"If she would only take warning and run away," he said to himself sometimes. "Heaven knows, I have given her a fair chance. Why doesn't she take it and run away?"
He heard sometimes from Sir Michael, sometimes from Alicia. The young lady's letter rarely contained more than a few curt18 lines informing him that her papa was well; and that Lady Audley was in very high spirits, amusing herself in her usual frivolous20 manner, and with her usual disregard for other people.
A letter from Mr. Marchmont, the Southampton schoolmaster, informed Robert that little Georgey was going on very well, but that he was behindhand in his education, and had not yet passed the intellectual Rubicon of words of two syllables21. Captain Maldon had called to see his grandson, but that privilege had been withheld22 from him, in accordance with Mr. Audley's instructions. The old man had furthermore sent a parcel of pastry23 and sweetmeats to the little boy, which had also been rejected on the ground of indigestible and bilious24 tendencies in the edibles25.
Toward the close of February, Robert received a letter from his cousin Alicia, which hurried him one step further forward toward his destiny, by causing him to return to the house from which he had become in a manner exiled at the instigation of his uncle's wife.
"Papa is very ill," Alicia wrote; "not dangerously ill, thank God; but confined to his room by an attack of low fever which has succeeded a violent cold. Come and see him, Robert, if you have any regard for your nearest relations. He has spoken about you several times; and I know he will be glad to have you with him. Come at once, but say nothing about this letter.
"From your affectionate cousin, ALICIA."
A sick and deadly terror chilled Robert Audley's heart, as he read this letter—a vague yet hideous27 fear, which he dared not shape into any definite form.
"Have I done right?" he thought, in the first agony of this new horror—"have I done right to tamper28 with justice; and to keep the secret of my doubts in the hope that I was shielding those I love from sorrow and disgrace? What shall I do if I find him ill, very ill, dying perhaps, dying upon her breast! What shall I do?"
One course lay clear before him; and the first step of that course was a rapid journey to Audley Court. He packed his portmanteau, jumped into a cab, and reached the railway station within an hour of his receipt of Alicia's letter, which had come by the afternoon post.
The dim village lights flickered29 faintly through the growing dusk when Robert reached Audley. He left his portmanteau with the station-master, and walked at a leisurely30 pace through the quiet lanes that led away to the still loneliness of the Court. The over-arching trees stretched their leafless branches above his head, bare and weird31 in the dusky light. A low moaning wind swept across the flat meadow land, and tossed those rugged32 branches hither and thither33 against the dark gray sky. They looked like the ghostly arms of shrunken and withered34 giants, beckoning35 Robert to his uncle's house. They looked like threatening phantoms36 in the chill winter twilight37, gesticulating to him to hasten upon his journey. The long avenue so bright and pleasant when the perfumed limes scattered38 their light bloom upon the pathway, and the dog-rose leaves floated on the summer air, was terribly bleak39 and desolate40 in the cheerless interregnum that divides the homely41 joys of Christmas from the pale blush of coming spring—a dead pause in the year, in which Nature seems to lie in a tranced sleep, awaiting the wondrous42 signal for the budding of the flower.
A mournful presentiment crept into Robert Audley's heart as he drew nearer to his uncle's house. Every changing outline in the landscape was familiar to him; every bend of the trees; every caprice of the untrammeled branches; every undulation in the bare hawthorn43 hedge, broken by dwarf44 horse-chestnuts, stunted45 willows46, blackberry and hazel bushes.
Sir Michael had been a second father to the young man, a generous and noble friend, a grave and earnest adviser48; and perhaps the strongest sentiment of Robert's heart was his love for the gray-bearded baronet. But the grateful affection was so much a part of himself, that it seldom found an outlet49 in words, and a stranger would never have fathomed50 the depth of feeling which lay, a deep and powerful current, beneath the stagnant51 surface of the barrister's character.
"What would become of this place if my uncle were to die?" he thought, and he drew nearer to the ivied archway, and the still water-pools, coldly gray in the twilight. "Would other people live in the old house, and sit under the low oak ceilings in the homely familiar rooms?"
That wonderful faculty52 of association, so interwoven with the inmost fibers53 of even the hardest nature, filled the young man's breast with a prophetic pain as he remembered that, however long or late, the day must come on which the oaken shutters54 would be closed for awhile, and the sunshine shut out of the house he loved. It was painful to him even to remember this; as it must always be painful to think of the narrow lease the greatest upon this earth can ever hold of its grandeurs. Is it so wonderful that some wayfarers55 drop asleep under the hedges, scarcely caring to toil56 onward57 on a journey that leads to no abiding58 habitation? Is it wonderful that there have been quietists in the world ever since Christ's religion was first preached upon earth. Is it strange that there is a patient endurance and tranquil59 resignation, calm expectation of that which is to come on the further shore of the dark flowing river? Is it not rather to be wondered that anybody should ever care to be great for greatness' sake; for any other reason than pure conscientiousness60; the simple fidelity62 of the servant who fears to lay his talents by in a napkin, knowing that indifference63 is near akin16 to dishonesty? If Robert Audley had lived in the time of Thomas à Kempis, he would very likely have built himself a narrow hermitage amid some forest loneliness, and spent his life in tranquil imitation of the reputed author of The Imitation. As it was, Figtree Court was a pleasant hermitage in its way, and for breviaries and Books of Hours, I am ashamed to say the young barrister substituted Paul de Kock and Dumas, fils. But his sins were of so simply negative an order, that it would have been very easy for him to have abandoned them for negative virtues64.
Only one solitary65 light was visible in the long irregular range of windows facing the archway, as Robert passed under the gloomy shade of the rustling66 ivy67, restless in the chill moaning of the wind. He recognized that lighted window as the large oriel in his uncle's room. When last he had looked at the old house it had been gay with visitors, every window glittering like a low star in the dusk; now, dark and silent, it faced the winter's night like some dismal68 baronial habitation, deep in a woodland solitude69.
The man who opened the door to the unlooked-for visitor, brightened as he recognized his master's nephew.
"Sir Michael will be cheered up a bit, sir, by the sight of you," he said, as he ushered70 Robert Audley into the fire-lit library, which seemed desolate by reason of the baronet's easy-chair standing71 empty on the broad hearth72-rug. "Shall I bring you some dinner here, sir, before you go up-stairs?" the servant asked. "My lady and Miss Audley have dined early during my master's illness, but I can bring you anything you would please to take, sir."
"I'll take nothing until I have seen my uncle," Robert answered, hurriedly; "that is to say, if I can see him at once. He is not too ill to receive me, I suppose?" he added, anxiously.
"Oh, no, sir—not too ill; only a little low, sir. This way, if you please."
He conducted Robert up the short flight of shallow oaken stairs to the octagon chamber73 in which George Talboys had sat long five months before, staring absently at my lady's portrait. The picture was finished now, and hung in the post of honor opposite the window, amidst Claudes, Poussins and Wouvermans, whose less brilliant hues74 were killed by the vivid coloring of the modern artist. The bright face looked out of that tangled75 glitter of golden hair, in which the Pre-Raphaelites delight, with a mocking smile, as Robert paused for a moment to glance at the well-remembered picture. Two or three moments afterward76 he had passed through my lady's boudoir and dressing-room and stood upon the threshold of Sir Michael's room. The baronet lay in a quiet sleep, his arm laying outside the bed, and his strong hand clasped in his young wife's delicate fingers. Alicia sat in a low chair beside the broad open hearth, on which the huge logs burned fiercely in the frosty atmosphere. The interior of this luxurious bedchamber might have made a striking picture for an artist's pencil. The massive furniture, dark and somber77, yet broken up and relieved here and there by scraps78 of gilding79, and masses of glowing color; the elegance80 of every detail, in which wealth was subservient81 to purity of taste; and last, but greatest in importance, the graceful82 figures of the two women, and the noble form of the old man would have formed a worthy83 study for any painter.
Lucy Audley, with her disordered hair in a pale haze47 of yellow gold about her thoughtful face, the flowing lines of her soft muslin dressing-gown falling in straight folds to her feet, and clasped at the waist by a narrow circlet of agate84 links might have served as a model for a mediaeval saint, in one of the tiny chapels85 hidden away in the nooks and corners of a gray old cathedral, unchanged by Reformation or Cromwell; and what saintly martyr86 of the Middle Ages could have borne a holier aspect than the man whose gray beard lay upon the dark silken coverlet of the stately bed?
Robert paused upon the threshold, fearful of awaking his uncle. The two ladies had heard his step, cautious though he had been, and lifted their heads to look at him. My lady's face, quietly watching the sick man, had worn an anxious earnestness which made it only more beautiful; but the same face recognizing Robert Audley, faded from its delicate brightness, and looked scared and wan3 in the lamplight.
"Mr. Audley!" she cried, in a faint, tremulous voice.
"Hush87!" whispered Alicia, with a warning gesture; "you will wake papa. How good of you to come, Robert," she added, in the same whispered tones, beckoning to her cousin to take an empty chair near the bed.
The young man seated himself in the indicated seat at the bottom of the bed, and opposite to my lady, who sat close beside the pillows. He looked long and earnestly at the face of the sleeper88; still longer, still more earnestly at the face of Lady Audley, which was slowly recovering its natural hues.
"He has not been very ill, has he?" Robert asked, in the same key as that in which Alicia had spoken.
My lady answered the question.
"Oh, no, not dangerously ill," she said, without taking her eyes from her husband's face; "but still we have been anxious, very, very anxious."
"She shall look at me," he thought; "I will make her meet my eyes, and I will read her as I have read her before. She shall know how useless her artifices90 are with me."
He paused for a few minutes before he spoke26 again. The regular breathing of the sleeper the ticking of a gold hunting-watch at the head of the bed, and the crackling of the burning logs, were the only sounds that broke the stillness.
"I have no doubt you have been anxious, Lady Audley," Robert said, after a pause, fixing my lady's eyes as they wandered furtively91 to his face. "There is no one to whom my uncle's life can be of more value than to you. Your happiness, your prosperity, your safety depend alike upon his existence."
The whisper in which he uttered these words was too low to reach the other side of the room, where Alicia sat.
Lucy Audley's eyes met those of the speaker with some gleam of triumph in their light.
"I know that," she said. "Those who strike me must strike through him."
She pointed92 to the sleeper as she spoke, still looking at Robert Audley. She defied him with her blue eyes, their brightness intensified93 by the triumph in their glance. She defied him with her quiet smile—a smile of fatal beauty, full of lurking94 significance and mysterious meaning—the smile which the artist had exaggerated in his portrait of Sir Michael's wife.
Robert turned away from the lovely face, and shaded his eyes with his hand; putting a barrier between my lady and himself; a screen which baffled her penetration95 and provoked her curiosity. Was he still watching her or was he thinking? and of what was he thinking?
Robert had been seated at the bedside for upward of an hour before his uncle awoke. The baronet was delighted at his nephew's coming.
"It was very good of you to come to me, Bob," he said. "I have been thinking of you a good deal since I have been ill. You and Lucy must be good friends, you know, Bob; and you must learn to think of her as your aunt, sir; though she is young and beautiful; and—and—you understand, eh?"
Robert grasped his uncle's hand, but he looked down as he answered: "I do understand you, sir," he said, quietly; "and I give you my word of honor that I am steeled against my lady's fascinations96. She knows that as well as I do."
Lucy Audley made a little grimace97 with her pretty little lips. "Bah, you silly Robert," she exclaimed; "you take everything au serieux. If I thought you were rather too young for a nephew, it was only in my fear of other people's foolish gossip; not from any—"
She hesitated for a moment, and escaped any conclusion to her sentence by the timely intervention98 of Mr. Dawson, her late employer, who entered the room upon his evening visit while she was speaking.
He felt the patient's pulse; asked two or three questions; pronounced the baronet to be steadily99 improving; exchanged a few commonplace remarks with Alicia and Lady Audley, and prepared to leave the room. Robert rose and accompanied him to the door.
"I will light you to the staircase," he said, taking a candle from one of the tables, and lighting100 it at the lamp.
"No, no, Mr. Audley, pray do not trouble yourself," expostulated the surgeon; "I know my way very well indeed."
Robert insisted, and the two men left the room together. As they entered the octagon ante-chamber the barrister paused and shut the door behind him.
"Will you see that the door is closed, Mr. Dawson?" he said, pointing to that which opened upon the staircase. "I wish to have a few moments' private conversation with you."
"With much pleasure," replied the surgeon, complying with Robert's request; "but if you are at all alarmed about your uncle, Mr. Audley, I can set your mind at rest. There is no occasion for the least uneasiness. Had his illness been at all serious I should have telegraphed immediately for the family physician."
"I am sure that you would have done your duty, sir," answered Robert, gravely. "But I am not going to speak of my uncle. I wish to ask you two or three questions about another person."
"Indeed."
"The person who once lived in your family as Miss Lucy Graham; the person who is now Lady Audley."
Mr. Dawson looked up with an expression of surprise upon his quiet face.
"Pardon me, Mr. Audley," he answered; "you can scarcely expect me to answer any questions about your uncle's wife without Sir Michael's express permission. I can understand no motive101 which can prompt you to ask such questions—no worthy motive, at least." He looked severely102 at the young man, as much as to say: "You have been falling in love with your uncle's pretty wife, sir, and you want to make me a go-between in some treacherous103 flirtation104; but it won't do, sir, it won't do."
"I always respected the lady as Miss Graham, sir," he said, "and I esteem105 her doubly as Lady Audley—not on account of her altered position, but because she is the wife of one of the noblest men in Christendom."
"You cannot respect my uncle or my uncle's honor more sincerely than I do," answered Robert. "I have no unworthy motive for the questions I am about to ask; and you must answer them."
"Must!" echoed Mr. Dawson, indignantly.
"Yes, you are my uncle's friend. It was at your house he met the woman who is now his wife. She called herself an orphan106, I believe, and enlisted107 his pity as well as his admiration108 in her behalf. She told him that she stood alone in the world, did she not?—without a friend or relative. This was all I could ever learn of her antecedents."
"What reason have you to wish to know more?" asked the surgeon.
"A very terrible reason," answered Robert Audley. "For some months past I have struggled with doubts and suspicions which have embittered109 my life. They have grown stronger every day; and they will not be set at rest by the commonplace sophistries110 and the shallow arguments with which men try to deceive themselves rather than believe that which of all things upon earth they most fear to believe. I do not think that the woman who bears my uncle's name, is worthy to be his wife. I may wrong her. Heaven grant that it is so. But if I do, the fatal chain of circumstantial evidence never yet linked itself so closely about an innocent person. I wish to set my doubts at rest or—or to confirm my fears. There is but one manner in which I can do this. I must trace the life of my uncle's wife backward, minutely and carefully, from this night to a period of six years ago. This is the twenty-fourth of February, fifty-nine. I want to know every record of her life between to-night and the February of the year fifty-three."
"And your motive is a worthy one?"
"Yes, I wish to clear her from a very dreadful suspicion."
"Which exists only in your mind?"
"And in the mind of one other person."
"May I ask who that person is?"
"No, Mr. Dawson," answered Robert, decisively; "I cannot reveal anything more than what I have already told you. I am a very irresolute112, vacillating man in most things. In this matter I am compelled to be decided113. I repeat once more that I must know the history of Lucy Graham's life. If you refuse to help me to the small extent in your power, I will find others who will help me. Painful as it would become, I will ask my uncle for the information which you would withhold114, rather than be baffled in the first step of my investigation115."
Mr. Dawson was silent for some minutes.
"I cannot express how much you have astonished and alarmed me, Mr. Audley." he said. "I can tell you so little about Lady Audley's antecedents, that it would be mere116 obstinacy117 to withhold the small amount of information I possess. I have always considered your uncle's wife one of the most amiable118 of women. I cannot bring myself to think her otherwise. It would be an uprooting119 of one of the strongest convictions of my life were I compelled to think her otherwise. You wish to follow her life backward from the present hour to the year fifty-three?"
"I do."
"She was married to your uncle last June twelvemonth, in the midsummer of fifty-seven. She had lived in my house a little more than thirteen months. She became a member of my household upon the fourteenth of May, in the year fifty-six."
"And she came to you—"
"From a school at Brompton, a school kept by a lady of the name of Vincent. It was Mrs. Vincent's strong recommendation that induced me to receive Miss Graham into my family without any more special knowledge of her antecedents."
"Did you see this Mrs. Vincent?"
"I did not. I advertised for a governess, and Miss Graham answered my advertisement. In her letter she referred me to Mrs. Vincent, the proprietress of a school in which she was then residing as junior teacher. My time is always so fully111 occupied, that I was glad to escape the necessity of a day's loss in going from Audley to London to inquire about the young lady's qualifications. I looked for Mrs. Vincent's name in the directory, found it, and concluded that she was a responsible person, and wrote to her. Her reply was perfectly120 satisfactory;—Miss Lucy Graham was assiduous and conscientious61; as well as fully qualified121 for the situation I offered. I accepted this reference, and I had no cause to regret what may have been an indiscretion. And now, Mr. Audley, I have told you all that I have the power to tell."
"Will you be so kind as to give me the address of this Mrs. Vincent?" asked Robert, taking out his pocketbook.
"Ah, to be sure," muttered Mr. Audley, a recollection of last September flashing suddenly back upon him as the surgeon spoke.
"Crescent Villas—yes, I have heard the address before from Lady Audley herself. This Mrs. Vincent telegraphed to my uncle's wife early in last September. She was ill—dying, I believe—and sent for my lady; but had removed from her old house and was not to be found."
"Indeed! I never heard Lady Audley mention the circumstance."
"Perhaps not. It occurred while I was down here. Thank you, Mr. Dawson, for the information you have so kindly123 and honestly given me. It takes me back two and a-half years in the history of my lady's life; but I have still a blank of three years to fill up before I can exonerate124 her from my terrible suspicion. Good evening."
Robert shook hands with the surgeon and returned to his uncle's room. He had been away about a quarter of an hour. Sir Michael had fallen asleep once more, and my lady's loving hands had lowered the heavy curtains and shaded the lamp by the bedside. Alicia and her father's wife were taking tea in Lady Audley's boudoir, the room next to the antechamber in which Robert and Mr. Dawson had been seated.
Lucy Audley looked up from her occupation among the fragile china cups and watched Robert rather anxiously as he walked softly to his uncle's room and back again to the boudoir. She looked very pretty and innocent, seated behind the graceful group of delicate opal china and glittering silver. Surely a pretty woman never looks prettier than when making tea. The most feminine and most domestic of all occupations imparts a magic harmony to her every movement, a witchery to her every glance. The floating mists from the boiling liquid in which she infuses the soothing125 herbs; whose secrets are known to her alone, envelope her in a cloud of scented126 vapor127, through which she seems a social fairy, weaving potent128 spells with Gunpowder129 and Bohea. At the tea-table she reigns130 omnipotent131, unapproachable. What do men know of the mysterious beverage132? Read how poor Hazlitt made his tea, and shudder133 at the dreadful barbarism. How clumsily the wretched creatures attempt to assist the witch president of the tea-tray; how hopelessly they hold the kettle, how continually they imperil the frail134 cups and saucers, or the taper135 hands of the priestess. To do away with the tea-table is to rob woman of her legitimate136 empire. To send a couple of hulking men about among your visitors, distributing a mixture made in the housekeeper's room, is to reduce the most social and friendly of ceremonies to a formal giving out of rations137. Better the pretty influence of the tea cups and saucers gracefully138 wielded139 in a woman's hand than all the inappropriate power snatched at the point of the pen from the unwilling140 sterner sex. Imagine all the women of England elevated to the high level of masculine intellectuality, superior to crinoline; above pearl powder and Mrs. Rachael Levison; above taking the pains to be pretty; above tea-tables and that cruelly scandalous and rather satirical gossip which even strong men delight in; and what a drear, utilitarian141, ugly life the sterner sex must lead.
My lady was by no means strong-minded. The starry142 diamonds upon her white fingers flashed hither and thither among the tea-things, and she bent143 her pretty head over the marvelous Indian tea-caddy of sandal-wood and silver, with as much earnestness as if life held no higher purpose than the infusion144 of Bohea.
"You'll take a cup of tea with us, Mr. Audley?" she asked, pausing with the teapot in her hand to look up at Robert, who was standing near the door.
"If you please."
"But you have not dined, perhaps? Shall I ring and tell them to bring you something a little more substantial than biscuits and transparent145 bread and butter?"
"No, thank you, Lady Audley. I took some lunch before I left town. I'll trouble you for nothing but a cup of tea."
He seated himself at the little table and looked across it at his Cousin Alicia, who sat with a book in her lap, and had the air of being very much absorbed by its pages. The bright brunette complexion146 had lost its glowing crimson147, and the animation148 of the young lady's manner was suppressed—on account of her father's illness, no doubt, Robert thought.
"Alicia, my dear," the barrister said, after a very leisurely contemplation of his cousin, "you're not looking well."
"Perhaps not," she answered, contemptuously. "What does it matter? I'm growing a philosopher of your school, Robert Audley. What does it matter? Who cares whether I am well or ill?"
"What a spitfire she is," thought the barrister. He always knew his cousin was angry with him when she addressed him as "Robert Audley."
"You needn't pitch into a fellow because he asks you a civil question, Alicia," he said, reproachfully. "As to nobody caring about your health, that's nonsense. I care." Miss Audley looked up with a bright smile. "Sir Harry151 Towers cares." Miss Audley returned to her book with a frown.
"What are you reading there, Alicia?" Robert asked, after a pause, during which he had sat thoughtfully stirring his tea.
"Changes and Chances."
"A novel?"
"Yes."
"Who is it by?"
"The author of Follies152 and Faults," answered Alicia, still pursuing her study of the romance upon her lap.
"Is it interesting?"
Miss Audley pursed up her mouth and shrugged her shoulders.
"Not particularly," she said.
"Then I think you might have better manners than to read it while your first cousin is sitting opposite you," observed Mr. Audley, with some gravity, "especially as he has only come to pay you a flying visit, and will be off to-morrow morning."
"To-morrow morning!" exclaimed my lady, looking up suddenly.
Though the look of joy upon Lady Audley's face was as brief as a flash of lightning on a summer sky, it was not unperceived by Robert.
"Yes," he said; "I shall be obliged to run up to London to-morrow on business, but I shall return the next day, if you will allow me, Lady Audley, and stay here till my uncle recovers."
"But you are not seriously alarmed about him, are you?" asked my lady, anxiously.
"You do not think him very ill?"
"No," answered Robert. "Thank Heaven, I think there is not the slightest cause for apprehension153."
My lady sat silent for a few moments, looking at the empty teacups with a prettily154 thoughtful face—a face grave with the innocent seriousness of a musing19 child.
"But you were closeted such a long time with Mr. Dawson, just now," she said, after this brief pause. "I was quite alarmed at the length of your conversation. Were you talking of Sir Michael all the time?"
"No; not all the time?"
My lady looked down at the teacups once more.
"Why, what could you find to say to Mr. Dawson, or he to say to you?" she asked, after another pause. "You are almost strangers to each other."
"Suppose Mr. Dawson wished to consult me about some law business."
"Was it that?" cried Lady Audley, eagerly.
"It would be rather unprofessional to tell you if it were so, my lady," answered Robert, gravely.
My lady bit her lip, and relapsed into silence. Alicia threw down her book, and watched her cousin's preoccupied155 face. He talked to her now and then for a few minutes, but it was evidently an effort to him to arouse himself from his revery.
"Upon my word, Robert Audley, you are a very agreeable companion," exclaimed Alicia at length, her rather limited stock of patience quite exhausted156 by two or three of these abortive157 attempts at conversation. "Perhaps the next time you come to the Court you will be good enough to bring your mind with you. By your present inanimate appearance, I should imagine that you had left your intellect, such as it is, somewhere in the Temple. You were never one of the liveliest of people, but latterly you have really grown almost unendurable. I suppose you are in love, Mr. Audley, and are thinking of the honored object of your affections."
He was thinking of Clara Talboys' uplifted face, sublime158 in its unutterable grief; of her impassioned words still ringing in his ears as clearly as when they were first spoken. Again he saw her looking at him with her bright brown eyes. Again he heard that solemn question: "Shall you or I find my brother's murderer?" And he was in Essex; in the little village from which he firmly believed George Talboys had never departed. He was on the spot at which all record of his friend's life ended as suddenly as a story ends when the reader shuts the book. And could he withdraw now from the investigation in which he found himself involved? Could he stop now? For any consideration? No; a thousand times no! Not with the image of that grief-stricken face imprinted159 on his mind. Not with the accents of that earnest appeal ringing on his ear.
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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20
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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21
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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22
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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23
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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25
edibles
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| 可以吃的，可食用的( edible的名词复数 )； 食物 | |
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26
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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27
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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28
tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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29
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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31
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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32
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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33
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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34
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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35
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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36
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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37
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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38
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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39
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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40
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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41
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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42
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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43
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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44
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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45
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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46
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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47
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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48
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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49
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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50
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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51
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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52
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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53
fibers
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| 光纤( fiber的名词复数 )； （织物的）质地； 纤维，纤维物质 | |
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54
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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55
wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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56
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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57
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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58
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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59
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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60
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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61
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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62
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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63
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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64
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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65
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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66
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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67
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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68
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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69
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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70
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
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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72
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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73
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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74
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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75
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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76
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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77
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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78
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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79
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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80
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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81
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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82
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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83
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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84
agate
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| n.玛瑙 | |
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85
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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86
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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87
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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88
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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89
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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90
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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91
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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92
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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93
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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95
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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96
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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97
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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98
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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99
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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100
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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101
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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102
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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103
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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104
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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105
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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106
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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107
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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108
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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109
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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110
sophistries
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| n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 )；（一次）诡辩 | |
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111
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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112
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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113
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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114
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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115
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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116
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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117
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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118
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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119
uprooting
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| n.倒根，挖除伐根v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的现在分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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120
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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121
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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122
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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123
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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124
exonerate
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| v.免除责任，确定无罪 | |
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125
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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126
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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127
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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128
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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129
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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130
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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131
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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132
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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133
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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134
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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135
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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136
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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137
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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138
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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139
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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140
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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141
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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142
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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143
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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144
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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145
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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146
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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147
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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148
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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149
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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150
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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151
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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152
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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153
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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154
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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155
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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156
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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157
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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158
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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159
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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