They were, just for the present, this party of three. Lady Hester had gone back to town after the departure of Colin and his father to the South, and Ronald and his wife had betaken themselves for the month of July to Marienbad, in order to enable him to continue eating too much for the next eleven months without ill effects. Every evening old Lady Yardley appeared for dinner and made the fourth, but she was not so much a presence as a shadow. In Colin’s absence, she hardly ever spoke8, though each night she monotonously9 asked when he was expected back. Then, after the rubber of whist, mutely conducted, she retired10 again, and remained invisible till the approach of the next dinner-hour. So long had she been whitely impassive that Philip scarcely noticed the mist that was thickening about her mind.{177}
Raymond, then, was comprehensible enough, he was head over ears in love with Violet, and nothing and nobody but her had any significance for him. But dog-like though his devotion was, it struck his father that there was, in the absence of Violet’s response, something rather animal about it. Had she met with more than mere11 toleration his glances, his little secret caresses12, his thirst for contact even of finger-tips or a leaning shoulder, there would have been the spark, the leap of fire which gives warmth and life to such things. But without it there was a certain impalpable grossness: Raymond did not seem to care that his touch should be responded to, it contented14 him to touch.
But though he, to his father’s mind, was comprehensible enough, Violet puzzled him, for she seemed even before her marriage to have adopted the traditional impassivity of Stanier brides; she had professed15, in the one interview she had had with him, a quiet acceptance of her position, and a devotion to Raymond of which the expression seemed to be a mute passivity. Towards the question of the date of her marriage she had no contribution to give. Lord Yardley and Raymond must have the settling of that, and with the same passivity she accepted a date in the first week of October. Then the great glass doors would be opened, and the bridegroom’s wing, long shuttered, for Philip’s bride had never come here, would see the light again. She asked no question whatever about Colin’s return; his name never presented itself on her lips unless mere conventional usage caused it to be spoken. It was as if the boy with whom she had been so intimately a friend, had ceased to exist for her. But when Philip once consciously noted16 that omission17, he began to wonder if Violet was not comprehensible after all.... These days, in any case, after Philip’s return, while Colin still lingered in Italy, were worthy18 of the stateliest and deadliest Stanier traditions.
Colin had been expected all one long July afternoon. His announcement of his arrival had been ambiguous, for{178} he might catch the early train from Paris, and thus the earlier boat, but the connection was uncertain, and if he missed it he would not get to Dover till six in the evening. In that case he would sleep in London, and come down to Stanier next day.
Philip had read this out at breakfast that morning, and for once Violet shewed some interest in Colin.
“Why not send a motor to Dover, Uncle Philip?” she said. “It can get there in time for the first boat, and if he is not on it, it can wait for the second. He will arrive here then by dinner time.”
Raymond looked up from his paper at the sound of her voice.
“Vi, darling, what an absurd plan,” he said. “There are a hundred chances to one on Colin’s not finding the motor. He’ll get straight into the train from the boat.”
Violet instantly retreated into that strange shell of hers again.
“Ah, yes,” she said.
Philip’s curiosity put forth19 a horn at this. There was some new element here, for Raymond seemed to resent the idea of special arrangements being made for Colin.
“That’s not a bad idea of yours, Violet,” he said. “It will save Colin going up to London.”
As he spoke he kept a sideways eye on Raymond.
“But, father, think of the crush getting off the boat,” he said. “The chances are that Colin won’t see your chauffeur20.”
He spoke with an impatient anger which he could not cloak, and which rang out unmistakably in his voice.
“We’ll take the off chance then,” said his father.
Raymond got up. “Just as you like,” he said.
Philip paused a moment. The relations between himself and Raymond had been excellent up till to-day. Raymond without charm (which was not his fault), had been pleasant and agreeable, but now this matter of meeting Colin had produced a spirit of jealous temper.
“Naturally I shall do just as I like,” he observed.{179} “Ring the bell, please, Raymond. The motor will have to start at once.”
Though none of the three communicated the news of Colin’s arrival to old Lady Yardley, it somehow got round to her, via perhaps, some servant’s gossip about a motor going to Dover, and most unusually she came downstairs at tea-time with inquiries21 whether Colin had arrived. It was soon clear that he could not have caught the early boat, or he would have been here by now, and thus three hours at least must elapse before his arrival could be looked for, but in spite of this, old Lady Yardley did not go back to her room again, but remained upright and vigilant22 in her chair on the terrace, where they had had tea, looking out over the plain where, across the gardens and lake, appeared glimpses of the road along which the motor must come.
Philip had intended to go for a ride, but he, too, when his servant told him that his horse was round, lingered on and shewed no sign of moving. Neither he nor his mother gave any reason for their remaining so unusually here, but somehow the cause of it was common property. Colin was coming. Raymond, similarly, had announced his intention of going to bathe, but had not gone; instead he fidgeted in his chair, smoked, took up and dropped the evening paper, and made aimless little excursions up and down the terrace. His restlessness got on his father’s nerves.
“Well, go and bathe, if you mean to, Raymond,” he said, “or if you like take my horse and go for a ride. But, for goodness’ sake, don’t keep jumping about like that.”
“Thanks, I think I won’t ride, father,” he said. “I shall be having a bathe presently. Or would you feel inclined for a game of tennis, Vi?”
“I think it’s rather too hot,” said she.
He sat down on the arm of her chair, but she gave no welcome to him, nor appeared in any way conscious of his proximity23. In that rather gross fashion of his, he{180} gently stroked a tendril of loose hair just behind her ear. For a moment she suffered that without moving. Then she put up her hand with a jerky, uncontrolled movement, and brushed his away.
“Oh, please, Raymond,” she said in a low voice.
He had a sullen24 look for that, and, shrugging his shoulders, got up and went into the house. His father gave a sigh of relief, the reason for which needed no comment.
“Colin will be here for dinner, won’t he?” asked old Lady Yardley.
“Yes, mother,” said Philip. “But won’t you go and rest before that?”
“I think I will sit here,” said she, “and wait for Colin.”
Presently Raymond was back again, with a copy of some illustrated25 paper. Violet and Philip alike felt the interruption of his presence. They were both thinking of Colin, and Raymond, even if he sat quiet, was a disturbance27, a distraction28.... Soon he was by Violet’s side again, shewing her some picture which he appeared to think might interest her, and Philip, watching the girl, felt by some sympathetic vibration29 how great an effort it was for her to maintain that passivity which, all those days, had so encompassed30 her. The imminence31 of Colin’s arrival, he could not but conjecture32, was what troubled her tranquillity33, and below it there was some stir, some subaqueous tumult35 not yet risen to the surface, and only faintly declaring itself in these rising bubbles....
Raymond had placed the paper on her knee, and, turning the page, let his hand rest on her arm, bare to the elbow. Instantly she let it slip to her side, and, raising her eyes at the moment, caught Philip’s gaze. The recognition of something never mentioned between them took place, and she turned to Raymond’s paper again.
“Quite excellent,” she said. “Such a good snapshot of Aunt Hester. Show it to Uncle Philip.”
Raymond could not refuse to do that, and the moment he had stepped over to Philip’s side, she got up.{181}
That passivity was quite out of her reach just now in this tension of waiting. Soon Colin would be here, and she would have to face and accept the situation, but the waiting for it.... If only even something could happen to Colin which would prevent his arrival. Why had she suggested that sending of the motor to Dover? Had she not done that, he could not have got here till to-morrow morning, and she would have had time to harden, to crystallise herself, to render herself impervious36 to any touch from outside.
She was soon to be a Stanier bride, and there in the tall chair with the ivory cane37 was the pattern and example for her. It was on old Lady Yardley that she must frame herself, quenching38 any fire of her own, and content to smoulder her life away as mistress of the family home which she so adored, and of all the countless39 decorations and riches of her position. Never had the wonder and glory of the place seemed to her so compelling as when now, driven from the terrace by Raymond’s importunity40, she walked along its southern front and through the archway in the yew-hedge where she and Colin had stood on his last night here. It dozed in the tranquillity of the July evening, yellow and magnificent, the empress of human habitations. Round it for pillow were spread its woodlands, on its breast for jewel lay the necklace of deep flower-beds; tranquil34 and stable through its three centuries, it seemed the very symbol and incarnation of the pride of its owners; to be its mistress and the mother of its lords yet unborn was a fate for which she would not have exchanged a queen’s diadem41.
Whatever conditions might be attached to it, she would accept them—as indeed she had already pledged herself to do—with the alacrity42 with which its founder43 had, in the legend, signed his soul away in that bargain which had so faithfully been kept by the contracting parties.... And it was not as if she disliked Raymond; she was merely utterly indifferent to him, and longing44 for the time when, in the natural course of things, he would{182} surely grow indifferent to her. How wise and indulgent to his male frailties45 would she then show herself; how studiously and how prudently46 blind, with the blindness of those who refuse to see, to any infidelities.
Had there not been in the world a twin-brother of his, or, even if that must be, if she had not stood with him under this serge-arch of yews47 beneath the midsummer moon and given him that cousinly kiss, she would not now be feeling that his return, or, at any rate, the waiting for it, caused a tension that could scarcely be borne. She had made her choice and had no notion—so her conscious mind told her—of going back on it; it was just this experience of seeing Colin again for the first time after her choice had been made that set her nerves twanging at Raymond’s touch. Could she, by a wish or the wave of a wand, put off Colin’s advent48 until she had actually become Raymond’s wife, how passionately49 would she have wished, how eagerly have waved. Or if by some magic, black or white, she could have put Colin out of her life, so that never would she set eyes on him again or hear his voice, his banishment51 from her would at that moment have been accomplished52. She would not admit that she loved him; she doggedly53 told herself that she did not, and her will was undeviatingly set on the marriage which would give her Stanier.
Surely she did not love Colin; they had passed all their lives in the tranquillity of intimate friendship, unruffled by the faintest breath of desire. And then, in spite of her dogged assertion, she found that she asked herself, incredulously enough, whether on that last evening of Colin’s the seed of fire had not sprouted54 in her? She disowned the notion, but still it had reached her consciousness, and then fiercely she reversed and denied it, for she abhorred55 the possibility. It would be better that she should hate Colin than love him.
The evening was stiflingly56 hot, and in the park, where her straying feet had led her, there was no breath of wind{183} stirring to disperse57 the heaviness. The air seemed thick with fecundity58 and decay; there was the smell of rotting wood, of crumbling60 fungi61 overripe that mingled62 with the sharp scent63 of the bracken and the faint aroma64 of the oaks, and buzzing swarms65 of flies gave token of their carrion66 banquets. The open ground to the north of the house was no better; to her sense of overwrought expectancy68, it seemed as if some siege and beleaguerment held her. She wanted to escape, but an impalpable host beset69 her, not of these buzzing flies only and of the impenetrable oppression of the sultry air, through which she could make no sortie, but, internally and spiritually, of encompassing70 foes71 and hostile lines through which her spirit had no power to break.
There on the terrace, from which, as from under some fire she could not face, she had lately escaped, there would be the physical refreshment72 of the current of sea-wind moving up, as was its wont73 towards sunset, across the levels of the marsh74; but there, to this same overwrought consciousness, would be Raymond, assiduous and loverlike, with odious75 little touches of his affectionate fingers. But, so she told herself, it was enforced on her to get used to them; he had a right to them, and it was Colin, after all, who was responsible for her shrinking from them, even as she shrank from the evil buzzings of the flies. If only she had not kissed Colin, or if, having done that, he had felt a tithe76 of what it had come to signify to her.
But no hint of heart-ache, no wish that fate had decreed otherwise, had troubled him. He had asked for a cousinly kiss, and in that light geniality77 of his he had said, out of mere politeness, and out of hatred78 for Raymond (no less light and genial) that it was “maddening” to think that his brother would be the next visitor there.
She had waited for his reply to her letter announcing that Raymond had proposed to her and that she was meaning to accept him, with a quivering anxiety which gave way when she received his answer to a sense of revolt which attempted to call itself relief. He seemed, so far{184} from finding the news “maddening,” to welcome and rejoice in it. He congratulated her on achieving her ambition of being mistress of Stanier, and on having fallen in love with Raymond. He could not be “hurt”—as she had feared—at her news; it was altogether charming.
She had expressed the charitable hope that he would not be hurt, and with claws and teeth her charity had come home to roost. It had dreadful habits in its siesta79; it roosted with fixed80 talons81 and sleepless82 lids; it cried to the horses of the night to go slowly, and delay the dawn, for so it would prolong the pleasures of its refreshment. And each day it rose with her, strengthened and more vigorous. Had Colin only rebelled at her choice, that would have comforted her; she would have gathered will-power from his very opposition83. But with his acquiescing84 and welcoming, she had to bear the burden of her choice alone. If he had only cared he would have stormed at her, and like the Elizabethan flirt85, she would have answered his upbraidings with a smile. As it was, the smile was his, not hers. Almost, to win his upbraidings, she would have sacrificed the goodly heritage—all the honour and the secular86 glory of it.
Perhaps by now, for she had wandered far, the rest of them might have dispersed87, her grandmother to the seclusion88 of her own rooms, Uncle Philip to the library, and Raymond to the lake, and she let herself into the house by the front door and passed into the hall. The great Holbein above the chimney piece smiled at her with Colin’s indifferent lips; the faded parchment was but a blur89 in the dark frame, and she went through into the long gallery which faced the garden front. All seemed still outside, and after waiting a moment in the entrance, she stepped on to the terrace, and there they were still; her grandmother alert and vigilant, Philip beside her, and Raymond dozing90 in his chair, with his illustrated paper fallen from his knee. What ailed91 them all that they waited like this; above all, what ailed her, that she cared whether they waited or not?{185}
Soundless though she hoped her first footfalls on the terrace had been, they were sufficient to rouse Raymond. He sat up, his sleepiness all dispersed.
“Hullo, Vi!” he said. “Where have you been?”
“Just for a stroll,” said she.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come with you.”
“Colin is coming,” she said. “There’s his motor.”
Certainly a mile away there was, to Violet’s young eyes, an infinitesimal speck93 on the white riband, but to the dimness of the old, that must surely have been invisible. Lord Yardley, following the direction of her hand, could see nothing.
“No, mother, there’s nothing to be seen yet,” he said, proving that he, too, was absorbed in this unaccountable business of waiting for Colin.
“But I am right,” she said. “You will see that I am right. I must go to the front door to welcome him.”
She let the stick, without which she never moved, slide from her hand, and with firm step and upright carriage, walked superbly down the terrace to the door of the gallery.
“He is coming home,” she cried. “He is coming for his bride, and there will be another marriage at Stanier. Let the great glass doors be opened; they have not been opened for the family since I came here sixty years ago. They were never opened for my poor son Philip. I will open them, if no one else will. I am strong to-night.”
Philip moved to her side.
“No; it’s Raymond you are thinking of, mother,” he said. “They will be opened in October. You shall see them opened then.”
She paused, some shade of doubt and anxiety dimming this sudden brightness, and laid her hand on her son’s shoulder.
“Raymond?” she said. “Yes, of course, I was think{186}ing of Raymond. Raymond and Violet. But to please me, my dear, will you not open them now for Colin? Colin has been so long away, it is as if a bridegroom came when Colin comes. We are only ourselves here; the Staniers may do what they like in their own house, may they not? I should love to have the glass doors open for Colin’s return.”
The speck she had seen or divined on the road had come very swiftly nearer, and now it could be seen that some white waving came from it.
“I believe it is Colin, after all,” said Raymond. “How could she have seen?”
Old Lady Yardley turned a grave glance of displeasure on him.
“Do not interrupt me when I am talking to your father,” she said. “The glass doors, Philip.”
“Glass doors, indeed,” he said. “The next glass doors are for us, eh, Violet?”
Surely some spell had seized them all. Violet found herself waiting as tensely as her grandmother for Philip’s reply. She was hardly conscious of Raymond’s hand stealing into hers; all hung on her uncle’s answer. And he, as if he, too, were under the spell, turned furiously on Raymond.
“The glass doors are opened when I please,” he said. “Your turn will come to give orders here, Raymond, but while I am at Stanier I am master. Once for all understand that.”
He turned to his mother again.
“Yes, dear mother,” he said, “you and I will go and open them.”
Inside the house no less than among the watchers on the terrace the intelligence that Colin was at hand had curiously96 spread. Footmen were in the hall already, and the major-domo was standing97 at the entrance door, which he had thrown open, and through which poured a tide{187} of hot air from the baking gravel98 of the courtyard. Exactly opposite were the double glass doors, Venetian in workmanship, and heavily decorated with wreaths and garlands of coloured glass. The bolts and handles and hinges were of silver, and old Lady Yardley, crippled and limping no longer, moved quickly across to them, and unloosing them, threw them open. Inside was the staircase of cedar99 wood, carved by Gibbons, which led up to the main corridor, opposite the door that gave entrance to the suite100 of rooms occupied by the eldest101 son and his wife.
What strange fancy possessed102 her brain none knew, and why Philip allowed and even helped her in the accomplishment103 of her desire was as obscure to him as to the others, but with her he pushed the doors back and the sweet odour of the cedar wood, confined there for the last sixty years, flowed out like the scent of some ancient vintage. Then, even as the crunching104 of the motor on the gravel outside was heard, stopping abruptly105 as the car drew up at the door, she swept across to the entrance.
Already Colin stood in the doorway106. For coolness he had travelled bareheaded and the gold of his hair, tossed this way and that, made a shining aureole round his head. His face, tanned by the southern suns, was dark as bronze below it, and from that ruddy-brown his eyes, turquoise107 blue, gleamed like stars. He was more like some lordly incarnation of life and sunlight and spring-splendour than a handsome boy, complete and individual; a presence of wonder and enchantment108 stood there.... Then, swift as a sword-stroke, the spell which had held them all was broken; it was but Colin, dusty and hot from his journey, and jubilant with his return.
“Granny darling!” he said, kissing her. “How lovely of you to come and meet me like this. Father! Ever so many thanks for sending the motor for me. Ah, and there are Violet and Raymond. Raymond, be nice to me; let me kiss you, for, though we’re grown up, we’re brothers. And Violet; I want a kiss from Violet, too.{188} She mustn’t grudge109 me that.... What! The glass doors open. Ah! of course, in honour of the betrothal110. Raymond, you lucky fellow, how I hate you. But I thought that was only done when the bridegroom brought his bride home.”
Instantly Colin was by the old lady’s side again.
“Granny, how nice of you!” he said. “But you’ve got to find me a bride first before I go up those stairs. And even then, it’s only the eldest son who may, isn’t it? But it was nice of you to open the doors because I was coming home.”
He had kissed Raymond lightly on the cheek, and Violet no less lightly, and both in their separate and sundered112 fashions were burning at it, Raymond in some smouldering fury at what he knew was Colin’s falseness, Violet with the hot searing iron of his utter indifference113; and then light as foam114 and iridescent115 as a sunlit bubble of the same, he was back with his father again, leaving them as in some hot desert place. And dinner must now be put off, growled116 Raymond to himself, because Colin wanted to have a bathe first and wash off the dust and dryness of his journey, and his father would stroll down after him and bring his towel, so that he might run down at once without going upstairs.
Colin had come home, it appeared, with the tactics that were to compass his strategy rehearsed and ready. Never had his charm been of so sunny and magical a quality, and, by contrast, never had Raymond appeared more uncouth117 and bucolic118. But Raymond now, so ran his father’s unspoken comment on the situation, had an ugly weapon in his hand, under the blows of which Colin winced119 and started, for more than ever he was prodigal120 of those little touches and caresses which he showered on Violet. Philip could not blame him for it; it was no more than natural that a young man, engaged and enamoured, should use{189} the light license121 of a lover; indeed, it would have been unnatural122 if he had not done so.
Often and often, ten times in the evening, Philip would see Colin take himself in hand and steadfastly123 avert124 his eyes from the corner where Raymond and Violet sat. But ever and again that curious habit of self-torture in lovers whom fate has not favoured would assert itself, and his eyes would creep back to them, and seeing Raymond in some loverlike posture125, recall themselves. And as often the sweetness of his temper, and his natural gaiety, would reassert its ray, and the usual light nonsense, the frequent laugh, flowed from him. Exquisite126, too, was his tact13 with Violet; he recognised, it was clear, that their old boy-and-girl intimacy127 must, in these changed conditions, be banished128. He could no longer go away with her alone to spend the morning between tennis-court and bathing pool, or with his arm round her neck, stroll off with a joint129 book to read reclined in the shade. Not only would that put Raymond into a false position (he, the enamoured, the betrothed) but, so argued the most pitiless logic130 of which his father was capable, that resumption of physical intimacy, as between boy and boy, would be a tearing of Colin’s very heart-strings not only for himself but for her also. In such sort of intimacy Colin, with his brisk blood and ardent131 lust26 of living, could scarcely help betraying himself, and surely then, Violet, little though she might care for Raymond, would see her pool of tranquil acceptance shattered by this plunge132 of a stone into the centre of it. Her liking133 for Colin was deep, and she would not fail to see that for her he had even profounder depths. A light would shine in those drowned caves, and Colin, as wise as he was tender, seemed to shew his wisdom by keeping on the surface with Violet, and only shining on her tranquillity, never breaking it.
Sometimes—so thought his father—he shewed her a face which, in virtue134 of their past intimacy, was almost too gaily135 indifferent; she would attempt some perfectly{190} trivial exhibition of their old relations, perch136 herself on the arm of his chair, and with the contrast of his bronzed face and golden hair, tell him that he must gild137 his face like the grooms138 in “Macbeth” or dye his hair. But on the instant he would be alert and spring up, leaving her there, for the need of a cigarette or a match. He allowed her not the most outside chance of resuming ordinary cousinly relations with him. His motive139 was sound enough; loving her he mistrusted himself. She was sealed to be his brother’s wife, and he must not trust himself within sight of the notice to trespassers. It was better to make himself a stranger to her than to run the risk of betraying himself. So, at least, it struck an outsider to Colin’s consciousness.
He avoided, then, all privacy with Violet, and no less carefully he avoided privacy with Raymond. If the three men were together and his father left them, Colin would be sure to follow him, and if they all three sat up together in the smoking-room, Colin would anticipate the signal of a silence or of his father’s yawning or observation of the clock, to go to bed himself. Here, again, he almost overdid140 the part, for as the first week after his return went by, Philip, firmly determined141 to be just to Raymond, thought he saw in him some kind of brotherly affection for Colin, which the latter either missed or intentionally142 failed to respond to. There could be no harm in a seasonable word, and when, one morning Raymond, after half a dozen chill responses from his brother, had left him and Colin together, Philip thought that the seasonable word was no less than Raymond’s due. But the seasonable word had to be preceded by sympathy.
He sat down in the window seat by Colin.
“Well?” he said.
Those blue eyes, gay but veiled by suffering, answered him.
“It’s damned hard on you, Colin,” he said. “Are you getting used to it, old boy?{191}”
Colin, with one of those inimitable instinctive143 movements, laid his hand on his father’s shoulder.
“No, not a bit,” he said. “But I’ve got to. I can’t go on like this. I must feel friendly to Raymond and Violet. I must manage to rejoice in their happiness. Got any prescription144 for me, father? I’ll take it, whatever it is. Lord! How happy I used to be.”
All that Philip had missed in Rosina was here now; the tender, subtle mind, which should have been the complement145 of her beauty. His sympathy was up in arms for this beloved child of hers, and his sense of fairness elsewhere.
“Raymond’s doing his best, Colin,” he said. “I wonder....” and he paused.
“You can say nothing that will hurt me, father,” said Colin. “Go on.”
“Well, I wonder if you’re responding to that. To put it frankly146, whenever he makes any approach to you, you snub him.”
Colin lifted his head.
“Snub him?” he said. “How on earth can I snub Raymond? He’s got everything. I might as well snub God.”
This was a new aspect.
“I can’t do otherwise, father,” said the boy. “I can only just behave decently to Raymond in public and avoid him in private. Don’t bother about Raymond. Raymond hates me, and if I gave him any opportunity, he would merely gloat over me. I can’t behave differently to him; I’m doing the best I can. If you aren’t satisfied with me, I’ll go away again till it’s all over and irrevocable. Perhaps you would allow me to go back to Capri.”
“You do help me. But let’s leave Raymond out of the question. There’s a matter that bothers me much more, and that’s Violet. If I let myself go at all, I don’t know where I should be. What am I to do about her? Am I{192} right, do you think, in the way I’m behaving? We were chums—then she became to me, as I told you, so much more than a chum. I can’t get back on to the old footing with her; it would hurt too much. And she’s hurt that I don’t. I can see that. I think I was wrong to come back here at all, and yet how lovely it was! You all seemed pleased to see me—all but Raymond—and I didn’t guess the bitterness of it.”
It was inevitable148 that Philip should recall his surprise at Violet’s passivity. Colin, whose heart he knew, had been, in all outward appearance, just as passive, and he could not help wondering whether that passivity of Violet’s cloaked a tumult as profound as Colin’s. The suspicion had blinked at him before, like some flash of distant lightning; now it was a little more vivid. If that were true, if from that quarter a storm were coming up, better a thousand times that it should come now than later. Tragic149, indeed, would it be if, after she had married Raymond, it burst upon them all.... But he had nothing approaching evidence on the subject; it might well be that his wish that Violet could have loved Colin set his imagination to work on what had really no existence outside his own brain.
“I hate seeing you suffer, Colin,” he said, “and if you want to go back to Capri, of course you may. But you’ve got to get used to it some time, unless you mean to banish50 yourself from Stanier altogether. Don’t do that.”
Colin pressed his father’s arm.
“I’ll do better, father,” he said. “I’ll begin at once. Where’s Violet?”
It was in pursuance of this resolve, it must be supposed, that when Lady Yardley’s rubber of whist was over that night, Colin moved across to the open door on to the terrace where Violet was standing. In some spasm150 of impatience151 at Raymond’s touch she had just got up from the sofa where he had planted himself close to her, leaving him with an expression, half offended, half merely hungry....{193}
“Five minutes stroll outside, Vi?” he asked.
“It’s rather late,” she said.
“Right,” said Colin cheerfully, and went forth alone, whistling into the darkness.
The moment he had gone Violet regretted not having gone too. Since Colin’s return she had not had a half-hour all told alone with him, and the tension of his entire indifference to her was becoming intolerable. She had not dreamed that he would cut himself off from her with this hideous152 completeness, nor yet how much she longed for the renewal153 of the old intimacy. Bitterest of all was the fact that she meant nothing to him, for he had never been more light-heartedly gay. Where Philip, knowing what he did, saw strained and heroic effort, she saw only the contemptuous ignoring of herself and Raymond.... And now, with that same craving154 for self-torture that is an obsession155 to the luckless in love, when Colin made his first advance to her again, she must needs reject it. There was Raymond watching her, and revolt against that hungry look of his decided156 her. She stepped out on to the terrace.
Colin had come to the far end of it; his whistling directed her; and now in the strong starlight, she could see the glimmer157 of his shirt-front. She felt her knees trembling and hid the reason out of sight as she strolled, as unconcernedly as she could, towards him. Soon he perceived her and his whistling stopped.
“Hullo, Vi,” he said, “so you’ve come out after all. That’s ripping.”
They were close to each other now, and bright was the stream of starlight on him.
“Managed to tear yourself away from Raymond for five minutes?” he asked. “I was beginning to think I should never have a word with you again.”
“I? A brute?” said Colin. “What do you mean? I thought I had been conducting myself superbly....{194}”
He looked up quickly at the oblong of light that flowed from the open door into the gallery, and saw that it framed a shadow.
“Hullo, there’s Raymond,” he said, “Looking after us. Here we are, Raymond. Come and join us.”
He heard Violet’s clicked tongue of impatience.
“I had to say that,” he whispered. “He won’t come.”
Colin’s psychology159 was correct enough; Raymond had not meant to be seen, he only meant to see. Besides he had a grievance160 against Violet for her impatience just now; he was annoyed with her.
“No, thanks,” he said, “I’m going to the smoking-room.”
“That’s to punish you, Vi,” said Colin with a tremble of laughter in his voice. “But perhaps we had better go in. You mustn’t vex161 him.”
Nothing could have been better calculated.
“Is one of the conditions of my engagement that I mustn’t speak to you?” she asked. “Certainly it seems like it.”
Colin tucked his arm into Violet’s.
“Well, we’ll break it for once,” he said. “Now you’re vexed162 with me. That’s very unreasonable163 of you. You made your choice with your eyes open. You’ve chosen Raymond and Stanier. It stands to reason we can’t always be together. You can’t have Raymond and Stanier and me. It was your own doing. And I thought everything was going so well. Whenever I look up I see you and him holding hands, or else he’s kissing the back of your neck.”
“Ah!” said Violet with a little shiver.
“You’ve got to get used to it, Vi,” said he. “You’ve got to pay for having Stanier. Isn’t it worth it?”
He heard her take a quick breath; her control was swaying like a curtain in the wind.
“Oh, don’t be such a brute to me, Colin,” she said. “I hadn’t realised that—that you would desert me like this.”
Colin just passed his tongue over his lips.{195}
“Oh, that doesn’t mean anything to you,” he said.
“But it does, it does,” said she.
They were back now in the shadow of the yew-hedge, where one night she had kissed him. As he thought of that he knew that she was thinking of it too.
“Give Raymond up,” he said. “Let him and Stanier go. It will be the wisest thing you can do.”
He paused a moment, and all the witchery of the night came to the reinforcement of his charm.
“I want you, Vi,” he said. “Promise me. Give me a kiss and seal it.”
For one second she wavered, and then drew back from him.
“No, I can’t do that,” she said. “I’ll give you a kiss, but it seals no promise.”
“Kiss me then,” said he, now confident.
There was no mistaking the way in which she surrendered to him. She stood enfolded by him, lambent and burning. She knew herself to be bitterly unwise, but for the moment the sweetness was worth all the waters of Marah that should inundate164 her.
“Ah, you darling, never mind your promise,” said he. “I shall have that later. Just now it’s enough that you should hate Raymond and love me.”
She buried her face on his shoulder.
“Colin, Colin, what am I to do?” she whispered.
He could see well that, though her heart was his, the idea of giving up Stanier still strove with her. To-night she might consent to marry him; to-morrow that passion for possession might lay hands on her again. She was bruised165 but not broken, and instantly he made up his mind to tell her the secret of his mother’s letter and of the entry at the Consulate166. That would clinch168 it for ever. When she knew that by giving up Raymond and Stanier together, she retained just all she wanted out of her contract and gained her heart’s desire as well——
“What are you to do?” he said. “You are to do exactly what you are doing. You’re to cling to me, and{196} trust me. Ah, you’re entrancing! But I’ve got something to tell you, Vi, something stupendous. We must go in; I can’t tell you here, for not even the trees nor the terrace must know, though it concerns them.”
“But, Colin, about Raymond. I can’t be sure....”
“You’ve finished with Raymond, I tell you,” he said. “You’ve given him up and you’ve given up Stanier, haven’t you; you’ve given up everything?”
Some diabolical170 love of cruelty for its own sake; of torturing her by prolonging the decision which pulled at her this way and that, possessed him.
“It’s a proud hour for me, Vi,” he said. “I love Stanier as madly as you do, and you’ve given it up for me. I adore you for doing that; you’ll never repent171 it. I just hug these moments, though there must come an end to them. Let us go in, or Raymond will be looking for us again. Go straight to your room. I shall come there in five minutes, for there’s something I must tell you to-night. I must just have one look at Raymond first. That’s for my own satisfaction.”
Colin could not forego that look at Raymond. He knew how he should find him, prospering172 with a glass of whisky, disposed, as his father had said, to be brotherly, having all the winning cards in his hand. Stanier would be his, and, before that, Violet would be his, and Colin might be allowed, if he were very amiable173, to spend a week here occasionally when Raymond came to his throne, just as now he had been allowed a starlit stroll with Violet. These were indulgences that would not be noticed by his plenitude, morsels174 let fall from the abundant feast. The life only of one man, already old, lay between him and the full consummation; already his foot was on the steps where the throne was set. Just one glance then at victorious175 Raymond....
Raymond fulfilled the highest expectations. Whisky had made him magnanimous; he was pleased to have{197} granted Colin that little starlit stroll with Violet, it was a crumb59 from the master’s table. His heavy face wore a look of great complacency as his brother entered.
“Hullo, Colin,” he said. “Finished making love to Violet?”
Colin grinned. “You old brute!” he said. “Not content with having everything yourself, you must mock me for my beggary. You lucky fellow.”
He poured himself out a drink and sat down.
“Raymond, I had no idea how devoted176 Violet was to you till to-night,” he said. “I think she’s afraid to let herself go, to shew it too much.”
The grossness of Raymond, his animal proprietorship177, was never more apparent. It was enough for him to desire her.
“Oh, Vi’s all right,” he said.
Colin felt his ribs178 a-quiver with the spasm of his suppressed laughter. He distrusted his power of control if he subjected himself to further temptation.
“I’m off to bed,” he said. “I just looked in to envy you.”
“Where’s Vi?” asked Raymond.
Colin bethought himself that he did not want Raymond knocking at Violet’s door for a good-night kiss.
“Oh, she went upstairs half an hour ago,” he said. “She told me she was awfully179 sleepy. In fact, she soon got tired of me.”
He drank in a final impression of Raymond’s satisfied face and went upstairs, going first to his room, where from his locked despatch-case he took the two letters which Salvatore had given him, and which now bore the dates of March 17 and March 31. Then, passing down the long corridor, he came to her room; the door was ajar, and he rapped, softly and then entered.
Violet, in anticipation180 of his coming, had sent her maid away, and was brushing her hair, golden as Colin’s own, before her glass. Often and often in the days of their intimacy had he come in for a talk during this ritual; on{198} dry, frosty nights Violet would put out her light, and pale flashes of electricity and cracklings and sparks would follow the progress of her brush. Her hair would float up from her head and cling to Colin’s fingers as sea-weed that had lain unexpanded on the shore spreads out, floating and undulating, in the return of the tide. To-night it lay thick and unstirred, rippling181 for a moment under her brush, and then subsiding182 again into a tranquil sheet of gold.
She saw him enter in the field of her mirror and heard the click of the key as he turned it.
“Just in case Raymond takes it into his head to say good-night to you,” he said.
She had risen from her chair and stood opposite to him.
“What have you got to tell me, Colin?” she said.
He looked at her a moment with parted lips and sparkling eyes. Each seemed the perfect complement of the other; together they formed one peerless embodiment of the glory of mankind. Through them both there passed some quiver of irresistible183 attraction, and, as two globules of quick-silver roll into one, so that each is merged184 and coalesced185 in the other, so with arms interlaced and faces joined, they stood there, two no longer. Even Colin’s hatred for Raymond flickered186 for that moment and was nearly extinguished since for Violet he existed no more. Then the evil flame burned up again, and he loosed Violet’s arms from round his neck.
“Now you’re to sit and listen to me,” he said. “What I have got to tell you will take no time at all.”
He opened the envelope which he had brought with him, and drew out the two letters. He had decided not to tell Violet any more than what, when his father was dead, all the world would know.
“Salvatore Viagi gave me these,” he said. “He is my mother’s brother, you know, and I saw him at Capri. They were written by my mother to him, and announce the birth of Raymond and me and her marriage to my{199} father. Take them, Vi, look at the dates and read them in order.”
She gave him one quick glance, took them from him, read them through and gave them back to him. Then in dead silence she got up and stood close to him.
“I see,” she said. “On Uncle Philip’s death, Stanier, everything will be mine. According to those letters, that is.”
He nodded. “Yes, on the one condition, of course, that you and I are wife and husband.”
She looked at him again with a smile breaking through her gravity.
“I promised that before I knew,” she said. “And now that I know that Stanier will be mine, instead of believing that my choice forfeited187 it, it isn’t very likely that I shall change my mind.”
“There’s something else, you know, too,” he said. “You’re marrying....”
She interrupted. “I’m marrying Colin,” she said. “But as regard you. Is it horrible for you? Ah ... I’ve been thinking of myself only. Stanier and myself.”
She moved away from him and walked to the end of the room, where, pushing the blind aside, she looked out on to the terrace where they had stood this evening. As clearly as if she spoke her thoughts aloud, Colin knew what was the debate within her. It lasted but a moment.
“Colin, if—if you hate it,” she said, “tear that letter up. I’ve got you, and I would sooner lose Stanier than let you be hurt. Tear it up! Let Raymond have Stanier so long as I don’t go with it.... Oh, my dear, is it the same me, who so few weeks ago chose Raymond, and who so few hours ago wondered if I could give up Stanier, even though to get it implied marrying him? And now, nothing whatever matters but you.”
Instantly Colin felt within himself that irritation188 which love invariably produced in him. Just so had his father’s affection, except in so far as it was fruitful of material{200} benefits, fatigued189 and annoyed him, and this proposal of Violet’s, under the same monstrous190 impulsion, promised, in so far from being fruitful, to prove itself some scorching191 or freezing wind which would wither192 and blast all that he most desired. But, bridling193 his irritation, he laughed.
“That wouldn’t suit me at all,” he said, “and besides, Vi, how about honour? Stanier will be legally and rightfully yours. How on earth could I consent to the suppression of this? But lest you should think me too much of an angel—father asked me one day how my wings were getting on—I tell you quite frankly that it will be sweet as honey to send Raymond packing. My adoring you doesn’t prevent my hating him. And as for what is called irregularity in birth, who on earth cares? I don’t. I’m a Stanier all right. Look at half the dukes in England, where do they spring from? Actresses, flower-girls, the light loves of disreputable kings. Who cares? And, besides, my case is different: my father married my mother.”
Up and down his face her eyes travelled, seeing if she could detect anywhere a trace of reluctance194, and searched in vain.
“Are you quite sure, Colin?” she asked.
“Absolutely. There’s no question about it.”
Once more she held him close to her.
“Oh, it’s too much,” she whispered. “You and Stanier both mine. My heart won’t hold it all.”
“Hearts are wonderfully elastic,” said he. “One’s heart holds everything it desires, if only it can get it. Now there’s a little more to tell you.”
“Yes? Come and sit here. Tell me.”
She drew him down on to the sofa beside her.
“Well, my uncle sent me these letters,” said he, “but, naturally, they won’t be enough by themselves. It was necessary to find out what was the entry in the register of their marriage. My father had told me where it took place, at the British Consulate in Naples, and I got the Consul167 to let me see the register. I told him I wanted to make a copy of it. I saw it. The marriage apparently{201} took place not on the 31st of March, but on the 1st. But then I looked more closely, and saw that there had been an erasure195. In front of the ‘1’ there had been another figure. But whoever had made that erasure had not done it quite carefully enough. It was possible to see that a ‘3’ had been scratched out. The date as originally written was ‘31’ not ‘1.’ That tallies196 with the date on my mother’s letter.”
Colin’s voice took on an expression of tenderness, incredibly sweet.
“Vi, darling,” he said, “you must try to forgive my father, if it was he who made or caused to be made that erasure which might so easily have passed unnoticed, as indeed it did, for when the Consul prepared my copy with the original he saw nothing of it; word by word he went over the two together. You must forgive him, though it was a wicked and a terrible fraud that my father—I suppose—practised, for unless he had other children, he was robbing you of all that was rightfully yours.
“I think the reconstruction197 of it is easy enough. My mother died, and he was determined that his son, one of them, should succeed. I imagine he made, or procured198 the making, of that erasure after my mother’s death. He had meant to marry her, indeed he did marry her, and I think he must have desired to repair the wrong, the bitter wrong, he did her in the person of her children. I’ve got something to forgive him, too, and willingly I do that. We must both forgive him, Vi. I the bastard199, and you the heiress of Stanier.”
Violet would have forgiven Satan himself for all the evil wrought67 on the face of the earth from the day when first he set foot in Paradise.
“Oh, Colin, yes,” she said. “Freely, freely!”
“That’s sweet of you. That is a great weight off my mind. And you’ll make your forgiveness effective, Vi?”
She did not grasp this.
“In what way?” she asked.
“I mean that you won’t want to make an exposure of{202} this now,” said he. “I should like my father never to know that I have found out what he did. I should like him to die thinking that Raymond will succeed him, and that his fraud is undiscovered. Of course, you would be within your rights if you insisted on being established as the heiress to Stanier now. There are certain revenues, certain properties always made over to the heir on coming of age, and Raymond and I come of age in a few months. Can you let Raymond enjoy them for my father’s sake? He has always been amazingly good to me.”
“Oh, Colin, what a question!” she said. “What do you take me for? Would that be forgiveness?”
“That’s settled then; bless you for that. The only objection is that Raymond scores for the present, but that can’t be helped. And there’s just one thing more. About—about what has happened between us. Shall I tell my father to-morrow? Then we can settle how Raymond is to be told.”
“Oh, Colin, to-morrow?” said she. “So soon?”
He laughed. “To-night if you like,” he said, “though it’s rather late. Of course, if you want to put it off, and have Raymond nosing about you still like a ferret....”
“Don’t!”
“He shan’t then. Now I must go. One kiss, Vi.”
She clung to him. “I’m frightened of Raymond,” she said. “What will he do?”
“Howl like a wounded bear, I suppose. Hullo!”
There was the sound of knocking at the door, and Raymond’s voice:
“Violet,” he said. “May I come in; just to say good-night?”
Colin frowned. “Been listening, probably,” he whispered, “and heard voices.”
Without pause he went to the door, and turned the key and handle together.
“Come in, Raymond,” he said as he opened it. “Violet’s been talking of nothing but you. So here we all{203} are, bride and bridegroom and best man. Let’s have one cigarette before we all go to bed.”
Raymond wore his most savage200 look. “I thought you had gone to bed,” he said, “and I thought you said Violet had gone to bed half an hour before that?”
“Oh, Raymond, don’t be vexed,” said Colin. “Haven’t you got everything?”
In just such a voice, dexterously201 convincing, had he pleaded with Violet that she should forgive his father....
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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tact
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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noted
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omission
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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forth
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chauffeur
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inquiries
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vigilant
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proximity
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sullen
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illustrated
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lust
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disturbance
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distraction
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vibration
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encompassed
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imminence
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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tranquillity
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tranquil
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tumult
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impervious
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cane
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quenching
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countless
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importunity
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diadem
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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Founder
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longing
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frailties
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prudently
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yews
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advent
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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stiflingly
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| adv. 令人窒息地(气闷地，沉闷地) | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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63
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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64
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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65
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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66
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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67
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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68
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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69
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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70
encompassing
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| v.围绕( encompass的现在分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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71
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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72
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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73
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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74
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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75
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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76
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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77
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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78
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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79
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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80
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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81
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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82
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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83
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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84
acquiescing
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的现在分词 ) | |
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85
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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86
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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87
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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88
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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89
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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90
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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91
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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92
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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93
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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94
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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95
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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96
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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97
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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98
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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99
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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100
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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101
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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102
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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103
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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104
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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105
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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106
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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107
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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108
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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109
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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110
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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111
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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112
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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114
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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115
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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116
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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117
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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118
bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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119
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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121
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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122
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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123
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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124
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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125
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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126
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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127
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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128
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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130
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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131
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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132
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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133
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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134
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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135
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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136
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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137
gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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138
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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139
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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140
overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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141
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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142
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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143
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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144
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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145
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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146
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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147
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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148
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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149
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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150
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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151
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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152
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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153
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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154
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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155
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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156
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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157
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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158
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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159
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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160
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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161
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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162
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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163
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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164
inundate
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| vt.淹没，泛滥，压倒 | |
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165
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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166
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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167
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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168
clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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169
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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170
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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171
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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172
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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173
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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174
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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175
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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176
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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177
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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178
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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179
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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180
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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181
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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182
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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183
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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184
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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185
coalesced
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| v.联合，合并( coalesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
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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187
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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189
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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190
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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191
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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192
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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193
bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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194
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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195
erasure
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| n.擦掉，删去；删掉的词；消音；抹音 | |
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196
tallies
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| n.账( tally的名词复数 )；符合；（计数的）签；标签v.计算，清点( tally的第三人称单数 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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197
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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198
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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199
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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200
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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201
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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