"Master's put out terrible," was the account I had from one of the Chayleigh servants, and, odd and horrid2 as it sounds, I really think that is the best description of poor Mr. Carteret's state of mind. Anything he is not used to "puts him out," and he is singularly little used to trouble or emotion of any kind.
"He wanders about in a way distressing3 to behold4, and cannot be induced to occupy himself. 'There ain't no keeping him in the study,' Foster said to me; 'and as much as stick a pin in a butterfly, Mr. James nor Miss Margaret can't indoose him to do.'
"He seems to have lost all his taste for his specimens5, but Margaret has hit upon a great idea for his relief and amusement. This is no other than to talk to her father about the interest which the poor woman who is gone took in his pursuits, and how much she would have regretted his abandonment of them.
"There is a touch of pious6 fraud in this, for no one can possibly know better than Margaret that Mrs. Carteret never took any interest in anything but herself, and was rather more indifferent to her husband's pursuits than to any other matters; but the fraud is pious and successful.
"I have just had a note from her telling me he is more cheerful, and has been watching her dusting specimens this morning. She also says--but, on second thoughts, I enclose the note.
"With all this, my darling Madge has been very candid7 and sincere. She has felt the awfulness and the import of the event most deeply, but she has not pretended to a personal sorrow which it is impossible she should feel, and I honour her for that--indeed, I honour her for everything, and love her better every day.
"Mr. Dugdale has taken Mrs. Carteret's death to heart terribly. She was sincerely attached to him, I believe, and I fancy he was the only person in the world who loved her, while he managed her perfectly8, and quite understood her queer disposition9. I have seen very little of him, but Margaret has told me a good deal about him.
"If you remember, we used to think that he and she did not get on well together--that she did not like him. With all her reserve, Margaret is not difficult to understand; she may keep facts to herself, but she does not disguise feelings, and I am glad to think she and Mr. Dugdale get on nicely now that they are in such responsible charge at Chayleigh.
"If my letter bores you, my dear Fitz, I really cannot help it, for my head and my heart are both full of Margaret. The Martleys and Forbeses sent a strong contingent10 down to the funeral, and two of the Martleys stayed a week: very handsome young men, not in the least like their sister, who was very much older.
"I could not help thinking how vexed11 the poor woman would have been if she could have seen Henry Hartley so captivated by her stepdaughter. He fell in love with Margaret with quite old-fashioned celerity, but she calmly ignored him and his love. Mr. Dugdale saw it plainly, and did not like it by any means. They have all had enough of the Martleys, I fancy.
"The young men took their sister's death very easily; the eldest12 was evidently glad to get away; and I cannot be very much surprised or very angry. This event will make a great difference to Margaret. I have always had a presentiment--I have, how ever you may laugh--that she would not have to leave Chayleigh. Of course, she cannot think of doing so now; she must remain with her father.
"Captain Carteret is on his way home, Mr. Dugdale came here yesterday with Margaret for the first time. I believe something was said about his leaving Chayleigh and going back to Oxford13, but Mr. Carteret would not hear of it; he clings to Mr. Dugdale more even than to Margaret. So they will settle down together, no doubt. It is a good thing Captain Carteret was not here sooner; the gloom will have pretty well dispersed14 before he comes.
"Your account of the Deane is delightful15. I think you are quite right not to refurnish the drawing-rooms just yet. Perhaps I might screw up my courage to going there in summer, and then I could choose colours, and so on, for you. You do not really want drawing-rooms at present, and I should not mind anything of the kind if I were you. You may not remain at the Deane long. Indeed, I hope you are thinking of coming back to me; I want to consult you about such a lot of things; and I hate letter-writing, and explain myself so badly."
For a lady who hated letter-writing, Lady Davyntry indulged in it a good deal; and, with singular self-denial, devoted16 herself to keeping her brother thoroughly17 well informed concerning affairs in the neighbourhood.
She would, priding herself on her astuteness18 and believing herself inscrutably clever in the performance, send him pages of gossiping details about other people than the dwellers19 at Chayleigh; she would tell him about the Croftons, the Crokers, and the Willises, about friends in town and friends in foreign parts, whenever it appeared to her that her insistence21 upon Chayleigh was becoming too marked.
By such artful dodges22 did she seek to divert Mr. Baldwin's suspicions that she cherished the profound design of marrying him to her friend.
Her brother, on his part, carefully forbore to point out the inconsistency between her dislike of letter-writing and the frequency of her correspondence. He understood the guileless and amiable23 Eleanor thoroughly, and smiled over her letters as he thought how charmingly transparent24 the artifice25 was, and how easily he could have disposed of it all, had it not precisely26 coincided with his own wishes.
Time hung heavily on Mr. Baldwin's hands in the midst of his great possessions, and in the presence of his popularity with an assiduous neighbourhood. He had set his heart, he was ready to stake his whole future, upon winning the wearied heart of the pale-faced girl who had brought something into his life which had never been there before, and the hours and days lingered until the time should come which he had set before himself as fitting for the attempt.
Her first year of widowhood would soon have elapsed, and then he might, without offence, tell her that he loved her. So he named that time, in his own mind, for his return to Davyntry.
When Mrs. Carteret's death occurred, Mr. Baldwin did not alter his plan. The change in Margaret's prospects27, the necessity for her remaining with her father, the fact that her sphere of duty was strictly28 defined now, gave him no uneasiness.
He would never ask her to leave her father. He knew Mr. Carteret well. It did not take much time or pains to acquire that knowledge, and he knew he had no strong attachment29 to Chayleigh. If he could but persuade Margaret to come and reign20 at the Deane, he had no doubt her father would readily go there too.
He had a conviction, which, after all, was not presumptuous30 for a man of his fortune and station to entertain, that in Margaret's brother he should find a friend. James Dugdale had told him a little of the family history--had given him a vague notion of the part Haldane had taken in the circumstances which had led to Margaret's disastrous31 marriage; and he felt that the young man would naturally rejoice that such a total change should be wrought32 in the life of his sister, who had paid so dearly for her imprudence.
A man of peculiarly simple tastes and habits, of unaffected ways of thinking about himself and other people, it rarely occurred to Fitzwilliam Baldwin to take his wealth into account; but he did so now, very reasonably. "It would not weigh with her for a minute," he thought; "but it will with them, and it will be pleasant to have them all for, and not against, me."
Life at Chayleigh had settled down again. The delusive33 appearance of immutability34 which human affairs assume--human affairs which are but a shifting quicksand--had established itself. The establishment, presided over by Margaret, went on in the ordinary way, the servants highly appreciating the change of régime; and Mr. Carteret was beginning to dispose of the days after his old fashion, when Mr. Baldwin returned to Davyntry, and Haldane Carteret arrived at Chayleigh.
The meeting between the brother and sister was frankly35 affectionate; the renewal36 of their companionship was delightful to both. Margaret thought her brother wonderfully improved. He was a handsome, manly37, soldierly fellow, who had no trace of likeness38 to his gentle, studious, feeble father, but whose face, despite its bronzed skin and its thick dark moustache, awakened39 strange memories in Mr. Carteret's placid40 breast.
A curious mental phenomenon took place in the experience of Haldane's father. A little while ago, and he was fretting41 for Mrs. Carteret--if he had said he was wretchedly uncomfortable it would have been a more correct description of his state of mind; but he chose to call himself, to himself, profoundly miserable42--and now, since Haldane came home, he had almost forgotten her.
True, he still sat mopingly in his chair, and stared vacantly out of the window, when they left him alone; but the reverie which filled those hours was no longer what it had been. With his son in his bright strong manhood, with his daughter in her womanhood--early shadowed, indeed, but beautiful--beside him, his heart turned to the past, and a gentle figure, a fair delicate face, long since turned to dust, kept him ghostly company in his solitude43.
Margaret was much surprised when, shortly after Haldane's return, Mr. Carteret began to talk to her one day about her mother, and spoke44 of her with a cheerful freshness of remembrance which she had never supposed him to entertain.
"The colours she preferred, the books she liked, the places they had visited together, certain fancies she had in her illness--the smallest things, I assure you--is it not wonderful?" Margaret had asked of Lady Davyntry, as she was telling her this strange circumstance. "I never was more surprised, and, I need not say, delighted; I don't think poor Mrs. Carteret's fancies and sayings remain so fresh in his memory. After so many years, too! The fact is, I don't believe she ever really filled my mother's place at all."
Margaret was seated on a cushion in the bay of a great window in the drawing-room at Davyntry as she spoke thus. Her heavy bonnet45 and veil were thrown on the floor beside her, her pale, clear, speaking face, the eyes bright and humid, the lips parted eagerly, and the flickering46 light, which emotion always diffused47 over her face, playing on her features. Lady Davyntry stood in the window, and looked down upon her.
"I am sure she never did," said the impulsive48 Eleanor; "how could she? It is all very well for a man to marry again, as your father did, when he has little children, and no one but servants to look after them; but, of course, a second marriage never can be the same thing. All the romance of life is over, you know, and one knows how much fancy there is in everything; and, in fact, I can't understand it myself--not for a woman, I mean, who has been happy. A man is different."
And then Lady Davyntry suddenly discovered that, in proclaiming her general opinion, she was saying exactly the opposite to what she thought in the particular case in which she was most deeply interested, and stopped, very abruptly49 and awkwardly, and blushing painfully. But Margaret did not seem to perceive her embarrassment50. Her hands were pressed together; her eyes looked out strangely, eagerly; her words came as though she had no control of them.
"And do you think an unhappy woman--one who has found nothing in her marriage but misery51 and degradation--one who has nothing of the dreams and fancies of her youth left for retrospection but sickening deceit and a horrible cheating self-delusion52--one who has no good, or pure, or gentle, or upright recollection to cherish of a past which was all a lie, a base infamous53 lie--do you think a woman with a story like that in her life ought to marry again? Do you think--you, Eleanor, who are truth and honour themselves, and who, I suppose, in all your life never said, or did, or saw, or heard anything for which you have a right to blush or ought to wish to forget--do you think that a woman with a story like that in her life ought to marry? Do you think she ought to link her life to that of any man, however he might love her and pity her, and be prepared to bear with her, while she had to look back upon such a past, however guiltless she might be in it--do you think this, Eleanor? Tell me plainly the truth."
She put her hand up, and caught one of her friend's hands in hers. Lady Davyntry still stood and looked at her, and, laying her disengaged hand on her shoulder, answered her passionate54 question.
"Do I? Indeed I do, Margaret. Tell me, are you asking me this for yourself? Are you asking me if I think, because you have had the least-deserved misfortune to have been the wife of a bad man, and you have been released from him, you are to carry the chain in fancy which has been taken off you in reality? It's unlike you; it is morbid55 to ask, to think of such a thing. What are you but a young girl still? Are you to do penance56 all your life for the sins of another? No, no, Margaret; silent as you are about your past, you are asking me this question in reference to yourself. Is it not so? Do not place a half-confidence in me. Do not let a delusion like this take possession of your mind, and blight57 your future as your past has been blighted58."
"There is nothing in my question," said Margaret, drawing her hand away from Lady Davyntry, and rising; "nothing in the sense you mean. My future seems plain and clear enough now. My place in the world is fixed59, I fancy; but sometimes, Eleanor, sometimes the past, of which I have never spoken to you, of which I cannot speak, comes back to me, not only in its own dreadful shape, but with a dim undefined threat in it, and makes me afraid. You don't understand me; well for you that you do not. I trust you never may."
She picked up her bonnet and tied it on, and was folding her shawl round her, while Lady Davyntry stood by, longing61 to speak out all that was in her mind, and yet fearing to damage her own hopes by doing so and learning the worst, when the door opened, and Haldane Carteret and Mr. Baldwin came into the room.
Margaret was standing62 with her back towards the door, and facing a mirror, in which Lady Davyntry saw her face reflected. It was startlingly pale, and there was a wild look of pain in the eyes, quite other than sadness--sometimes a little stern--which was their usual expression.
Lady Davyntry could hardly reply to the cheery greeting of Haldane, so much was she struck by Margaret's change of countenance63. Margaret spoke hurriedly to Mr. Baldwin. The only one of the four who did not know that there was a consciousness on the part of all the others that something unusual had taken place was Haldane.
"I have come to fetch you home, Madge," he said, "and then I'm going out for a ride with Baldwin, and we dine with the Croftons, so you won't see much of me to-day. Are you ready?"
"Quite ready," said Margaret; and she kissed Lady Davyntry, and took so hurried a leave of her that her friend had not time to ask her a question. She was about to give Mr. Baldwin her hand, and bid him good-bye too, but he said he was going their way--his horses might be taken to Chayleigh.
When she was left alone, Lady Davyntry tried to disentangle her impressions of what had occurred. At last she thought she saw the meaning of it all. Margaret had found out Mr. Baldwin's not-carefully-preserved secret, even as she (Eleanor) had found it out, and she loved him. Yes, his sister was sure of it. She had all the acuteness which keen feeling and true sympathy give, and which is truer in emergencies than that of mere64 intellectual cleverness, and she knew that a sharp and severe struggle was raging in the young widow's heart.
She understood it all now--she understood that Margaret shrank from the avowal65 to herself that she had learned to love and trust again, that she had not been able to carry out the expiatory66 process which she had resolved--the process of loneliness and labour of self-repression, and the abnegation of the true happiness to be had even in this world, because she had been beguiled67 by the false. She understood that Margaret, however believing and trusting in Fitzwilliam Baldwin's love, would feel that there was no equality between them, and that the serene68 and beautiful fancies of a happy girl were not for her, while all the illusion and gladness of life's early days still were his. Intuitively Lady Davyntry understood it all; the face she had seen in the glass, when her brother's entrance had surprised Margaret in one of her rare moments of emotion, had made it all plain to her.
"She will refuse him," Eleanor thought; "she will refuse him. These two, the most suited to one another, the best calculated to be happy of any people I ever knew--the very ideal of a well-matched pair--will be kept apart by a chimera69. So the evil of that vile70 man's life lives after him, and he has the power to make her and others miserable, though he is in his grave. Shall I speak openly to Fitzwilliam? I cannot do harm now. No man could be more bent71 upon anything than he is on marrying Margaret. I may as well let him know--if, indeed, he has not guessed it--how much I wish it too."
Lady Davyntry's nature, like her brother's, was essentially72 sunny and cheerful; so she soon roused herself from the depression her discovery had caused her.
"If she does refuse him," thought Eleanor, after long cogitating73 with herself, "she cannot refuse to tell him why. She is too sincere--she will not deny that she loves him, and then she will be persuaded out of this morbid fancy by degrees. After all, it will only be a case of waiting. I must have patience, and Fitzwilliam must have patience too. Margaret is worth waiting for. I shall see her at the Deane yet."
It was a source of great satisfaction to Lady Davyntry to remember that Margaret was settled at Chayleigh, that Mr. Baldwin need not fear her removal--that, in fact, he had every external advantage on his side.
"How strangely things happen!" she thought. "Really, it seems as if that poor woman's death were quite providential. If she had lived, I don't see how Margaret could have possibly stayed at Chayleigh; and now she cannot get away. Even if she had remained, she could not have been in such a pleasant and independent position."
And then Lady Davyntry, who possessed74 in perfection the fine feminine facility for looking at every subject from exclusively her own point of view, came to the comfortable conclusion that poor Mrs. Carteret's death was "all for the best."
Haldane Carteret retained all his boyish affection for James Dugdale. His old tutor loved him, too, better than any one in the world save Margaret; and the young man's sojourn75 at home was a bright spot in the life of the older man, whose life had in it very little brightness. All that James knew of Margaret's story he had told Haldane by letter, and now the subject was but rarely revived between them.
Haldane was not a very acute observer. He rarely troubled himself with the reflective part of life; he had bright animal spirits, good health, and was now of an active temperament76 very different from the promise of his boyhood. The experiment of letting him follow his military inclinations77 had turned out admirably. His father was very fond of him, very proud of him, and kept out of his way as much as possible. His presence had the best possible effect on Margaret, who was beginning to bloom again, not only with the roses, but with the spirits of her girlish days.
Haldane was immensely delighted with Mr. Baldwin. It was a new experience to him that a man of such large fortune, such assured position, such high intellectual attainments78, still young and flattered by the world, should be of so unworldly a spirit, so pure of heart and life, and so entirely79 unassuming. In modern parlance80, Mr. Baldwin was an undeniable "swell," but he never seemed to remember the circumstance except when an act of generosity81, or the exercise of privilege in the cause of good, was required.
"I'll tell you what, Dugdale," Haldane Carteret said to his old friend as they strolled together in the fields by the clump82 of beeches83 which Margaret had said she hated, "there are not many such fellows going as Baldwin!"
"Knocking about the world teaches a fellow to appreciate a man like that," continued Haldane. "It's very strange to remember how one has been taken in by people. There was that ruffian Hungerford, for instance. By the bye,"--and Haldane stood still, and looked into James's face to make his words more emphatic,--"I think Baldwin is uncommonly86 attentive87 to Madge, don't you?"
"N-no," said James hesitatingly; "I can't say I noticed anything of the kind."
"Look out, then, and you will notice it. You're not an observing person, you know--not a lady's man exactly--neither am I; but I think I know the symptoms of that sort of thing when I see them; and I don't think Baldwin is staying at Davyntry altogether on account of his sister. I say, James, what a grand thing it would be, wouldn't it?"
"What a grand thing what would be?" asked Dugdale in an impatient tone.
"If Madge likes him, and he likes her, and they make a match of it. It would be a fine marriage for any girl, and it would be a great thing to have all the past put out of her mind. Fate owes her a good turn, poor girl!"
And James? Did not Fate owe him a good turn? If so, he thought sadly, the debt was not likely to be paid. The change in Margaret's manner, the increased frankness, the ready kindness she showed him now, had ceased to bring him any happiness. He did not deceive himself now as to its source.
He was nothing more to her than he had ever been; but, instead of the old bitterness, a root of sweetness was springing up in her heart, and its natural outcome was the oblivion of her former feelings, the remission of all past and gone offences from those who would but be doubly indifferent to her under the influence of this new motive88 in her life.
For a time James Dugdale yielded to the weakness which this new keen suffering produced. He felt that life had been always bitter for him--there was no mercy, no gentleness in it at all.
When he looked at Margaret and noted89 the change in her face--saw how the light had come back into the eyes, the roundness to the clear pale cheeks, the softness to the square brow and the small lips, and interpreted the change aright, notwithstanding the fits of heavy sadness which still came over her--he would feel very tired of life. Impossible not to envy the lot which was never to be his--the destiny of those who are dowered with love.
Never to be, never to have been, the first object in life to any one is a melancholy90 fate, he would think--one for which no general affection, or appreciation91, not even the most intoxicating92 gift of fame, could ever compensate93.
This was his lot, and he knew it, and did not attempt to persuade himself that it was not very hard and bitter to submit to. After a time he should be able to look at the matter from the unselfish point of view of Margaret's happiness; but not yet. He had never quite realised the nature and extent of his own fears, until Haldane's words had put the truth before him in the airy and cheerful manner related. Of course he was right; of course it would be a "great match," and a "fine thing:" of course it would be the most complete reparation of all that Fate had wrought against Margaret--the most total reverse of her life which could be devised.
The love of such a man--as James, rigidly94 just in all his pain, acknowledged Fitzwilliam Baldwin to be--had in itself such elements of dignity and honour, such power of rehabilitation95 for the wounded spirit of the woman he loved, that it was an act of utter oblivion.
From the unassailable height of her position, as Mr. Baldwin's wife, Margaret might look down upon the pigmy cares of coarse remark and prying96 curiosity, as on all the sordid97 and common anxieties of material life from which she had once suffered so keenly.
He knew all this--he who would, he believed, have suffered anything in the cause of her welfare. Yes, and so he would, anything but just the thing he was appointed to suffer; and he could not bring himself to bear it, not yet. He forgot how he had acknowledged, when she returned to Chayleigh, that she could not continue to live there, that the dead level of life there would be intolerable to her who had breathed the atmosphere of storm and been tossed on the waves of trouble. She was too young to find refuge in calm; the peace which is the paradise of age which has suffered, is the prison of suffering youth.
He knew all this, and yet he murmured against the destiny that was going to release her, without penalty or price--that was going to crown her life with happiness. He murmured, he revolted, he raged; and then he submitted, as we all must, to everything.
From this state of feeling to an intense longing to know the truth, to have it all over and done with--to be quite certain that Margaret had put the old life from her, and with it all the ties which existed between her and him; that she was going into a sphere in which he could have no place--was a natural transition for James Dugdale's feverish98, sensitive temperament.
He watched Margaret and her friend; he understood Lady Davyntry's feelings perfectly, and owed her no grudge99 for them; he rather honoured her as more large-minded and disinterested100 than most women. Of course she coveted101 such a prize as Margaret for her brother. To the rich, treasures, was the judgment102 and the way of the world.
He watched Margaret and her lover. Yes, her lover--he forced himself to give him that kingly title in his thoughts, and he thought, he knew, he hoped it might soon come--that suspense103, at least, would be over, and nothing would remain for him but to accustom104 himself to the new order of things.
Full of these thoughts, he sought Margaret, one beautiful day in May, in the pleasaunce. He had seen her walking on the lawn. She had exchanged a few sentences with him as she passed the windows of Mr. Carteret's study, where James was sitting, and he had promised to join her presently, when her father released him. He was anxious to tell her that he had heard again from Hayes Meredith. When he joined her he held a letter in his hand.
"Papa has been bothering you about those dreadful bats, hasn't he, James?" asked Margaret with a smile; "I will take my turn at them this afternoon."
"O no," he said; "but I wanted to see you before you went out, because I have a letter from Melbourne."
"It is very short. Meredith merely says he cannot come to England, or send his son for some time--not for a year, indeed. There is a money difficulty out there, and Mrs. Meredith is in delicate health."
"Indeed! I am sorry for that. So master Robert must put up with colonial life for a little longer."
"Yes," replied James; "and I am not sorry. The longer my responsibility as regards that young gentleman is deferred106 the better. Still, I should like to see Meredith. Shouldn't you, Margaret?
"No," she said quickly, and in a tone of decision, "I should not, James. Not because I am ungrateful--no, indeed--but because anything, any one connected with that dreadful time I would shun107 by any lawful108 means. You don't know how I dread60 any mention of it, how I shrink from any thought of it. You don't--you can't--it is like a curse from which I never can escape. If"--she continued vehemently--"if Hayes Meredith came into this house, if any one from that place came, I should feel it was an evil omen--I should be sure it could only be to bring me misery. Very superstitious109, very wrong, very weak,--is it not, James?--I know; but it is perfectly true, and stronger than I--"
James looked at her in agitated111 surprise, and put the letter, which she had made no motion to take from him, into his pocket.
At that moment the footman approached them, coming from the house.
James glanced at Margaret's white face and tearful eyes, and went forward to intercept112 the servant before he should be near enough lo discover them also.
"A letter from Davyntry, for Mrs. Hungerford, sir," said the man.
"Is there any answer required?"
"I don't know, sir."
James brought the letter--a very thick one--to Margaret.
"Just open this," he said, "and see if there's an answer."
She broke the seal of the envelope, which was directed in Lady Davyntry's hand, and drew out, not a letter from her friend, but a second sealed envelope, with her name upon it. The writing was well known to her; it was Mr. Baldwin's. The outer cover fell to the ground, as she stood with the enclosure in her hand, James looking at her and at it.
"There's--there's no answer," she said. She had not made the slightest attempt to open the missive.
James Dugdale delivered the message to the servant, who went back to the house, and then he turned away down another path and struck into the fields.
END OF VOL. I.
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；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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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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distressing
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behold
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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pious
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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eldest
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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delightful
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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thoroughly
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astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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19
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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22
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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23
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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24
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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25
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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27
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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28
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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29
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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30
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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31
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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32
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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33
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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34
immutability
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| n.不变(性) | |
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35
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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36
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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37
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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38
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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39
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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40
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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41
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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44
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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45
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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46
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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47
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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48
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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49
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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50
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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51
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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55
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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56
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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57
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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62
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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63
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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expiatory
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| adj.赎罪的，补偿的 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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68
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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71
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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72
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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73
cogitating
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| v.认真思考，深思熟虑( cogitate的现在分词 ) | |
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74
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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75
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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76
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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77
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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78
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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79
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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80
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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81
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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82
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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83
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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84
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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85
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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86
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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87
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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88
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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89
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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90
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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91
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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92
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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93
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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94
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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95
rehabilitation
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| n.康复，悔过自新，修复，复兴，复职，复位 | |
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96
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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97
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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98
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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99
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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100
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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101
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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102
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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103
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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104
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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105
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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106
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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107
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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108
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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109
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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110
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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111
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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112
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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