From that time the tie between father and daughter grew very strong and tender indeed. Ellinor, it is true, divided her affection between her baby sister and her papa; but he, caring little for babies, had only a theoretic regard for his younger child, while the elder absorbed all his love. Every day that he dined at home Ellinor was placed opposite to him while he ate his late dinner; she sat where her mother had done during the meal, although she had dined and even supped some time before on the more primitive1 nursery fare. It was half pitiful, half amusing, to see the little girl's grave, thoughtful ways and modes of speech, as if trying to act up to the dignity of her place as her father's companion, till sometimes the little head nodded off to slumber2 in the middle of lisping some wise little speech. "Old-fashioned," the nurses called her, and prophesied3 that she would not live long in consequence of her old- fashionedness. But instead of the fulfilment of this prophecy, the fat bright baby was seized with fits, and was well, ill, and dead in a day! Ellinor's grief was something alarming, from its quietness and concealment4. She waited till she was left--as she thought--alone at nights, and then sobbed5 and cried her passionate6 cry for "Baby, baby, come back to me--come back;" till every one feared for the health of the frail7 little girl whose childish affections had had to stand two such shocks. Her father put aside all business, all pleasure of every kind, to win his darling from her grief. No mother could have done more, no tenderest nurse done half so much as Mr. Wilkins then did for Ellinor.
If it had not been for him she would have just died of her grief. As it was, she overcame it--but slowly, wearily--hardly letting herself love anyone for some time, as if she instinctively9 feared lest all her strong attachments10 should find a sudden end in death. Her love--thus dammed up into a small space--at last burst its banks, and overflowed11 on her father. It was a rich reward to him for all his care of her, and he took delight--perhaps a selfish delight--in all the many pretty ways she perpetually found of convincing him, if he had needed conviction, that he was ever the first object with her. The nurse told him that half an hour or so before the earliest time at which he could be expected home in the evenings, Miss Ellinor began to fold up her doll's things and lull12 the inanimate treasure to sleep. Then she would sit and listen with an intensity13 of attention for his footstep. Once the nurse had expressed some wonder at the distance at which Ellinor could hear her father's approach, saying that she had listened and could not hear a sound, to which Ellinor had replied:
"Of course you cannot; he is not your papa!"
Then, when he went away in the morning, after he had kissed her, Ellinor would run to a certain window from which she could watch him up the lane, now hidden behind a hedge, now reappearing through an open space, again out of sight, till he reached a great old beech-tree, where for an instant more she saw him. And then she would turn away with a sigh, sometimes reassuring14 her unspoken fears by saying softly to herself,
"He will come again to-night."
Mr. Wilkins liked to feel his child dependent on him for all her pleasures. He was even a little jealous of anyone who devised a treat or conferred a present, the first news of which did not come from or through him.
At last it was necessary that Ellinor should have some more instruction than her good old nurse could give. Her father did not care to take upon himself the office of teacher, which he thought he foresaw would necessitate16 occasional blame, an occasional exercise of authority, which might possibly render him less idolized by his little girl; so he commissioned Lady Holster to choose out one among her many _protegees_ for a governess to his daughter. Now, Lady Holster, who kept a sort of amateur county register-office, was only too glad to be made of use in this way; but when she inquired a little further as to the sort of person required, all she could extract from Mr. Wilkins was:
"You know the kind of education a lady should have, and will, I am sure, choose a governess for Ellinor better than I could direct you. Only, please, choose some one who will not marry me, and who will let Ellinor go on making my tea, and doing pretty much what she likes, for she is so good they need not try to make her better, only to teach her what a lady should know."
Miss Monro was selected--a plain, intelligent, quiet woman of forty--and it was difficult to decide whether she or Mr. Wilkins took the most pains to avoid each other, acting17 with regard to Ellinor, pretty much like the famous Adam and Eve in the weather-glass: when the one came out the other went in. Miss Monro had been tossed about and overworked quite enough in her life not to value the privilege and indulgence of her evenings to herself, her comfortable schoolroom, her quiet cozy18 teas, her book, or her letter-writing afterwards. By mutual19 agreement she did not interfere20 with Ellinor and her ways and occupations on the evenings when the girl had not her father for companion; and these occasions became more and more frequent as years passed on, and the deep shadow was lightened which the sudden death that had visited his household had cast over him. As I have said before, he was always a popular man at dinner-parties. His amount of intelligence and accomplishment21 was rare in ---shire, and if it required more wine than formerly22 to bring his conversation up to the desired point of range and brilliancy, wine was not an article spared or grudged23 at the county dinner-tables. Occasionally his business took him up to London. Hurried as these journeys might be, he never returned without a new game, a new toy of some kind, to "make home pleasant to his little maid," as he expressed himself.
He liked, too, to see what was doing in art, or in literature; and as he gave pretty extensive orders for anything he admired, he was almost sure to be followed down to Hamley by one or two packages or parcels, the arrival and opening of which began soon to form the pleasant epochs in Ellinor's grave though happy life.
The only person of his own standing24 with whom Mr. Wilkins kept up any intercourse25 in Hamley was the new clergyman, a bachelor, about his own age, a learned man, a fellow of his college, whose first claim on Mr. Wilkins's attention was the fact that he had been travelling-bachelor for his university, and had consequently been on the Continent about the very same two years that Mr. Wilkins had been there; and although they had never met, yet they had many common acquaintances and common recollections to talk over of this period, which, after all, had been about the most bright and hopeful of Mr. Wilkins's life.
Mr. Ness had an occasional pupil; that is to say, he never put himself out of the way to obtain pupils, but did not refuse the entreaties26 sometimes made to him that he would prepare a young man for college, by allowing the said young man to reside and read with him. "Ness's men" took rather high honours, for the tutor, too indolent to find out work for himself, had a certain pride in doing well the work that was found for him.
When Ellinor was somewhere about fourteen, a young Mr. Corbet came to be pupil to Mr. Ness. Her father always called on the young men reading with the clergyman, and asked them to his house. His hospitality had in course of time lost its _recherche_ and elegant character, but was always generous, and often profuse27. Besides, it was in his character to like the joyous28, thoughtless company of the young better than that of the old--given the same amount of refinement29 and education in both.
Mr. Corbet was a young man of very good family, from a distant county. If his character had not been so grave and deliberate, his years would only have entitled him to be called a boy, for he was but eighteen at the time when he came to read with Mr. Ness. But many men of five-and-twenty have not reflected so deeply as this young Mr. Corbet already had. He had considered and almost matured his plan for life; had ascertained30 what objects he desired most to accomplish in the dim future, which is to many at his age only a shapeless mist; and had resolved on certain steady courses of action by which such objects were most likely to be secured. A younger son, his family connections and family interest pre-arranged a legal career for him; and it was in accordance with his own tastes and talents. All, however, which his father hoped for him was, that he might be able to make an income sufficient for a gentleman to live on. Old Mr. Corbet was hardly to be called ambitious, or, if he were, his ambition was limited to views for the eldest31 son. But Ralph intended to be a distinguished32 lawyer, not so much for the vision of the woolsack, which I suppose dances before the imagination of every young lawyer, as for the grand intellectual exercise, and consequent power over mankind, that distinguished lawyers may always possess if they choose. A seat in Parliament, statesmanship, and all the great scope for a powerful and active mind that lay on each side of such a career--these were the objects which Ralph Corbet set before himself. To take high honours at college was the first step to be accomplished33; and in order to achieve this Ralph had, not persuaded--persuasion was a weak instrument which he despised--but gravely reasoned his father into consenting to pay the large sum which Mr. Ness expected with a pupil. The good-natured old squire34 was rather pressed for ready money, but sooner than listen to an argument instead of taking his nap after dinner he would have yielded anything. But this did not satisfy Ralph; his father's reason must be convinced of the desirability of the step, as well as his weak will give way. The squire listened, looked wise, sighed; spoke15 of Edward's extravagance and the girls' expenses, grew sleepy, and said, "Very true," "That is but reasonable, certainly," glanced at the door, and wondered when his son would have ended his talking and go into the drawing-room; and at length found himself writing the desired letter to Mr. Ness, consenting to everything, terms and all. Mr. Ness never had a more satisfactory pupil; one whom he could treat more as an intellectual equal.
Mr. Corbet, as Ralph was always called in Hamley, was resolute35 in his cultivation36 of himself, even exceeding what his tutor demanded of him. He was greedy of information in the hours not devoted37 to absolute study. Mr. Ness enjoyed giving information, but most of all he liked the hard tough arguments on all metaphysical and ethical38 questions in which Mr. Corbet delighted to engage him. They lived together on terms of happy equality, having thus much in common. They were essentially39 different, however, although there were so many points of resemblance. Mr. Ness was unworldly as far as the idea of real unworldliness is compatible with a turn for self-indulgence and indolence; while Mr. Corbet was deeply, radically40 worldly, yet for the accomplishment of his object could deny himself all the careless pleasures natural to his age. The tutor and pupil allowed themselves one frequent relaxation41, that of Mr. Wilkins's company. Mr. Ness would stroll to the office after the six hours' hard reading were over--leaving Mr. Corbet still bent42 over the table, book bestrewn--and see what Mr. Wilkins's engagements were. If he had nothing better to do that evening, he was either asked to dine at the parsonage, or he, in his careless hospitable43 way, invited the other two to dine with him, Ellinor forming the fourth at table, as far as seats went, although her dinner had been eaten early with Miss Monro. She was little and slight of her age, and her father never seemed to understand how she was passing out of childhood. Yet while in stature44 she was like a child; in intellect, in force of character, in strength of clinging affection, she was a woman. There might be much of the simplicity45 of a child about her, there was little of the undeveloped girl, varying from day to day like an April sky, careless as to which way her own character is tending. So the two young people sat with their elders, and both relished46 the company they were thus prematurely47 thrown into. Mr. Corbet talked as much as either of the other two gentlemen; opposing and disputing on any side, as if to find out how much he could urge against received opinions. Ellinor sat silent; her dark eyes flashing from time to time in vehement49 interest--sometimes in vehement indignation if Mr. Corbet, riding a-tilt at everyone, ventured to attack her father. He saw how this course excited her, and rather liked pursuing it in consequence; he thought it only amused him.
Another way in which Ellinor and Mr. Corbet were thrown together occasionally was this: Mr. Ness and Mr. Wilkins shared the same _Times_ between them; and it was Ellinor's duty to see that the paper was regularly taken from her father's house to the parsonage. Her father liked to dawdle50 over it. Until Mr. Corbet had come to live with him, Mr. Ness had not much cared at what time it was passed on to him; but the young man took a strong interest in all public events, and especially in all that was said about them. He grew impatient if the paper was not forthcoming, and would set off himself to go for it, sometimes meeting the penitent51 breathless Ellinor in the long lane which led from Hamley to Mr. Wilkins's house. At first he used to receive her eager "Oh! I am so sorry, Mr. Corbet, but papa has only just done with it," rather gruffly. After a time he had the grace to tell her it did not signify; and by-and- by he would turn back with her to give her some advice about her garden, or her plants--for his mother and sisters were first-rate practical gardeners, and he himself was, as he expressed it, "a capital consulting physician for a sickly plant."
All this time his voice, his step, never raised the child's colour one shade the higher, never made her heart beat the least quicker, as the slightest sign of her father's approach was wont52 to do. She learnt to rely on Mr. Corbet for advice, for a little occasional sympathy, and for much condescending53 attention. He also gave her more fault-finding than all the rest of the world put together; and, curiously54 enough, she was grateful to him for it, for she really was humble55 and wished to improve. He liked the attitude of superiority which this implied and exercised right gave him. They were very good friends at present. Nothing more.
All this time I have spoken only of Mr. Wilkins's life as he stood in relation to his daughter. But there is far more to be said about it. After his wife's death, he withdrew himself from society for a year or two in a more positive and decided56 manner than is common with widowers57. It was during this retirement58 of his that he riveted59 his little daughter's heart in such a way as to influence all her future life.
When he began to go out again, it might have been perceived--had any one cared to notice--how much the different characters of his father and wife had influenced him and kept him steady. Not that he broke out into any immoral60 conduct, but he gave up time to pleasure, which both old Mr. Wilkins and Lettice would have quietly induced him to spend in the office, superintending his business. His indulgence in hunting, and all field sports, had hitherto been only occasional; they now became habitual61, as far as the seasons permitted. He shared a moor62 in Scotland with one of the Holsters one year, persuading himself that the bracing63 air was good for Ellinor's health. But the year afterwards he took another, this time joining with a comparative stranger; and on this moor there was no house to which it was fit to bring a child and her attendants. He persuaded himself that by frequent journeys he could make up for his absences from Hamley. But journeys cost money; and he was often away from his office when important business required attending to. There was some talk of a new attorney setting up in Hamley, to be supported by one or two of the more influential64 county families, who had found Wilkins not so attentive65 as his father. Sir Frank Holster sent for his relation, and told him of this project, speaking to him, at the same time, in pretty round terms on the folly66 of the life he was leading. Foolish it certainly was, and as such Mr. Wilkins was secretly acknowledging it; but when Sir Frank, lashing48 himself, began to talk of his hearer's presumption67 in joining the hunt, in aping the mode of life and amusements of the landed gentry68, Edward fired up. He knew how much Sir Frank was dipped, and comparing it with the round sum his own father had left him, he said some plain truths to Sir Frank which the latter never forgave, and henceforth there was no intercourse between Holster Court and Ford69 Bank, as Mr. Edward Wilkins had christened his father's house on his first return from the Continent.
The conversation had two consequences besides the immediate70 one of the quarrel. Mr. Wilkins advertised for a responsible and confidential71 clerk to conduct the business under his own superintendence; and he also wrote to the Heralds72' College to ask if he did not belong to the family bearing the same name in South Wales--those who have since reassumed their ancient name of De Winton.
Both applications were favorably answered. A skilful73, experienced, middle-aged74 clerk was recommended to him by one of the principal legal firms in London, and immediately engaged to come to Hamley at his own terms; which were pretty high. But, as Mr. Wilkins said it was worth any money to pay for the relief from constant responsibility which such a business as his involved, some people remarked that he had never appeared to feel the responsibility very much hitherto, as witness his absences in Scotland, and his various social engagements when at home; it had been very different (they said) in his father's day. The Heralds' College held out hopes of affiliating75 him to the South Wales family, but it would require time and money to make the requisite76 inquiries77 and substantiate78 the claim. Now, in many a place there would be none to contest the right a man might have to assert that he belonged to such and such a family, or even to assume their arms. But it was otherwise in ---shire. Everyone was up in genealogy79 and heraldry, and considered filching80 a name and a pedigree a far worse sin than any of those mentioned on the Commandments. There were those among them who would doubt and dispute even the decision of the Heralds' College; but with it, if in his favour, Mr. Wilkins intended to be satisfied, and accordingly he wrote in reply to their letter to say, that of course he was aware such inquiries would take a considerable sum of money, but still he wished them to be made, and that speedily.
Before the end of the year he went up to London to order a brougham to be built (for Ellinor to drive out in wet weather, he said; but as going in a closed carriage always made her ill, he used it principally himself in driving to dinner-parties), with the De Winton Wilkinses' arms neatly81 emblazoned on panel and harness. Hitherto he had always gone about in a dog-cart--the immediate descendant of his father's old-fashioned gig.
For all this, the squires82, his employers, only laughed at him and did not treat him with one whit83 more respect.
Mr. Dunster, the new clerk, was a quiet, respectable-looking man; you could not call him a gentleman in manner, and yet no one could say he was vulgar. He had not much varying expression on his face, but a permanent one of thoughtful consideration of the subject in hand, whatever it might be, that would have fitted as well with the profession of medicine as with that of law, and was quite the right look for either. Occasionally a bright flash of sudden intelligence lightened up his deep-sunk eyes, but even this was quickly extinguished as by some inward repression84, and the habitually85 reflective, subdued86 expression returned to the face. As soon as he came into his situation, he first began quietly to arrange the papers, and next the business of which they were the outer sign, into more methodical order than they had been in since old Mr. Wilkins's death. Punctual to a moment himself, he looked his displeased87 surprise when the inferior clerks came tumbling in half an hour after the time in the morning; and his look was more effective than many men's words; henceforward the subordinates were within five minutes of the appointed hour for opening the office; but still he was always there before them. Mr. Wilkins himself winced88 under his new clerk's order and punctuality; Mr. Dunster's raised eyebrow89 and contraction90 of the lips at some woeful confusion in the business of the office, chafed91 Mr. Wilkins more, far more than any open expression of opinion would have done; for that he could have met, and explained away as he fancied. A secret respectful dislike grew up in his bosom92 against Mr. Dunster. He esteemed93 him, he valued him, and he could not bear him. Year after year Mr. Wilkins had become more under the influence of his feelings, and less under the command of his reason. He rather cherished than repressed his nervous repugnance94 to the harsh measured tones of Mr. Dunster's voice; the latter spoke with a provincial95 twang which grated on his employer's sensitive ear. He was annoyed at a certain green coat which his new clerk brought with him, and he watched its increasing shabbiness with a sort of childish pleasure. But by-and-by Mr. Wilkins found out that, from some perversity96 of taste, Mr. Dunster always had his coats, Sunday and working- day, made of this obnoxious97 colour; and this knowledge did not diminish his secret irritation98. The worst of all, perhaps, was, that Mr. Dunster was really invaluable99 in many ways; "a perfect treasure," as Mr. Wilkins used to term him in speaking of him after dinner; but, for all that, he came to hate his "perfect treasure," as he gradually felt that Dunster had become so indispensable to the business that his chief could not do without him.
The clients re-echoed Mr. Wilkins's words, and spoke of Mr. Dunster as invaluable to his master; a thorough treasure, the very saving of the business. They had not been better attended to, not even in old Mr. Wilkins's days; such a clear head, such a knowledge of law, such a steady, upright fellow, always at his post. The grating voice, the drawling accent, the bottle-green coat, were nothing to them; far less noticed, in fact, than Wilkins's expensive habits, the money he paid for his wine and horses, and the nonsense of claiming kin8 with the Welsh Wilkinses, and setting up his brougham to drive about ---shire lanes, and be knocked to pieces over the rough round paving-stones thereof.
All these remarks did not come near Ellinor to trouble her life. To her, her dear father was the first of human beings; so sweet, so good, so kind, so charming in conversation, so full of accomplishment and information! To her healthy, happy mind every one turned their bright side. She loved Miss Monro--all the servants--especially Dixon, the coachman. He had been her father's playfellow as a boy, and, with all his respect and admiration100 for his master, the freedom of intercourse that had been established between them then had never been quite lost. Dixon was a fine, stalwart old fellow, and was as harmonious101 in his ways with his master as Mr. Dunster was discordant102; accordingly he was a great favourite, and could say many a thing which might have been taken as impertinent from another servant.
He was Ellinor's great confidant about many of her little plans and projects; things that she dared not speak of to Mr. Corbet, who, after her father and Dixon, was her next best friend. This intimacy103 with Dixon displeased Mr. Corbet. He once or twice insinuated104 that he did not think it was well to talk so familiarly as Ellinor did with a servant--one out of a completely different class--such as Dixon. Ellinor did not easily take hints; every one had spoken plain out to her hitherto; so Mr. Corbet had to say his meaning plain out at last. Then, for the first time, he saw her angry; but she was too young, too childish, to have words at will to express her feelings; she only could say broken beginnings of sentences, such as "What a shame! Good, dear Dixon, who is as loyal and true and kind as any nobleman. I like him far better than you, Mr. Corbet, and I shall talk to him." And then she burst into tears and ran away, and would not come to wish Mr. Corbet good-bye, though she knew she should not see him again for a long time, as he was returning the next day to his father's house, from whence he would go to Cambridge.
He was annoyed at this result of the good advice he had thought himself bound to give to a motherless girl, who had no one to instruct her in the proprieties105 in which his own sisters were brought up; he left Hamley both sorry and displeased. As for Ellinor, when she found out the next day that he really was gone--gone without even coming to Ford Bank again to see if she were not penitent for her angry words--gone without saying or hearing a word of good-bye--she shut herself up in her room, and cried more bitterly than ever, because anger against herself was mixed with her regret for his loss. Luckily, her father was dining out, or he would have inquired what was the matter with his darling; and she would have had to try to explain what could not be explained. As it was, she sat with her back to the light during the schoolroom tea, and afterwards, when Miss Monro had settled down to her study of the Spanish language, Ellinor stole out into the garden, meaning to have a fresh cry over her own naughtiness and Mr. Corbet's departure; but the August evening was still and calm, and put her passionate grief to shame, hushing her up, as it were, with the other young creatures, who were being soothed106 to rest by the serene107 time of day, and the subdued light of the twilight108 sky.
There was a piece of ground surrounding the flower-garden, which was not shrubbery, nor wood, nor kitchen garden--only a grassy109 bit, out of which a group of old forest trees sprang. Their roots were heaved above ground; their leaves fell in autumn so profusely110 that the turf was ragged111 and bare in spring; but, to make up for this, there never was such a place for snowdrops.
The roots of these old trees were Ellinor's favourite play-place; this space between these two was her doll's kitchen, that its drawing-room, and so on. Mr. Corbet rather despised her contrivances for doll's furniture, so she had not often brought him here; but Dixon delighted in them, and contrived112 and planned with the eagerness of six years old rather than forty. To-night Ellinor went to this place, and there were all a new collection of ornaments113 for Miss Dolly's sitting-room114 made out of fir-bobs, in the prettiest and most ingenious way. She knew it was Dixon's doing and rushed off in search of him to thank him.
"What's the matter with my pretty?" asked Dixon, as soon as the pleasant excitement of thanking and being thanked was over, and he had leisure to look at her tear-stained face.
"Oh, I don't know! Never mind," said she, reddening.
Dixon was silent for a minute or two, while she tried to turn off his attention by her hurried prattle115.
"There's no trouble afoot that I can mend?" asked he, in a minute or two.
"Oh, no! It's really nothing--nothing at all," said she. "It's only that Mr. Corbet went away without saying good-bye to me, that's all." And she looked as if she should have liked to cry again.
"That was not manners," said Dixon, decisively.
"But it was my fault," replied Ellinor, pleading against the condemnation116.
"He had been giving me a lecture, and saying I didn't do what his sisters did--just as if I were to be always trying to be like somebody else--and I was cross and ran away."
"Then it was Missy who wouldn't say good-bye. That was not manners in Missy."
"But, Dixon, I don't like being lectured!"
"I reckon you don't get much of it. But, indeed, my pretty, I daresay Mr. Corbet was in the right; for, you see, master is busy, and Miss Monro is so dreadful learned, and your poor mother is dead and gone, and you have no one to teach you how young ladies go on; and by all accounts Mr. Corbet comes of a good family. I've heard say his father had the best stud-farm in all Shropshire, and spared no money upon it; and the young ladies his sisters will have been taught the best of manners; it might be well for my pretty to hear how they go on."
"You dear old Dixon, you don't know anything about my lecture, and I'm not going to tell you. Only I daresay Mr. Corbet might be a little bit right, though I'm sure he was a great deal wrong."
"But you'll not go on a-fretting--you won't now, there's a good young lady--for master won't like it, and it'll make him uneasy, and he's enough of trouble without your red eyes, bless them."
"Trouble--papa, trouble! Oh, Dixon! what do you mean?" exclaimed Ellinor, her face taking all a woman's intensity of expression in a minute.
"Nay118, I know nought," said Dixon, evasively. "Only that Dunster fellow is not to my mind, and I think he potters the master sadly with his fid- fad119 ways."
"I hate Mr. Dunster!" said Ellinor, vehemently120. "I won't speak a word to him the next time he comes to dine with papa."
"Missy will do what papa likes best," said Dixon, admonishingly; and with this the pair of "friends" parted,
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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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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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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instinctively
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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overflowed
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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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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necessitate
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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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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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21
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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22
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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24
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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25
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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26
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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27
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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28
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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29
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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30
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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31
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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32
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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33
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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34
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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35
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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36
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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37
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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38
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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39
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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40
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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41
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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44
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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45
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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46
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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47
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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48
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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49
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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50
dawdle
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| vi.浪费时间；闲荡 | |
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51
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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52
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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53
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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54
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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55
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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56
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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57
widowers
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| n.鳏夫( widower的名词复数 ) | |
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58
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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59
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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62
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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63
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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64
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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65
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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67
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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68
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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69
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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70
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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71
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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72
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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73
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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74
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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75
affiliating
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| 使隶属于，接纳…为成员( affiliate的现在分词 )； 加入，与…有关，为…工作 | |
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76
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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77
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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78
substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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79
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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80
filching
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的现在分词 ) | |
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81
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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82
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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83
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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84
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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85
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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86
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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88
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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90
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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91
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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93
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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94
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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95
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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96
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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97
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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98
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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99
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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100
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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101
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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102
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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103
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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104
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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105
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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106
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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107
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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108
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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109
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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110
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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111
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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112
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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113
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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115
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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116
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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117
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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118
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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119
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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120
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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