Sheltered by a fine plantation3, which, in any other than the land of flood and fell, might have been called a forest, and situated4 on the incline of a conical hill, the low park land, picturesquely5 planted, stretching away from it, until lost in the boundary of trees beneath,--a large, imposing7 house, built of gray, cut stone, presented its wide and lofty fa?ade to the light. The architecture was irregular, picturesque6, and effective; and now, with its numerous windows, some sparkling in the sunshine, others thrown wide open to admit the sweet air, the Deane had an almost palatial8 appearance. Along the front ran a wide stone terrace, from which three flights of steps, one in the centre, and one at either end, led down to an Italian garden, intersected by the wide avenue.
Large French windows opened on this stone expanse, and now, in the lazy summer day, the silken curtains were faintly stirring, and the sound of voices, and of occasional low laughter, came softly to the hearing of two persons, a man and a woman, who were seated on a garden bench, in an angle of the terrace. The countless10 sounds of Nature, which make a music all their own, were around them, and the scene had in it every element of beauty and joy; but these two persons seemed to be but little moved by it, to have little in common with all that surrounded them and with the feelings it was calculated to suggest.
They were for the most part silent, and when they spoke11 it was sadly and slowly, as they speak upon whom the memory of the past is strong, and who habitually12 live in it more than in the present. There was a deference13 in the tone and manner of the woman, which would have made an observer aware that though the utmost kindliness14 and unrestraint existed in her relations with her companion, she was not his equal in station; and her manner of speaking, though quite free from all that ordinarily constitutes vulgarity, would have betrayed that difference still more plainly.
She was a tall woman, apparently15 about forty years old, and handsome, in a peculiar16 style. Her face was not refined, and yet far from common; the features well formed, and the expression eminently17 candid18 and sensible. Health and content were plainly to be read in the still bright complexion19 and clear gray Irish eyes. She wore a handsome silk dress, and a lace cap covered her still abundant dark hair, and in her dress and air were unmistakable indications of her position in life. She looked what she was, the responsible head of a household, authoritative20 and respected.
We have seen her before, many years ago, on board the ship which brought Margaret Hungerford to England, Margaret Hungerford, who has slept for nearly twenty years under the shade of the great yew21 in the churchyard, which is not so far from the Deane but that sharp eyes can mark where the darker line of its solemn trees crosses the woods of the lower park land. The years have set their mark upon the handsome Irish girl, who had won such trust and affection from the forlorn young widow, who had done with it all now, all love and fear, all sorrow and forlornness, and need of help, for ever. Not only for ever, but so long ago, that her name and memory were mere2 traditions, while the trees she had planted were still but youngsters among trees, and the path cut through the Fir Field by her directions was still known as the "new" road.
There, on the spot where she had often sat with Baldwin and talked of the future, which they were never to see, Margaret's friend, humble22 indeed, but rightly judged and worthily23 trusted, sat, this beautiful summer's day, in the untouched prime of her health and strength and comeliness24, and talked of the dear dead woman; but vaguely25, timidly, as the long dead are spoken of when they are mentioned at all to one from whom the years had not obscured her, though they had gathered the dimness which age brings around every other image of the past and of the future.
He with whom Rose Doran talked was an old man, but older in mind and in health than in years, of which he had not yet seen the allotted26 number. Of a slight, spare figure always, and now so bowed that the malformation of the shoulders was merged27 in the general bending weakness of the frame, and the stooped head was habitually held downwards28, the old man might have been of any age to which infirmity like his could attain29. Even on this warm day he was wrapped in a cloak lined with fur, and his white transparent30 face looked as if warm blood had never coloured the fine closely-wrinkled skin, on which the innumerable lines were marked as though they had been cunningly drawn31 by needles. He wore a low-crowned, wide-leaved soft hat, and scanty32 silver locks showed under the brim; but if the hat had been removed it would have been seen that the head which it had covered was almost entirely33 bald, and of the same transparent ivory texture34 as the face.
It would be difficult to imagine anything more fragile-looking than the old man, as he sat, wrapped in his cloak, his bowed shoulders supported by the angle of the terrace, and his hands, long, white, and skeleton-like, placidly35 folded on his knees. The only trace of vigour37 remaining in him was to be found in the eyes, and here expression, feeling, memory yet lingered and sometimes gave forth38 such gleams of light and purpose as seemed to tell of the youth of the soul within him still.
A crutch39 stood against the wall by his side, and a thick stick, with a strong ivory handle, lay upon the bench. These were unmistakable signs of the feebleness and decay which had come to the old man, but they would not have told a close observer more than might have been learned by a glance at his feet. They were not distorted, none of the ugly shapelessness of age and disease was to be seen there. They were slim, and shapely, and neatly40 attired41, in the old-fashioned silk stocking and buckled42 shoe of a more polite and formal period, but they were totally inexpressive. No one could have looked at the old man's feet, set comfortably upon a soft lambskin rug, but remaining there quite motionless, without seeing that they had almost ceased to do their work. With much difficulty, and very slowly, by the aid of the crutch and the stick, they would still carry him a little way from the sunny sitting-room43 on the ground floor to the sunny corner of the terrace, for the most part--but that was all.
He was not discontented that it should be all, for he suffered little now in his old age--perhaps he had suffered as much as he could before that time came; and was no more irritable44 or peevish45. A little tired, a little wondering betimes that he had so long to wait, while so many whose day had promised to be prolonged and bright in its morning had passed on, out of sight, before him: but a happy old man, for all that, in a quiet, musing46 way, and "very little trouble to any one."
Yes, that was the general opinion of Mr. Dugdale, old Mr. Dugdale, as the household, for some unexplained reason, called him, and few things vexed47 the spirit of Gertrude Baldwin so nearly beyond bearing, as the assurances to that effect which her aunt, Mrs. Carteret, was in the habit of promulgating48 to an inquisitive49 and sympathising neighbourhood. For Mrs. Carteret (she had been the eldest50 Miss Crofton a great many years ago) was not of a very refined nature, and it is just possible that when she commented on Mr. Dugdale's reduced and sometimes almost deathlike appearance, to the effect that any one "to see him would think he could die off quite easily," she rather resented his not availing himself of that apparent facility without delay. He did not, however; and Mrs. Carteret was the only person who ever found the gentle, kindly51 man in the way, and she never dared to hint to her husband that she did so.
Her niece inherited from her dead mother all the quick-sightedness which made her keen to see and to suffer, where her affections were concerned, and the first seeds of dissension had been sown some years before, between the aunt and the niece, by the girl's perceiving that "old" Mr. Dugdale was not considered by Mrs. Carteret as such an acquisition to the family party at the Deane as its fair and gentle, but high-spirited, young mistress held him to be. It was on that occasion that Gertrude had contrived52, very mildly and very skilfully53, but still after a decided54 and unmistakable fashion, to remind her aunt of the fact that she, and not Mrs. Carteret, was the lady of the house in which the old man had been found _de trop_; and thence had originated a state of things destined55 to produce most unforeseen consequences.
The immediate56 result, however, had been an increased observance in manner, and an additional dislike in reality, to Mr. Dugdale, on the part of Mrs. Carteret, which the old man perceived--as indeed he perceived everything, for his powers of observation were by no means enfeebled--but which it never occurred to him to resent. What could it possibly signify to him that Mrs. Carteret did not like him, and wished it might be in her power to get rid of him? It was not in her power; it was not within the compass of any earthly will to separate him from Margaret's child; and as for Mrs. Carteret herself, it is to be feared that old Mr. Dugdale, after the saturnine57 fashion of his earlier years, cherished a quiet contempt for that lady, while he readily acknowledged that she was a good sort of woman in her way. It was not in his way, that was all.
Mrs. Doran was especially devoted58 to Mr. Dugdale, to whom she owed the prosperous position which she had held in the household at the Deane for so many years now, that she was as much a part of the place to the inhabitants as the forest trees or the family portraits. Consequently she was not particularly attached to Mrs. Carteret, and presumed occasionally to criticise59 that lady's proceedings61 after a fashion which, had she been aware of it, would have gone far to fortify62 her in one of her favourite and most frequently-expressed opinions, that it was a great mistake to keep servants too long. "They always presume upon it, and become impertinent and troublesome."
But Mrs. Carteret would never have ventured to include Mrs. Doran among the "servants" otherwise than in her most private cogitations. Rose was a privileged person there, by a more sacred if not a stronger right than that of Mrs. Carteret herself.
But on this bright, beautiful day, when the old man had come out upon the terrace to bask63 awhile in the genial64 sunshine, why was Rose Doran with him? Ordinarily he had younger, fairer companions, in whose faces and voices there were many happy, sad memories for him, and whose love and care brightened the days fast going down to the last setting of the sun of his life. They were absent to-day, and the two to whom, of all the numerous household at the Deane, the day had most of retrospective meaning were alone together.
"It's wonderful how well I remember her, sir," Rose was saying; "sometimes that is. There's many a day I disremember her entirely, but when I do think about her--as to-day--I can see her plain. And I'm glad, somehow, I never saw her in her grandeur65; for if I did, an' all the years that have gone by since then, I couldn't but think no one else had a right to it."
"I understand what you mean, Rose, and when I remember her, sometimes, as you say, it isn't in her grandeur, but as she was when you and she came home first;
"Yes, sir, and you saw us goin' in at the door of the little inn--who'd ever think there'd be a hotel as big as Morrison's, and a deal cleaner, in the very same place now?--and you not knowin' us, and she seein' you in a minute. Isn't it strange, Mr. Dugdale, to remember it after twenty, ay, more than twenty years? How long is it then, sir, rightly?"
"Twenty-three years and some months, Rose."
"True for you, sir. And now Miss Gerty's to be her own mistress, and no one to say by your leave or with your leave to her, the darling! The master would have been a proud man, rest his soul! this day."
The old man did not notice her remark. But after a little while, as if he had been thinking over it, he bowed the bent66 head still lower, and moved the thin white hands, and sighed.
"Are you chilly67 at all, sir?" asked his quickly-observant companion. "The sun is shifting a little; would you like to go in?"
"No," he replied; and then asked, after a pause, "How are they getting on?"
"Beautifully," Rose answered. "The house is a picture; and as to the ball-room, nothing could be more beautiful. Miss Eleanor has it all done out with flowers, and I'm only afraid she'll be tired before the time comes for the dancing. Do you think you'll be able to sit up to see it, sir?"
"I don't know, Rose; but I will try. Gerty seems to wish it so much, foolish child; as if it could make any difference to her that an old man like me should be there to see her happy and admired."
"An' why shouldn't she?" remonstrated68 Rose in a tone almost of vexation. "Do you think the children oughtn't to have some nature in them? If Miss Gerty was no better nor a baby when the mistress--the Lord be good to her!--was taken, and Miss Eleanor never saw the smile of her mother's face at all, sure they know about her all the same, and it's more and not less they think about her, the older they grow, and the better they know the want of a mother, through seeing other people with mothers and fathers and friends of all kinds, and no one to dare to deny them--not that I'm sayin' or thinkin' there's any one would harm innocent lambs like them, nor try to put between them--but the world's a quare world, Mr. Dugdale, and they're beginnin' to find it out, and the more they know of it, the more they miss the mother they never knew at all, and the father they did not know much about--and the more they cling to them that did know, and can tell them. Many's the time, Mr. Dugdale, that Miss Gerty has said to me, 'Isn't it odd that uncle James remembers mamma much better than uncle Carteret or aunt Lucy remember her, and can tell us much more about our father?--and yet they were all young people together, and near relations, and he wasn't.' And it was only the other day, when you told Miss Gerty she was to have the poor mistress's picture for her comin' of age, she says to me, 'There's uncle and aunt Carteret couldn't tell me whether it's like her or not; and there's uncle James knows all about it, and can tell when I'm like her and when Nelly is, and yet they say old people forget everything.' Beggin' your pardon, sir, for saying you're old, but the dear child said the very words. An' so, if she didn't want you to-night to see her in her glory, and to be like the smile of the father and mother that's in heaven upon her, I wouldn't think much of her, Mr. Dugdale, 'deed I wouldn't then."
"Well, well. Rose, it seems the children are of your opinion, for they have made me promise to sit up as late as possible; and I have heard as much about their dresses as either their maids or yourself, I'll be bound."
"An' beautiful they'll look in them, Mr. Dugdale, particularly Miss Gerty. Don't you think she grows wonderfully like her mother? Not that I ever saw her look bright and happy like Miss Gerty; but I think she must have been just like her, after she was married to the poor master. You know I went away before that, sir; but perhaps you disremember."
"No, no, Rose, I remember. I remember it all very well, because she told me if she wanted you and could not send for you herself I was to do so, because Mr. Baldwin did not know you. No, no; it is a long time ago, a very long time, but I don't forget, I don't forget."
"Yes, I see the likeness, I see it very plainly; as we grow old, time seems so much shorter that it does not appear at all strange to me that I should remember her so well. There were many years during which I could hardly recall her face even when I was looking at the picture, but all that dimness seems to have cleared away now, and all my memory come back. Gerty is wonderfully like her, only more placid36; her manner is more like her father's."
They were silent for a time, during which Rose Doran knitted diligently,--her fingers were never idle, and her subordinates in the household said the same of her eyes and ears,--and then she began to talk again.
"It'll be a fine ball, sir. They say the beautifulest, except the Duke's, that ever was in this part of the country. And sure, so it ought, for where's there the like of Miss Baldwin of the Deane for beauty or for fortune either? An' what could be too good in the way of a ball for _her?_"
There was a note of challenge in the Irishwoman's voice. Mr. Dugdale observed it with amusement, and replied,
"I daresay it will go off very well. Mrs. Carteret is a good hand at this kind of thing."
"She is," said Rose shortly; "and as it's Miss Gerty's money it's all to come out of, she'll have no notion of saving anything."
This was the nearest approach to a frank expression of her not-particularly-exalted opinion of Mrs. Carteret on which Rose had ever ventured, and Mr. Dugdale did not encourage her to pursue it by any remark; but, observing that the girls had said they would come out to him, and were after their time, and that he would go and look for them, he began to make slow preparations for a change of place.
Rose's steady arm aided him, and he was soon proceeding60 slowly along the terrace, his crutch under his left arm and his stick in his right hand, while Rose walked by his side. As he slowly and apparently painfully dragged himself along--only apparently, for he rarely suffered pain now--Mr. Dugdale presented a picture of decrepitude71 which contrasted strangely with a picture which any observer, had there chanced to be one upon the terrace that day, might have seen, and which he and Rose stood still to look at with intense pleasure.
Through the open windows of a large room upon the terrace the interior was to be seen. The apartment was of splendid dimensions, and the richly-decorated walls and ceiling were ornamented72 with classical designs appropriate to the festive73 purposes of a ball-room. A bank of flowers was constructed to enclose a space designed for an orchestra, and several musical instruments were already arranged in their places.
A grand piano was in the middle, and a lady was seated before it, whose nimble fingers were flying over the keys, producing the strains of a brilliantly provocative74 and inspiriting valse. The lady was not alone. In the centre of the room, whose polished floor was almost as bright and slippery as glass, stood two young girls, the arms of each around the waist of the other, their heads thrown back, their eyes beaming with laughter, and their hearts beating with the exertion75 of the wild dance they had just concluded.
As Mr. Dugdale and Rose drew near the window, the pause for breath came to a conclusion, the music gushed76 forth, more than ever inviting77, and the dancers were off again, spinning round and round in their girlish glee in a boisterous78 exaggeration of the figure of the dance, irresistibly79 merry and attractive. They flew down the length of the room, crossed to its extremity80, and came whirling up to the central window. There stood Mr. Dugdale with uplifted threatening stick, and Rose, with her knitting dropped, fascinated with admiration81. Then they checked their headlong career, and, with some difficulty, came to a stop opposite the pair on the terrace, laughingly shaking their heads in imitation of the pretended rebuke82 they were conveying.
"A rational way to rehearse for your ball, Gerty," said Mr. Dugdale, as he stepped, with the assistance of the young girl's ready hand, into the room, followed by Rose. "And a capital plan for you, Nelly, who are so easily tired. You silly children, don't you think you will have enough dancing to-night?"
"Not half enough," replied one of the girls, "not quarter; none of the people will stay after five or six at the latest."
"I should hope not, indeed," said Mr. Dugdale. "And you are resolved to begin punctually at ten; you _are_ unconscionable."
"And then you know, uncle James," said the girl whom he had called Gerty, "we cannot dance together to-night; we are grown up, you know, hopelessly grown up; it's awful, isn't it? and besides--besides aunt Lucy tempted83 us with her beautiful playing--and the floor is so delightful84; and now don't you really, really think it will be a delightful ball?"
"I have not the smallest misgiving85 about it, Gerty, though I don't know much of balls. But I am sure Mrs. Carteret will join me in urging you not to tire yourselves any more just now."
Mrs. Carteret left the piano, and joined the girls, who immediately entered on a discussion of the measures already taken for the beautification of the ball-room, and the possibility of still farther adorning86 it, which was finally pronounced hopeless, everything being already quite perfect, and the party adjourned87 to luncheon88.
So the years had sped away, and all the fears, and hopes, and sorrows they had given birth to had also come to their death, according to the wonderful law of immutability89, and were no more. The mother in her marble tomb beneath the yew-tree, the father in his unmarked grave in the desert, but united in the country too far off for mortal ken9 or comprehension, were well-nigh forgotten here; and their children were women now.
The little party assembled at the Deane on this occasion--the twenty-first anniversary of Gertrude Baldwin's birth--had but little sadness among them, and were visited with but slight recollections of the far distant past. Twenty years is a long time. No saying can be more trite90 and more true; yet there are persons and circumstances, and, more than all, there are feelings which are not forgotten, ignored, killed in twenty years.
There were two unseen guests that day at the table--at whose head Mrs. Carteret, who was in a gracious, not to say gushing91 mood, insisted on Gertrude's taking her place for the first time--whose presence Mr. Dugdale felt, though he was an old man now, and his fancy was no longer active. He had his place opposite to Gertrude, and from it he could see, hanging on the wall behind her chair, her father's portrait. It was a fine picture, the work of a first-rate artist, and the face was full of harmony and expression. The graceful92 lines, the rich colouring of youthful manhood were there, and the sunny blue eyes smiled as if they could see the gay girls, the handsome, self-conscious, self-important woman, the wan69 and feeble old man. From the portrait Mr. Dugdale's glance wandered to the girlish face and figure before him and just under it; and a pang93 of exceeding keen and bitter remembrance smote94 him--ay, after twenty years.
Gertrude Meriton Baldwin was a handsomer girl than her mother had been, but wonderfully like her. No trouble, no care, no touch of degradation95, humiliation96, concealment97, bitterness of any kind, had ever lighted on the daughter's well-cared-for girlhood, which had been permitted all its natural expansion, all its legitimate98 enjoyment99 and careless gladness. No passion, unwise and ungoverned, had come into her life to trouble and disturb it too soon--to fill it with vain illusions, and the sure heritage of disappointment. A happy childhood had grown into a happy girlhood, and now that happy girlhood had ripened100 into a womanhood, with every promise of happiness for the future.
She was taller than her mother, and had more colour; but the features were almost the same. The brow was a little less broad, the lips were fuller, but the eyes were in no way different, so far as they had been called upon for expression up to the present time; they had looked like Margaret's, and no doubt would so look in every farther development of life, circumstance, and character.
Eleanor, who amused herself during the luncheon,--at which Mr. Dugdale was unusually silent, and Mrs. Carteret occupied herself rather emphatically, on the plea that dinner was a doubtful good when a ball was in preparation,--was not in the least like her father, her mother, or her sister. She was very small, delicately formed, and fragile in appearance, with a clear dark complexion, large black eyes, and a profusion101 of glossy102 black hair, which, especially when in close contrast with the clear gray eyes and soft brown hair of her sister, gave her a foreign appearance, of which she was quite conscious and rather proud.
Hitherto there had been no difference in the lot of the sisters. The childish joys and sorrows of the one had been those of the other, and girlhood had brought to them no separate fortune. Nor were things materially altered now. The independence of action which Gertrude attained103 upon this day would be Eleanor's in a very short time, and in point of wealth they were nearly equal. For each there had been a long minority. Eleanor Davyntry had not long survived her brother, and all her disposable fortune was her younger niece's. Apart from their orphanhood104, no girls could have had a more enviable lot than the two who were in such wild spirits on that summer's day, which invested one of them with all the dignity of legal womanhood, and all the responsibility of a great heiress.
Eleanor was of a different temperament105 from that of Gertrude, more vehement106, more passionate107, less self-reliant, less sustained. Hitherto the difference had shown itself but seldom and slightly, and there had been little or nothing to develop it. But a shrewd observer would have noticed it, even in the manner in which each regarded the promised pleasure of the evening, in the easy joyousness108 of the one, and the passionate eagerness of the other.
When luncheon had nearly reached a conclusion, the sounds of wheels upon the drive sent Eleanor rushing to the window. A stylish109 dog-cart, in which were seated a tall, fine-looking, rather heavy middle-aged110 man and an irreproachable111 groom112, was rapidly approaching the house.
"It is uncle," said Eleanor; "now we shall know for certain who's coming from Edinburgh. What a good thing you thought of the telegraph, aunt!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Carteret. "When one has to put people up for the night, it is better to know exactly how many to expect."
In a few minutes Haldane Carteret was in the room, and had handed an open telegraphic despatch113 to Gertrude.
"They're all coming, you see," he said good-humouredly; "and _you'll_ be glad to hear, Lucy, there's no doubt about Meredith. He has got that troublesome business settled, as he always does get everything settled he puts his mind to, and he will be down by the mail, and here by eleven."
"That is delightful," said Gertrude, with frank outspoken114 pleasure. "You have brought nothing but good news, uncle."
"And the programmes--isn't that what you call them? I hope they're all right."
"I'm sure they are.--Aunt, what room are you going to give Mr. Meredith?"
Then ensued a domestic discussion, in which Gertrude and Mrs. Carteret took an active share; but Eleanor stood looking out of the window, and did not utter a word.
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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picturesquely
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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ken
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countless
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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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habitually
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deference
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kindliness
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apparently
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peculiar
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eminently
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candid
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complexion
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authoritative
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yew
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humble
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worthily
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comeliness
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vaguely
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allotted
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merged
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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43
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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44
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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45
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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46
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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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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48
promulgating
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| v.宣扬（某事物）( promulgate的现在分词 )；传播；公布；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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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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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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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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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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82
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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83
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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85
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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86
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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89
immutability
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| n.不变(性) | |
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90
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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91
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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94
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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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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96
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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97
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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98
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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99
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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100
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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102
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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103
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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104
orphanhood
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| 孤儿的身份，孤儿状态 | |
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105
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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106
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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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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108
joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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109
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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110
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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111
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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112
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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113
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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114
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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