Thus James thought; but in thus thinking he did not rightly understand Margaret. Her mind was more capacious, her nature was more stedfast, than he knew, and she had measured the depth and the strength of his love for her more accurately9 than he guessed, and held it in more dear, grateful, and compassionate10 remembrance than he would have dared to hope. At the very time when he was writing to her, Margaret, in her sunny Italian home, was thinking and talking of James to her husband and to Lady Davyntry, who had always entertained much regard for Mr. Dugdale of an unintelligible11 nature, for she admitted readily that she did not understand him.
"Nothing could be more acceptable to Gerty's godfather," Margaret was saying, "than a portrait of Gerty--and of me. He shall have the small one we have ordered; and the large one for papa must be begun as soon as we get his answer to my last letter."
"You ought to have heard from him before this about it, Madge, should you not?" asked Lady Davyntry, looking up from her work; "it is time for a letter."
"Not quite, according to papa's measurement, Nelly. He generally takes a fortnight to make up his mind about any question he is asked, and then another fortnight to put the result on paper. I had a letter from James, you know, but he said nothing about the picture."
"We'll have it begun at once, Margaret," said Mr. Baldwin, who was standing12 by the verandah, looking out upon the shining, blue, foam-flecked sea. "I don't like a thing of that kind being put off. I wonder Dugdale does not answer for your father. And, by the bye," he continued, crossing the room, and taking a seat beside his wife, "they are tolerably busy just now at Chayleigh; it must be about the time of Mr. Meredith's arrival. What date did Dugdale mention?"
"He thought about the 25th," said Margaret.
As she spoke14, the colour in her cheek waned15, and there was a slight change in the expression of her face, which was a bright face now, but always mobile and a sure index to her feelings; a change which indicated to her husband, on whom no look of hers was ever lost, that the mention of Hayes Meredith's name had a disturbing effect upon her. He saw it, and understood it, and it vexed16 him, for, not with, her.
This was the one weakness in Margaret which troubled her perfect peace and happiness, and through them his. Not all the unequalled contentment of her lot had power to obliterate17 the past for her so completely as to deprive association of its power to wound.
There was one evil which all her husband's love and care could not keep quite away from her--the dark shadow of the bad bygone days when he as yet had no place in her life. She tried hard to fulfil her promise to her husband; she lived for him as truly and completely as ever any woman lived for any man, and she was a wonderfully happy human being.
But this one weakness clung to her still. The feeling of dread18, misgiving19, reluctance20 with which she had heard at first of Hayes Meredith's intention of coming to England, had never changed or lessened21. She tried to escape from it, to forget it; she condemned22 her own weakness much more severely23 than Mr. Baldwin condemned it, but there it remained all the same, as present as if she had not condemned it at all. She had felt that she escaped much by being abroad when Mr. Meredith should arrive, she had blushed for her ingratitude25 in feeling it, she had persuaded herself that when he should have arrived, and she should know that he was in England, this strange, for the present unconquerable, feeling might wear off. It must be in a great measure nervous, she thought; it had come upon her so often and oppressively before her child's birth--surely it would vanish then. Time had brought her such immeasurably rich compensation, "good measure, pressed down, and running over," she had but this one thing more to ask of time, and that would come.
It was on a glorious day, even for Naples, that Fitzwilliam Baldwin, happily alone when it arrived, received James Dugdale's letter. Margaret, her child, and Lady Davyntry had gone out, intending to remain away for some hours, to the villa26 of friends of Eleanor's, who rejoiced immensely in the society of the English family. Mr. Baldwin was to join them in the afternoon, a sociable27 arrangement tending to rescue the ladies from boredom28, without subjecting the gentleman to the same.
The writing of the letter which came to the beautiful villa by the sea, that glorious day, had been attended with difficulties which are not easily described. Partly from his knowledge of the man, and partly from the gift of insight and sympathy which he possessed29 in a rare degree, James Dugdale could enter into the perplexity and intricacy of the trouble of which he was the harbinger, and could follow the inevitable30 workings of Mr. Baldwin's mind under the circumstances. Meredith had at first proposed that the truth should not be told to Baldwin, that he should only be prepared for important news of an unpleasant character, and urged to return as speedily as possible. But James would not agree to this.
"No," he said, "the truth must be told, and borne somehow; and a plain simple statement of it to a man like Baldwin is the best thing to be done, and will enable him to bear it best. If he is kept in suspense31, he will be unable to keep her from suspicion, and that is the great point for him to secure."
That Mr. Baldwin would exert himself to the utmost to conceal32 his feelings until they reached England, James did not doubt; and that he would acquiesce33 in their view of the case he felt assured. With this view, and in this spirit, the terrible letter was written; how it was read, how the full knowledge of the meaning of its contents was endured, no human being ever knew.
In the midst of the great bewilderment which fell upon Fitzwilliam Baldwin, while he sat with his eyes fixed34 upon Dugdale's letter, in the midst of the rush of wildly-varying but all-painful feeling which took possession of him, two things were uppermost in his mind: the one that the news which had reached him might be hidden until their arrival in England from Margaret, the other that the birth of a son would set this dreadful matter right, as far as it was capable of rectification35.
As the hours during which he was absorbed in deep and agonising reverie wore away, he saw these two points more and more clearly, and began to take comfort from them. Dugdale had laid so much stress in his letter upon the certainty of the truth being known to no one but Meredith and himself, upon the feasibility of such prompt and ready action, that it would be necessary only to let Margaret learn the need of the second marriage ceremony just before the time of its performance, and upon the fortunate circumstance that the little one so unintentionally wronged would be placed beyond the reach of injury when the expected event should have taken place, that the heart-stricken reader could not but see the force of his arguments.
He thought very little of himself in all this. A swift sharp pang36 of regret when he felt that he had failed in the great task he had set himself, the high privilege he had striven for--that the woman whom he loved with such love as his experience told him men very rarely had to bestow37, was not placed by that love, and all the defences with which it had surrounded her, beyond the reach of the stings of fortune--a piercing, agonising sense of defeat, of failure,--and all he suffered in his own person, on his own account, was finished and over. But for her, for Margaret--she who, in the midst of her happiness, in the summertide of her pride, and the security of her good fortune, dreaded38 the slightest, most passing reference to the past, whose sensitiveness and delicacy39 was tortured even now with a sense of degradation40 in the clinging of the old associations of the past--for her, he suffered as much as it was in his nature--which had largely the faculty41 of pain--to suffer.
When the time drew near at which he must prepare to meet Margaret, to find himself under her calm, but, where he was concerned, keen observation, forced to deceive her in fact, and to feign42 a state of spirits utterly43 foreign to the truth, he started up with a sudden fear that the havoc44 which had been at work within him might have made its mark upon his face. He knew that his wife--and when the dear familiar word came into his thoughts, he shuddered45 at the sudden realisation it forced upon him of the awful truth, she was not his wife--that Margaret would detect trouble in his face with unerring keenness and certainty.
He must devise a pretext46 for their sudden return, Dugdale had said in the letter. Of course, and it must be found, must be decided47 upon, at once. He stood still before a mirror and looked at his face. It was pale and haggard, as though he had gone through a long illness, and had grown suddenly older in it. The pretext which would account to Margaret for this face of his must needs be a serious one. And if it must, why not make it the true pretext? Could he devise to tell her any trouble, loss, or calamity48 affecting him which she would not share to the full? Were they not, indeed, and in the holiest truth of that mysterious tie of love, one? Would she not grieve as much for an imaginary evil, if it could thus affect him, as for the real cross which she would have to carry? At first, his wondering gaze upon his own changed face in the glass, Fitzwilliam Baldwin thought--"Yes, I may as well tell her the truth; she cannot take it worse than she will take anything affecting me only!"
But, again, a little reflection stopped him. If the truth were revealed to Margaret now, it would be so far different from any trouble that could come to them in the ordinary course of their united life, that it must sever24 them. From the instant that Margaret should know that she was not his wife there would be no more liberty for her, but restraint between them, and the action of a feeling which would take strong root in her delicate and sensitive mind. No, he must guard her, as her warmhearted but cool-judging friends had decided, against the discovery--he should win her forgiveness afterwards for a small deception49 involving so much to be gained in this terrible crisis of their fate.
He roamed from room to room of the beautiful villa overhanging the sea, and looked drearily50 around him on all the familiar objects associated with their everyday life. They were all familiar, true, and yet they were so strange. On them all there was the impress of the dreariness51 and the desolation which sweeps in the wake of a great shock, of a sudden event after which life can never again be the same, over all the soulless things in the midst of which we live. These were Margaret's rooms, and she was flitting about them when he saw her and them last, and they could never look the same again--neither they nor Margaret. Could it be true? Was it real, or a dream?
He stopped and pulled out James's letter, and read it again; and once more the full terrible reality struck him as with a palpable physical blow. This, then, was the fulfilment of that vague dread which Margaret confessed to having felt, that "superstitious52 terror" which had pursued her often when her life was fullest of blessings53 and happiness. James Dugdale had not erroneously estimated the confidence which he believed to exist between Fitzwilliam Baldwin and Margaret. It was thorough, perfect, absolute. There had not been a thought of her heart hidden from her husband, and therefore he was fully5 able to comprehend all the depth and bearing, the full weight and severity, of the calamity which had come upon them.
What a mockery was the beauty of the scene on which he looked! What warmth or light was there in the sunshine now--what music was there in the play of the bright waves upon the curving coast? Then he took himself to task for weakness. He ought to have stood the shock of even such intelligence better than this. Where were the strength and manliness54 which never before had failed him? In other straits and trials of his life he had always manifested and been proud, after a fashion, of manifesting strength and composure; but in this they failed him. Strength had forsaken55 his limbs, and there was no composure in the ashen56 face he looked at in the glass; for the chief weight of this crushing sorrow must fall, not on himself, but on one much dearer--on her whose happiness he had set before him as the chief aim and effort of his life.
There was a common-sense practical point of view in which he ought to look at it--the point of view in which Dugdale's letter had placed it, the point of view which was so much more clearly perceptible to Hayes Meredith than to James. After all, the evil was transient, if irreparable; and the proposed precautions, taken with good will and with good sense, could not fail. But Fitzwilliam Baldwin was not quite master of himself in this crisis; a touch of the same presentiment57 which had haunted Margaret came now to him, and made him tremble before an undefined dread dimly looming58 behind the clear and ascertained59 truth.
When he set himself seriously to decide upon the pretext by which he should account to Margaret for the sudden change of all their plans, Mr. Baldwin was not slow about finding one.
Margaret knew little in detail of the management and circumstances of the large property of which she was the mistress. This ignorance arose neither from incapacity nor from lack of interest, but came solely60 from a little of the "Lady-Burleigh" feeling, combined with the full occupation of her mind in the delights of her home and her household, and the idea that she always had time before her for the acquisition of a knowledge of what she called "Fitzwilliam's office business." Lady Davyntry was not much wiser; indeed, she rather trusted to her brother's knowing all about her affairs, and transacting61 all business relating to Davyntry, than troubled herself with inquiry62 into matters regarding the Deane.
The pretext, then, should be a letter from the factor at the Deane, and urgent interests of the property at stake, requiring the master's presence. Lady Davyntry, he knew, would immediately propose that she and Margaret should remain at Naples until Mr. Baldwin should have transacted63 his business, to which he must be careful to lend a sufficiently64 unpleasant aspect, and be able to rejoin them. But Mr. Baldwin knew he might make his mind easy on that score. Certain as he was that his sister would make this proposition--which, under the circumstances, and especially in consideration of Margaret's situation, would be eminently65 and palpably reasonable--he was at least as certain that Margaret would not consent to remaining at Naples if he had to leave her. He might safely trust to the gently-maintained but perfectly66-assured self-will of Margaret under such circumstances; and this confidence reduced the difficulties of his task very considerably67.
His plan was all arranged, and the first rush of the sea of his troubles had subsided68, when he mounted his horse (Mr. Baldwin's horses were famous in Naples) and rode slowly away from the home in which he had been so happy,--so marvellously happy it seemed to him, now that the disturbing element had come in,--to meet Margaret, feeling like a man in a dream.
"Something has happened! What is it?" said Margaret in a whisper to her husband, as soon as he had gone through the formalities of the occasion, and she could approach him without being remarked. "Is there any bad news from home? Is anything wrong with papa?"
"Nothing, my darling. I have been upset by some unpleasant intelligence from Curtis. It is only a matter of business; you shall hear all about it when we get home."
"Only a matter of business. Thank God! But you look very ill, Fitzwilliam. Is it anything very wrong?"
"Yes; it may involve me in much annoyance69. But I cannot say more now. Don't look so anxiously at me; I am not ill, only worried over the affair. Can you get away soon?"
"Yes, immediately. I have only to gather up Eleanor and baby."
She smiled faintly as she spoke, and he returned the smile more faintly still.
"Gather them up, then, and let us go."
The few minutes consumed in leave-taking were very tedious to Fitzwilliam Baldwin, and his pale face and uncontrollably absent manner did not pass unnoticed by the lady of the house.
"I am sure there is something the matter with Mr. Baldwin," said Mrs. Sinclair to her husband, when the visitors had departed, a strange sort of gloom accompanying their leave-taking. "Did you notice, William, how ill he looked?--just like a man who had seen a ghost."
"Nonsense," was the uncompromising reply of Mr. Sinclair; "I daresay he is not well. You should not say such things before the children, Minnie; you'll see now we shall have them gravely demanding to be informed what is a ghost. What shall you do then?"
"Refer them to you, sir, as the source and dispenser of universal knowledge. And it's all very well for you to say 'nonsense;' but I am certain something is very wrong with Mr. Baldwin. However, if there is, we shall soon know it. I am sure I hope not, for his sister's sake."
"And his wife's, surely; she is a very sweet creature."
"I prefer Lady Davyntry," said Mrs. Sinclair shortly; and the conversation dropped.
Mr. Baldwin was perfectly right in his anticipation70 of the manner in which the communication he had to make to his "womankind" would be received by them. Lady Davyntry was very voluble, Margaret was very silent and closely observant of her husband.
"What a horrid71 nuisance, my dear Fitz!" said Lady Davyntry; "and I must say I think it is extremely stupid of Curtis. Of course I don't pretend to understand mining business, and rights and royalties72, and all the rest of it; but I do wonder he needs must bother you about it just now, when we are all so comfortable here, and Madge getting ever so much better. I suppose writing to these odious73 people would not do?"
"No, Eleanor, certainly not," replied her brother; "I must go to them, there's nothing else for it; I saw that at once."
"It is impossible to tell, Nelly; and I must start as soon as possible.--How soon can you be ready, Margaret?"
There was an extraordinary tenderness in his tone, something beyond the customary unfailing sweetness with which he invariably addressed her; a compassionate unconscious deference75 in his manner which thrilled her sensitive nerves. She had not removed her gaze from her husband's face since he had made the communication which he had promised; but she had not spoken a word. Now she said simply, still looking at him:
"I can be ready to start to-morrow, if you are."
"To start to-morrow, Madge!" exclaimed Lady Davyntry in half-angry, half-incredulous astonishment76. "You cannot mean it. There was never such an idea entertained by Fitz, I am certain, as your going.--Of course you don't mean it?" And she turned anxiously to her brother.
"I certainly did think Margaret would come with me," returned Mr. Baldwin.
"I assure you, Nelly," said Margaret, "nothing could induce me to remain here without him."
Lady Davyntry was very good-humoured, as she always was, but very voluble and eager in her remonstrances77. The discussion was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Baldwin, and it ended as he had foreseen it would end. Margaret and her little daughter would accompany him to England, and his sister would remain at Naples. The servants, with the exception of the child's nurse, were to be left at the villa. Mr. Baldwin had remembered that the absence of attendants on Margaret and himself would materially contribute to the maintenance of that secrecy78 which was so necessary. The simplicity79 of the personal habits of both rendered their travelling without servants a matter of surprise to no one.
"You are quite sure you will be back in a month, Fitz?" Lady Davyntry said at the close of the discussion, when she had accepted the inevitable with her usual unfailing cheerfulness, and was actually almost ready to think the plan a very pleasant variety. "You must, you know, for I don't believe it would be safe for Margaret to travel after a longer time; and you know what Cooper said about March in England for her chest. And a month will give you time to settle all this bothering business. I really think I should get rid of Curtis, if I were you, and give Madge plenty of time to see Mr. Carteret. I have some lovely lava80 to send him; and, Madge, I will let you have the flat knife Signor Lanzi gave me, you know--the one they found in Pompeii. They say it belonged to Sallust's cook, and he used to slap it on the dresser when dinner was ready to be served. Mr. Carteret would be delighted to have it; don't you think so?"
"I am sure he would," Margaret answered absently.
Lady Davyntry went on: "You mustn't worry about this business, Fitz; it is not like you to bother so about any mere13 matter of money."
"It is more than a mere matter of money, Nelly," said Mr. Baldwin hastily. "But there, don't let us talk of it any more.--You will get ready to start on Wednesday, Margaret; and, please God, we shall all be here together again before long."
He left the women together, and went away, pleading letters to be written for the mail in the morning. As he closed the door, Margaret's quick ear caught the sound of a heavy sigh. In her turn she thought what Eleanor had said, "It is not like him to think so much of a mere matter of money;" for his explanation had not made it clear to her that anything more than money was concerned.
Her sister-in-law talked on and on to her, growing more excited by and better pleased with the occurrences of the day as she did so, until she finally persuaded herself that no real harm, or even permanent unpleasantness, could come out of them to her brother. Margaret hardly heard her. Her heart was heavy and troubled; and that night, as she and her husband stood by the bed where their child was sleeping, watching the infant's happy slumber81, as was their invariable custom, she gathered confirmation82 of her shapeless misgiving from the expression of his face, from the infinite tenderness of his tone to her, and the deep melancholy83 of the look he turned upon the child.
"Is there a shadow, a dread, a skeleton in his past too?" Margaret mused84, when she was alone; "and am I about to find it out? I thought there was nothing in all his noble history which needed an hour's concealment85, or could bring a cloud to his face. But I must, as surely I can, trust him. If there be more to tell than he has told,--and I think there must be, for what is a money risk to him and me?--it is my part to wait patiently until the time comes for me to know it. When he thinks it right, he will tell me; until then I ought to be satisfied, and I will. He said the chief part of his business would be in London; I shall hear all about it there."
Calling to her aid her former habit of self-control,--a little fallen into disuse in the new and perfect happiness of her life, in which it was seldom needed,--Margaret did not embarrass Mr. Baldwin by a question, by the slightest betrayal that she suspected any concealment on his part; but she said to herself very frequently, in the brief interval86 before the commencement of their journey, "I shall learn the truth in London."
The old presentiment which had once haunted her so constantly, which had been so readily awakened87 by the merest chimerical88 cause, of which she had felt guilty, ashamed, combating its influence by reasoning upon its ingratitude, its weakness, its unworthiness, had left her, it seemed, at this time. No shadow from the brooding wings of the terrific truth swept across her soul.
The journey was commenced at the appointed time, and safely accomplished89, with as much celerity as was possible nearly thirty years ago.
On their arrival in London, the travellers went to a hotel in Bond-street, and Margaret, much tired by the journey, fell almost immediately into a sound sleep. They had reached London at noon, and it was quite dark when she awoke. The glimmering90 firelight showed her Mr. Baldwin's figure seated beside her bed, and she awoke to the consciousness that he was looking at her with terrible intentness.
"Are you quite rested, my darling?" he said.
"Quite."
She answered only one word. The time had come, and she was afraid, though still no shadow from the brooding wings of the terrific truth swept across her soul. He kissed her on the forehead, and rose. Then he said,
"Come down as quickly as you can. I asked Dugdale and Mr. Meredith to meet us in London, and they are here."
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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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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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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dread
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misgiving
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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ingratitude
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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boredom
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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conceal
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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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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rectification
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| n. 改正, 改订, 矫正 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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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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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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transacting
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的现在分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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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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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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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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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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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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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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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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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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