, through weal and woe1, bright days and dull. But this winter was weary work to Marion Baldwin. Worse, far worse to bear, she constantly said to herself, than the previous one, spent Mallingford at the Cross House. Then at least, though she had much to endure, she had been free from the reproaches of her conscience, which now, for all her endeavours to silence it, would yet at times insist on being heard. Geoffrey, though she saw him but seldom in the day, constantly haunted her thoughts. She fancied she perceived a change in him. His manner was the same—perfectly2 gentle: but never more. But the sorrow of his life was beginning to tell on him physically3. He was fast losing heart altogether, as day by day he became more convinced of the hopelessness of ever attempting to win back the wife, who indeed had never been his! Yet she was gentler, more cordial even than she had been to him; always ready to agree to his wishes, much less irritable4, anxious evidently to do her “duty” by him. She thought sincerely enough, that he was wearied of her, that it was too late to convince him that in her loneliness she was fast learning to prize the love and devotion which when hers, she had so rudely repulsed6. For she was truly very desolate7 at this time. She was pining for affection, yearning8 for companionship.
The remembrance of Ralph was growing to be to her as the memory of the dead, soft and chastened; shrined about with a sacredness of its own, but no longer agonizing9 and acute. She had grown so thoroughly10 to realize that she should never see him again, that he was utterly11 and for ever cut out of her life, that the inward strife12 and rebellion were at an end. She bowed her head in submission13, standing14 by the grave of her lost love, and in heart said a last, voluntary farewell to the beautiful dream of her girlhood. She could never forget him, or in any sense replace him by another. He was still, and for ever must remain, a part of herself, of her whole existence. An impalpable, an indefinable and wholly immaterial bond yet, at times, seemed to rivet15 her spirit to his; and never was she so at peace as when she felt most conscious of this still existing sympathy. A consciousness altogether superior to the limitations of time or space—which the tidings of his death would in no wise have affected—a certainty that the noblest part of their natures was still and ever would be united, that, in the purest and most exquisite16 sense, he still loved her, still cared for her well being.
It was to her precisely17 as if he had long been dead; his own words had foreshadowed this, “as if one of us were dying, Marion.”
To some extent he had foreseen how it would be with her—that to her sensitive, imaginative nature, his thus dying to her, fading softly out of her life, was the gentlest form in which the stroke could come. For she was not the sort of woman, “strong-minded, “philosophical,” call it what you will, who could ever have come to look upon him personally as only a friend, to have associated with him in a comfortable “let bygones-be-bygones” fashion, possibly to have attained18 to a sisterly regard for his wife, in no wise diminished by the gratifying reflection that “though really she is a nice creature, my dear, Lady Severn was not Sir Ralph’s first love.”
Ralph had foreseen more. Her nature, though well-balanced and far from weakly, was too clinging, too love-demanding, not, in time, to turn in its outward loneliness and desolation, to the shelter and support (if, indeed, Geoffrey’s countenance19 did not belie20 his character) only too ready to welcome it. So much Ralph had read, and correctly enough, of the probable future; and, therefore, as we have seen, even amidst his own supremest suffering, had ventured to predict “a moonlight happiness” for his darling.
But he had not foreseen—how could he have done so?—the side influences, the disturbing elements in the way. Marion’s physical prostration21 at the time, which had rendered it much harder for her to act with her usual unselfishness and self-control; her monotonous22, uninteresting, unoccupied life at the Manor23 Farm, where, partly through circumstances, partly through Geoffrey’s mistaken kindness in sparing her every species of care or responsibility, all tended to foster her morbid24 clinging to the past, nothing drew her to healthy interest in the present. Above all, Ralph had by no means taken sufficiently25 into account Geoffrey’s personal share in the whole. He had thought of him as a fine, honest fellow, devoted26 in his way to his wife; ready, as she herself had said in other words, to do anything for her happiness. True, he had had misgivings27 as to the effect of Marion’s extending her confidence to her husband, he had thought it was only too probable that her doing so might, for a time at least, have unhappy results. But he had by no means felt certain that she would feel it her duty to tell more than she had already, before her marriage, confided28 to him. And even in the event of her doing so, he had not realized the manner in which it would act on the young man’s nature. Few, indeed, even of those most intimately acquainted with Geoffrey Baldwin could have done so. These sunny, gleeful natures are often to the full as grievously misunderstood as their less attractive, graver and apparently29 more reserved neighbours. Oh what fools we are in our superficial, presumptuous30 judgments31 of each other! May not the sunlight dance on the surface of the stream without our forthwith pronouncing its waters shallow? Is there not latent in the blackest, coldest iron a vast power of heat and light?
Miss Veronica was absent from Mallingford the greater part of this winter. Her general health had been less satisfactory of late, and, after much consideration, it had been decided32 that the coldest months must be spent by her in a milder climate. In a sense, her absence was a relief to both her friends. It was becoming hard work to attempt to deceive her as to the true state of things at the Manor Farm: her loving scrutiny33 was more painful to Marion than the cold formality of the generality of her acquaintances; more unendurable the thought of her distress34 and anxiety than even the consciousness of the gossiping curiosity with which the young wife felt instinctively35 she was elsewhere discussed.
Yet she murmured, sometimes, not a little at this separation from the only friend she could really rely on: but then, in these days, Marion Baldwin murmured, inwardly at least, at everything in her life. There were times when she felt so desperate with ennui36 and heart-sick at what she believed to be her husband’s ever-growing indifference37 to her, that she said to herself, if only Veronica were attainable38 she would break through her reserve and tell her all. Most probably, had the resolution been possible to execute, she would have changed her mind before she was half way to Miss Temple’s cottage!
One day at luncheon39 Geoffrey, to her surprise, told her a gentleman was coming to dinner. She felt considerably40 amazed and a little indignant. It was not often any guest joined them—“entertaining,” to any extent, not being expected of a young couple in the first months of their married life, and the couple in question being only too ready to avail themselves of the conventional excuse as long as they could with decency41 do so—and the few times on which their tête-à-tête meal had been interrupted, Geoffrey had given her plenty of notice, had even seemed to make a favour on her side of her receiving any friend of his. To-day, however, he did nothing of the sort. Hence her indignation at what she imagined to be a new proof of neglect and indifference.
In a somewhat abrupt42 manner he made his unexpected announcement. True to her determination, that on her side there should be no shortcoming, she answered quietly enough though at heart by no means as unmoved as she appeared:
“Very well. I suppose you have told Mrs. Parker. Do you wish me to be at dinner?”
He looked up, slightly surprised. Then answered rather shortly, as had of late become a habit with him. “Of course. Why not? I never thought of your not being at dinner.”
“Very well,” she replied again; but added, rather stiffly—“In this case, perhaps you will tell me the gentleman’s name. It might be awkward for me not to have heard it.”
All this time Geoffrey’s attention had been greatly engrossed43 by several letters, printed reports, &c., which he had been reading as he eat his luncheon. For a minute or two he made no reply, seemed not to have heard her question; a trifling44 neglect, which Marion in her present frame of mind found peculiarly irritating. She sat perfectly still, but no answer being apparently forthcoming, she, having finished her luncheon, rose quietly to leave the room, and had the door-handle in her hand before Geoffrey noticed that she had left the table. The noise of the door opening roused him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, hastily starting up. “You spoke45 to me. It was very rude of me, but I did not pay attention to what you said. Please tell me what it was.”
“It was of no consequence, thank you,” replied Marion, coldly, as she swept past him and crossed the hall to the drawing-room.
This was how, silly child, she performed her wifely part to the very letter of the law!
But Geoffrey followed her, after delaying a few moments to collect the papers in which he had been so absorbed, and carry them for safety to his private den5. This was at the other side of the house, so two or three minutes passed before he gently opened the drawing-room door, intending to apologise still more earnestly to his wife for his inattention. Marion was sitting on the rug before the fire; for, though it was now early spring, it was very chilly46; her face he could not at first see, it was hidden by her hands. But the slight noise he made on coming in disturbed her. She looked up hastily, with rather an angry light in her eyes, imagining it was the servant entering, with the everlasting47 excuse of “looking at the fire,” and feeling annoyed at the intrusion. But when she saw it was her husband her expression changed, and without speaking she quickly turned her face aside. Not so quickly, though, but what Geoffrey perceived what she wished to conceal--she was crying. It was the first time since their marriage he had seen her shed tears. (What different tales that simple little sentence may tell!) It smote48 him to the heart. With da sudden impulse he approached her, and stooped down, gently laying his hand on her shoulder: “My poor child,” he said, with all the tenderness in his voice that the words could contain, “forgive me. You have enough to bear without my boorishness49 wounding you so unnecessarily.”
Her tears fell faster, but she did not shrink from his touch. She felt ashamed of her petulance50 and childishness. “It is not that,” she said at last, trying to repress her sobs51.
“Not my rudeness that has vexed52 you so?” asked Geoffrey, gently, but feeling already a slight, premonitory chill.
“No, you must not think me so silly,” she replied. “It is” —and she hesitated.
“What?” he persisted.
“Oh, I don’t know—I can’t tell you,” she exclaimed, passionately53. “It is not any one thing. It is just everything.”
“Oh,” said Geoffrey, with a whole world of mingled54 feeling in his voice. “Ah! I feared so. Poor child,” he said again, but with more of bitterness than tenderness this time. “Even my pity I suppose would be odious55 to you otherwise I might be fool enough to show you how genuine it is. But it is better not.” And he was turning away, when her voice recalled him.
“No, no,” she cried, “Geoffrey, don’t be so hard. Think how very lonely I am, how friendless! However I may have tried you, however you may think I have deceived you, surely my utter loneliness and wretchedness should soften56 you to me. I don’t want your pity. I want what now it is too late to ask for—I know it is too late. I know that you would hate me, only you are good, and so you don’t. But I can’t bear you to speak so hardly and bitterly.”
Her sobs broke out more wildly. Every word she had uttered was a fresh stab to Geoffrey, interpreted by him as it was. But he controlled his own feelings and spoke very gently to the poor child in her sore distress.
“Forgive me if what I said sounded hard and hitter, Marion. Heaven knows I am far from ever intending to hurt you. It is, as you say, too late to undo57 what is done; but do not make things worse by fancying I would ever intentionally58 add by even a word to all you suffer. Do me justice at least. So much, I think, I have a right to expect.”
His words were gentle but cold. Marion’s sobs grew quiet and her tears ceased. She was hurt, but her pride forbade her to show it except by silence.
In a moment Geoffrey spoke again, in a different tone.
“You were asking me, I think,” he said, “the name of the gentleman who is coming to dine here. I should have told you before, but I did not know it myself till an hour or two ago when I met him accidentally in Mallingford. It is Mr. Wrexham, my father’s successor in the bank. You remember my telling you about him, perhaps? Very wealthy they say he is. What he cares to be a banker for passes my comprehension.”
“He has never been here before?” asked Marion.
“In this house? No; and I would not have asked him now, for I don’t like the man, but that I want to have some talk with him. I have called a dozen times at the bank in the last week or two, but have never found him in. So when I met him to-day and he began apologising, I cut him short by asking him to dinner, and saying we could talk over our business after. It seemed to me he did not want to come, but he had no excuse ready. I can’t make him out.”
“But you are no longer a partner in the bank, are you?” asked Marion.
“In a sort of a way I am still,” said Geoffrey, “that is just what I want to see Mr. Wrexham about. Through your other guardian59, Mr. Framley Vere, I have heard of a very good investment, both for your money—yours and Harry’s, I mean—and part of my own. So I want to see about withdrawing some of my capital from the old bank. I have a right to do so at any time, with proper notice and so on. Last year Wrexham urged my doing so very much. Just then it was not very convenient, but now that I wish to do it, there seems some difficulty which I can’t make out. I have never got hold of Wrexham himself, so you understand why I am anxious to see him. To all intents and purposes he is the head of the concern now.”
“Why don’t you like him?” said Marion.
“I don’t know,” said Geoffrey. “My reasons for disliking him would sound very silly if I put them in words, and yet to myself they don’t seem so. He is oily, and too ready, too business-like.”
Marion half laughed.
“Surely that is a queer fault to find with a business man,” she said.
“Yes, I know it is,” said Geoffrey, “but—”
The sentence was never completed. A ring at the bell made Mrs. Baldwin take flight in terror lest it should be the announcement of visitors, whom, with the evident traces of recent tears on her face, she felt anything but prepared to meet. She need not, have been afraid. It was only Squire60 Copley who had walked over to discuss drains with Geoffrey, so she was left undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon.
She felt brighter and happier. The little conversation with Geoffrey, confined thought it had been almost entirely61 to business matters, had yet done her good, taken her a little out of herself, given her a not unpleasant feeling that notwithstanding all that had occurred to separate them, they had yet, must have, husband and wife as they were, some interest in common, some ground on which from time to time they were likely to meet.
“And any,” thought she, “is better than none, even though it be only the unromantic one of money matters.”
Geoffrey’s tone at the commencement of their conversation had somewhat puzzled her. Transparent62 as she imagined him, she was beginning to find him sometimes difficult to read. If he were tired of her, worn out by her coldness and moodiness63, as she had begun to fancy, could he, would he not be more than human to address her with the intense tenderness which this afternoon had breathed through his whole words and manner? On the other hand, was it not more than could be expected of any man, save an exceptionally deep and adhesive64 character (“Such as Ralph’s, for instance,” she said to herself,) that through all that had happened, all the bitter disappointment and mortification65, he should yet continue to care for, to love such a wife, or rather no wife, as she been to him? He had echoed, without, she fancied, fully66 comprehending her own words, “it is too late.” Was it too late? Or could it be that even yet, even now, in what she felt to be in a figurative sense, the autumn of her life, there was rising before her a possibility such as she had been indignant with brave, unselfish Ralph for predicting, nay67, urging on her, a possibility of happiness, chastened and tempered, but none the less real on this account, for herself and for the man to whom she was bound by the closest and most sacred of ties? And of better than happiness—of harmony and meaning in her life, of living rather than mere68 enduring of existence, of duties to do and suffering to bear, both sanctified and rendered beautiful by love. Could it be that such things were yet in store for her? She could hardly believe it. Yet as she remembered Geoffrey’s look and voice, her heart yearned69 within her, and the tears again welled up to her eyes, but softly, and without bitterness or burning. All that afternoon till it grew dark she sat by the fire in her room—thinking and hoping as she had not been able to do for long.
Though pale and wearied looking, there was a gentle light and brightness about her that evening very pleasant for Geoffrey to see. It reminded him of the days when he first knew her—still more of the first days of their married life. And though the remembrance brought with it a sigh, it too was less bitter than tender; and his voice was very gentle that evening when he had occasion to speak to his young wife.
Mr. Wrexham duly made his appearance. Marion’s first impression of him was unfavourable. She felt quite ready to echo Geoffrey’s indefinite expressions of dislike. But later in the evening she somewhat modified her first opinion. He was so clever and amusing, so thoroughly “up” in all the subjects of the day, from the last novel to yesterday’s debate, that she felt really interested and refreshed by his conversation. It was more the sort of talk she had been accustomed to in her father’s house, and which, as far as her experience went, was by no means indigenous70 to Brentshire, where the men’s ideas seldom extended beyond fox-hunting and “birds,” varied71 occasionally by a dip into drains and such like farmers’ interests; and where the still narrower minds of the women rotated among servants and babies, descriptions at second or third hand of the probable fashions, and gossip not unfrequently verging72 on something very like downright scandal.
Mr. Wrexham seemed at home on every subject and in every direction. Certainly his personal appearance was against him, and the fact that in five minutes’ time it ceased to impress his companions disagreeably, in itself says a good deal for his cleverness and tact73. He was middle-sized and fat—not stout74, fat—loose, and somewhat flabby. A large head, with a bare, bald forehead such as many people take as a guarantee of brains and benevolence75, small twinkling eyes, a preponderance of jaw76 and mouth, and a pair of fat, white, and yet determined77 looking hands—all these do not make up an attractive whole. But he talked away his own ugliness, and talked himself, with that round, full voice of his, into his young hostess’s good graces in a really wonderful way. He did not flatter her; he was far too clever to make such a mistake. He appealed to her knowledge of the subjects they were conversing78 about in a matter-of-course way far more insidiously79 gratifying to a sensible and intellectual woman. Once or twice, as if inadvertently, he alluded80 to her father, the loss the country had sustained in his premature81 death, the immense veneration82 he, Mr. Wrexham, had always felt for him, though not personally acquainted with the great man, and so on, so delicately and judiciously83, that Marion’s dislike was perfectly overcome, and she mentally resolved never again to trust to first impressions. After dinner, as she expected, the gentlemen sat long in the dining-room. She was growing tired and sleepy when they joined her. Geoffrey’s face, she was glad to see, looked brighter and less anxious than it had appeared during dinner. Mr. Wrexham had evidently the faculty84 of talking business as pleasantly as everything else, for his host’s manner to him had decidedly increased in cordiality.
“We were just talking of Miss Temple in the other room,” began Mr. Wrexham. “I am delighted to find how intimate a friend of yours she is, Mrs. Baldwin. A charming, really charming person she must be. By-the-by, how terribly abused that word often is! I have not the pleasure of knowing her personally, but her books make one feel as if she were a personal friend.”
“Her books!” repeated Marion, in surprise. “Miss Temple’s books! I never knew she had written any. Did you, Geoffrey?”
“Oh yes,” said he, “it was ever so long ago she wrote them. I believe they’re out of print now.”
“How could you be so stupid as never to tell me before?” said Marion, playfully. Geoffrey looked pleased.
“I’m not much of a novel reader,” he said; “to tell the truth I’m not sure that I did read them. Very few people knew anything about them.”
“What are they called?” asked Marion. But Geoffrey was quite at fault. Mr. Wrexham as usual came to the rescue. Not only with the names, but with slight but appreciative85 and well worded sketches86 of the two novels in question.
Marion was delighted, and still more so when their ever ready guest volunteered to procure87 for her copies of the books, though now, as Geoffrey had said, out of print.
Shortly after, Mr. Wrexham took his leave. Geoffrey undertook to put him on his road, as he expressed his intention of walking home. Marion was tired and went to bed, so it was not till the next morning at breakfast time that they compared notes on the subject of their guest.
“You liked him better when you came to talk more to him, did you not, Geoffrey?” asked Marion.
“I did and I didn’t,” he replied. “I have still that queer sort of feeling of not making him out. But it may be my fancy only. I daresay he’s straightforward88 enough.”
“He is unusually clever and well-informed,” said Marion.
“So I should think,” said Geoffrey, “though not going in for that sort of thing myself, I can admire it in others. Clever! oh dear yes! I only hope he’s not too clever.”
“Ye—es, I think so,” replied her husband. ‘‘All he said seemed right enough. I can draw out your money of course any day, my own too in part. The man can have no motive90, as far as I can see. He doesn’t w my money, but still it seems queer.”
“What?” asked Marion.
“Oh! I forgot I hadn’t told you. Wrexham has such a poor opinion of the investment your cousin, Mr. Framley Vere, so strongly recommended. I really don’t know what to do. Mr. Framley Vere is considered a very good man of business, and he, you know, is your other trustee. In fact I have hardly any right to delay doing as he advised—with respect to your money and Harry’s I mean. He wrote about it three weeks ago and wished it done at once, only I have never succeeded in getting hold of Wrexham. And I can’t but be to some extent impressed by what he said. If I wait a month or two he says he can put me in the way of something much better—more secure, that’s to say. But I don’t like seeming to oppose Mr. Framley Vere. Indeed I’ve no right to do so. If he were at home I would go and see him. But he’s on the continent.”
“You might write to him,” suggested Marion; “his letters are sure to be forwarded.”
“So I might, certainly,” replied her husband. “I don’t know but what it will be the best plan. I will write and tell him all Wrexham told me. It was in confidence, but that of course does not exclude my co-trustee. I can ask him to reply at once. Yes, that will be the best plan. Thank you for suggesting it. You see I hate writing so, it’s the last expedient91 that ever enters my head.”
And with considerable relief at the solution of his perplexity, Mr. Baldwin left the breakfast-table.
Two days later Marion fell ill. Her complaint was only a very bad cold, but so bad that for a fortnight she was confined to her room. Geoffrey was unhappy enough about her, though he said little. Marion herself was comparatively cheerful. The enforced rest of body, and to a great extent of mind also, was soothing92 to her just then. And she was the sort of woman that is never sweeter and more loveable than in illness.
Geoffrey wrote to Mr. Framley Vere. But during this fortnight there came no answer. The first day Marion was downstairs again, Geoffrey told her that the morning’s post had brought a letter from Miss Temple, begging him possible to meet her the following day at a half-way point on her journey homewards from Devonshire, as her escort could only bring her thus far, and in her helpless state her maid was not sufficient protection. The young man hesitated to comply, as he disliked the idea of leaving his wife alone in a barely convalescent state; but when she heard or it, Marion begged him to do as Veronica asked.
“It is but little we can do for her,” she said, “and only think what a friend she has been to us both.”
“To me,” replied Geoffrey, “but I am not so sure that you have the same reason to say so. Had it not been for her—for meeting again at her house, I mean—the probability is, poor child, you would never have been talked out of your first decision. What would it not have saved you!”
“Geoffrey!” said his wife, looking up with eyes full or tears. He had never before said as much, and she was deeply touched. Unconsciously his few words revealed to her the rare unselfishness of his character. Even in looking back to what truly had been the bitterest trial of his life, he thought of the past if not solely93, at least chiefly, from her point of view. “What would it not have saved you.”
She might have perhaps said more, but a servant’s entering interrupted them. Geoffrey was obliged to leave that morning in order to reach the half-way point the same evening, so as to be ready to start with his charge the following day at an early enough hour to reach Mallingford before dark the succeeding afternoon. But he carried with him on his journey a companion which cheered and encouraged him as he had little hoped ever again to be cheered and encouraged.
All through, the long railway journey, in the unfamiliar94, bustling95 town where he spent the night, it was present with him—the remembrance of a sweet, pale face and soft eyes dimmed with tears, gently calling him by name in a voice half of reproach, but telling surely of something more. Something he had not all through these weary months ventured to hope for as possible for him even in the furthest future. Could it be, or was he mad to think it, could it be that Marion, his wife, was learning to care for him?
The thought thrilled him through and through. It gave a brightness to his face and manner that poor Veronica rejoiced to see. She was not given to the asking of intrusive96 questions, or of beating about a delicate subject in hopes of discovering its exact condition, (both which modes of torture some people seem to consider a proof of the most devoted friendship) so she said nothing at all verging on the matter so constantly in her thoughts. But the tone in which Geoffrey replied to her affectionate enquiries about his wife, fell pleasantly on her ear.
“She is much better,” said Geoffrey, “but she really has been very ill. I can’t bear to hear her coughs, though the doctor assures me she is perfectly sound. To tell you the truth, Veronica,” he added, with a half smile, “I am such a baby about Marion, I didn’t half like leaving her even for a day.”
“It was very good of you, dear Geoffrey,” said Miss Temple. “I really don’t know how I should have got home without you. But if I had had the least notion she was ill I would never have asked it.”
“There was not the slightest reason really for my not corning,” said Geoffrey, “only you see I’m ridiculously anxious about her. But she would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t come. She is always so delighted if we can be of the least use to you. No one I’m sure deserves as much of us.”
“You are very dear, good children both of you,” said Veronica. “And were I, as I hope to be before I die, perfectly assured that I have throughout acted for your real good by both of you, I think—I think I should die content.”
“She had said more than she had intended. A moment after she almost regretted having done so, for though Geoffrey pressed her hand, her poor wasted hand, which years ago in girlhood had been so round and pretty, he said nothing; and she half fancied her words brought a red flush to his fair face.
Their journey was accomplished97 in safety. It was pretty late in the afternoon when their train puffed98 into Mallingford station, and Geoffrey jumped out on to the platform to see that the easiest of the “King’s Arms” carriages was in waiting according to command, for the invalid99 lady.
Veronica meantime remained with her maid in the railway carriage, awaiting his return. He was absent barely five minutes—too short a time truly to change a man from youth to age, from the aspect of robust100 health to that of pallid101, haggard sickness—yet, had five months, nay years, elapsed before Geoffrey Baldwin returned to Veronica, she would have been amazed and horrified102 at the change. His bright boyish face looked like that of a man of fifty, all drawn103 and pinched, pallid as with a pallor of death, blue about the lips, even the sunny hair at that moment seemed to be dimmed by a shade of grey.
Veronica was too terrified to speak. The one word “Marion,” she shaped with her lips, though her tongue refused to utter it. But Geoffrey understood her.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely104 “not that. But the old Bank, Baldwin’s Bank, has stopped payment. It was my own fault. I have ruined her. Curse that fellow, curse him,” he muttered fiercely between his teeth.
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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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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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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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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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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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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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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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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rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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19
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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21
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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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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29
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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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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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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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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38
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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39
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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45
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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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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boorishness
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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54
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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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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59
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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adhesive
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| n.粘合剂；adj.可粘着的，粘性的 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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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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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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73
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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75
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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76
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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78
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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80
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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82
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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83
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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84
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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85
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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86
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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87
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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88
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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89
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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91
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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92
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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93
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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94
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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95
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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96
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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97
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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98
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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99
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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100
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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101
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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102
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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103
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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104
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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