Had Sir Austin given vent11 to the pain and wrath12 it was natural he should feel, he might have gone to unphilosophic excesses, and, however much he lowered his reputation as a sage13, Lady Blandish would have excused him: she would not have loved him less for seeing him closer. But the poor gentleman tasked his soul and stretched his muscles to act up to her conception of him. He, a man of science in life, who was bound to be surprised by nothing in nature, it was not for him to do more than lift his eyebrows14 and draw in his lips at the news delivered by Ripton Thompson, that ill bird at Raynham.
All he said, after Ripton had handed the letters and carried his penitential headache to bed, was: “You see, Emmeline, it is useless to base any system on a human being.”
A very philosophical15 remark for one who has been busily at work building for nearly twenty years. Too philosophical to seem genuine. It revealed where the blow struck sharpest. Richard was no longer the Richard of his creation — his pride and his joy — but simply a human being with the rest. The bright star had sunk among the mass.
And yet, what had the young man done? And in what had the System failed?
The lady could not but ask herself this, while she condoled16 with the offended father.
“My friend,” she said, tenderly taking his hand before she retired17, “I know how deeply you must be grieved. I know what your disappointment must be. I do not beg of you to forgive him now. You cannot doubt his love for this young person, and according to his light, has he not behaved honourably18, and as you would have wished, rather than bring her to shame? You will think of that. It has been an accident — a misfortune — a terrible misfortune”. . . .
“The God of this world is in the machine — not out of it,” Sir Austin interrupted her, and pressed her hand to get the good-night over.
At any other time her mind would have been arrested to admire the phrase; now it seemed perverse19, vain, false, and she was tempted20 to turn the meaning that was in it against himself, much as she pitied him.
“You know, Emmeline,” he added, “I believe very little in the fortune, or misfortune, to which men attribute their successes and reverses. They are useful impersonations to novelists; but my opinion is sufficiently21 high of flesh and blood to believe that we make our own history without intervention22. Accidents? — Terrible misfortunes? — What are they? — Good-night.”
“Good-night,” she said, looking sad and troubled. “When I said, ‘misfortune,’ I meant, of course, that he is to blame, but — shall I leave you his letter to me?”
“I think I have enough to meditate23 upon,” he replied, coldly bowing.
“God bless you,” she whispered. “And — may I say it? do not shut your heart.”
He assured her that he hoped not to do so, and the moment she was gone he set about shutting it as tight as he could.
If, instead of saying, Base no system on a human being, he had said, Never experimentalize with one, he would have been nearer the truth of his own case. He had experimented on humanity in the person of the son he loved as his life, and at once, when the experiment appeared to have failed, all humanity’s failings fell on the shoulders of his son. Richard’s parting laugh in the train — it was explicable now: it sounded in his ears like the mockery of this base nature of ours at every endeavor to exalt24 and chasten it. The young man had plotted this. From step to step Sir Austin traced the plot. The curious mask he had worn since his illness; the selection of his incapable25 uncle Hippias for a companion in preference to Adrian; it was an evident, well-perfected plot. That hideous26 laugh would not be silenced. Base, like the rest, treacherous27, a creature of passions using his abilities solely28 to gratify them — never surely had humanity such chances as in him! A Manich?an tendency, from which the sententious eulogist of nature had been struggling for years (and which was partly at the bottom of the System), now began to cloud and usurp29 dominion30 of his mind. As he sat alone in the forlorn dead-hush of his library, he saw the devil.
How are we to know when we are at the head and fountain of the fates of them we love?
There by the springs of Richard’s future, his father sat: and the devil said to him: “Only be quiet: do nothing: resolutely31 do nothing: your object now is to keep a brave face to the world, so that all may know you superior to this human nature that has deceived you. For it is the shameless deception32, not the marriage, that has wounded you.”
“Ay!” answered the baronet, “the shameless deception, not the marriage: wicked and ruinous as it must be; a destroyer of my tenderest hopes! my dearest schemes! Not the marriage — the shameless deception!” and he crumpled33 up his son’s letter to him, and tossed it into the fire.
How are we to distinguish the dark chief of the Manich?ans when he talks our own thoughts to us?
Further he whispered, “And your System:— if you would be brave to the world, have courage to cast the dream of it out of you: relinquish34 an impossible project; see it as it is — dead: too good for men!”
“Ay!” muttered the baronet: “all who would save them perish on the Cross!”
And so he sat nursing the devil.
By and by he took his lamp, and put on the old cloak and cap, and went to gaze at Ripton. That exhausted35 debauchee and youth without a destiny slept a dead sleep. A handkerchief was bound about his forehead, and his helpless sunken chin and snoring nose projected up the pillow, made him look absurdly piteous. The baronet remembered how often he had compared his boy with this one: his own bright boy! And where was the difference between them?
“Mere outward gilding36!” said his familiar.
“Yes,” he responded, “I daresay this one never positively37 plotted to deceive his father: he followed his appetites unchecked, and is internally the sounder of the two.”
Ripton, with his sunken chin and snoring nose under the light of the lamp, stood for human nature, honest, however abject38.
“Miss Random39, I fear very much, is a necessary establishment!” whispered the monitor.
“Does the evil in us demand its natural food, or it corrupts40 the whole?” ejaculated Sir Austin. “And is no angel of avail till that is drawn41 off? And is that our conflict — to see whether we can escape the contagion42 of its embrace, and come uncorrupted out of that?”
“The world is wise in its way,” said the voice.
“Though it look on itself through Port wine?” he suggested, remembering his lawyer Thompson.
“Wise in not seeking to be too wise,” said the voice.
“And getting intoxicated43 on its drug of comfort!”
“Human nature is weak.”
“And Miss Random is an establishment, and Wild Oats an institution!”
“It always has been so.”
“And always will be?”
“So I fear! in spite of your very noble efforts.”
“And leads — whither? And ends — where?”
Richard’s laugh, taken up by horrid44 reverberations, as it were through the lengths of the Lower Halls, replied.
This colloquy45 of two voices in a brain was concluded by Sir Austin asking again if there were no actual difference between the flower of his hopes and yonder drunken weed, and receiving for answer that there was a decided46 dissimilarity in the smell of the couple; becoming cognizant of which he retreated.
Sir Austin did not battle with the tempter. He took him into his bosom47 at once, as if he had been ripe for him, and received his suggestions and bowed to his dictates48. Because he suffered, and decreed that he would suffer silently, and be the only sufferer, it seemed to him that he was great-minded in his calamity49. He had stood against the world. The world had beaten him. What then? He must shut his heart and mask his face; that was all. To be far in advance of the mass, is as fruitless to mankind, he reflected, as straggling in the rear. For how do we know that they move behind us at all, or move in our track? What we win for them is lost; and where we are overthrown50 we lie!
It was thus that a fine mind and a fine heart at the bounds of a nature not great, chose to colour his retrogression and countenance51 his shortcoming; and it was thus that he set about ruining the work he had done. He might well say, as he once did, that there are hours when the clearest soul becomes a cunning fox. For a grief that was private and peculiar52, he unhesitatingly cast the blame upon humanity; just as he had accused it in the period of what he termed his own ordeal53. How had he borne that? By masking his face. And he prepared the ordeal for his son by doing the same. This was by no means his idea of a man’s duty in tribulation54, about which he could be strenuously55 eloquent56. But it was his instinct so to act, and in times of trial great natures alone are not at the mercy of their instincts. Moreover it would cost him pain to mask his face; pain worse than that he endured when there still remained an object for him to open his heart to in proportion; and he always reposed57 upon the Spartan58 comfort of bearing pain and being passive. “Do nothing,” said the devil he nursed; which meant in his case, “Take me into you and don’t cast me out.” Excellent and sane59 is the outburst of wrath to men, when it stops short of slaughter60. For who that locks it up to eat in solitary61, can say that it is consumed? Sir Austin had as weak a digestion62 for wrath, as poor Hippias for a green duckling. Instead of eating it, it ate him. The wild beast in him was not the less deadly because it did not roar, and the devil in him not the less active because he resolved to do nothing.
He sat at the springs of Richard’s future, in the forlorn dead-hush of his library there, hearing the cinders63 click in the extinguished fire, and that humming stillness in which one may fancy one hears the midnight Fates busily stirring their embryos64. The lamp glowed mildly on the bust65 of Chatham.
Toward morning a gentle knock fell at his door. Lady Blandish glided66 in. With hasty step she came straight to him, and took both his hands.
“My friend,” she said, speaking tearfully, and trembling, “I feared I should find you here. I could not sleep. How is it with you?”
“Well! Emmeline, well!” he replied, torturing his brows to fix the mask.
He wished it had been Adrian who had come to him. He had an extraordinary longing67 for Adrian’s society. He knew that the wise youth would divine how to treat him, and he mentally confessed to just enough weakness to demand a certain kind of management. Besides, Adrian, he had not a doubt, would accept him entirely68 as he seemed, and not pester69 him in any way by trying to unlock his heart; whereas a woman, he feared, would be waxing too womanly, and swelling70 from tears and supplications to a scene, of all things abhorred71 by him the most. So he rapped the floor with his foot, and gave the lady no very welcome face when he said it was well with him.
She sat down by his side, still holding one hand firmly, and softly detaining the other.
“Oh, my friend! may I believe you? May I speak to you?” She leaned close to him. “You know my heart. I have no better ambition than to be your friend. Surely I divide your grief, and may I not claim your confidence? Who has wept more over your great and dreadful sorrows? I would not have come to you, but I do believe that sorrow shared relieves the burden, and it is now that you may feel a woman’s aid, and something of what a woman could be to you.” . . .
“Be assured,” he gravely said, “I thank you, Emmeline, for your intentions.”
“No, no! not for my intentions! And do not thank me. Think of him . . . think of your dear boy. . . . Our Richard, as we have called him. — Oh! do not think it a foolish superstition73 of mine, but I have had a thought this night that has kept me in torment74 till I rose to speak to you. . . . Tell me first you have forgiven him.”
“A father bears no malice75 to his son, Emmeline.”
“Your heart has forgiven him?”
“My heart has taken what he gave.”
“And quite forgiven him?”
“You will hear no complaints of mine.”
The lady paused despondingly, and looked at him in a wistful manner, saying with a sigh, “Yes! I know how noble you are, and different from others!”
He drew one of his hands from her relaxed hold.
“You ought to be in bed, Emmeline.”
“I cannot sleep.”
“Go, and talk to me another time.”
“No, it must be now. You have helped me when I struggled to rise into a clearer world, and I think, humble76 as I am, I can help you now. I have had a thought this night that if you do not pray for him and bless him . . . it will end miserably77. My friend, have you done so?”
He was stung and offended, and could hardly help showing it in spite of his mask.
“Have you done so, Austin?”
“This is assuredly a new way of committing fathers to the follies78 of their sons, Emmeline!”
“No, not that. But will you pray for your boy, and bless him, before the day comes?”
He restrained himself to pronounce his words calmly:—“And I must do this, or it will end in misery79? How else can it end? Can I save him from the seed he has sown? Consider, Emmeline, what you say. He has repeated his cousin’s sin. You see the end of that.” . . .
“Oh, so different! This young person is not, is not of the class poor Austin Wentworth allied80 himself to. Indeed it is different. And he — be just and admit his nobleness. I fancied you did. This young person has great beauty, she has the elements of good breeding, she — indeed I think, had she been in another position, you would not have looked upon her unfavourably.”
“She may be too good for my son!” The baronet spoke81 with sublime82 bitterness.
“No woman is too good for Richard, and you know it.”
“Pass her.”
“Yes, I will speak only of him. He met her by a fatal accident. We thought his love dead, and so did he till he saw her again. He met her, he thought we were plotting against him, he thought he should lose her for ever, and in the madness of an hour he did this.” . . .
“My Emmeline pleads bravely for clandestine83 matches.”
“Ah! do not trifle, my friend. Say: would you have had him act as young men in his position generally do to young women beneath them?”
Sir Austin did not like the question. It probed him very severely84.
“You mean,” he said, “that fathers must fold their arms, and either submit to infamous85 marriages, or have these creatures ruined.”
“I do not mean that,” exclaimed the lady, striving for what she did mean, and how to express it. “I mean that . . . he loved her. Is it not a madness at his age? But what I chiefly mean is — save him from the consequences. No, you shall not withdraw your hand. Think of his pride, his sensitiveness, his great wild nature — wild when he is set wrong: think how intense it is, set upon love; think, my friend, do not forget his love for you.”
Sir Austin smiled an admirable smile of pity.
“That I should save him, or any one, from consequences, is asking more than the order of things will allow to you, Emmeline, and is not in the disposition86 of this world. I cannot. Consequences are the natural offspring of acts. My child, you are talking sentiment, which is the distraction87 of our modern age in everything — a phantasmal vapour distorting the image of the life we live. You ask me to give him a golden age in spite of himself. All that could be done, by keeping him in the paths of virtue88 and truth, I did. He is become a man, and as a man he must reap his own sowing.”
The baffled lady sighed. He sat so rigid89: he spoke so securely, as if wisdom were to him more than the love of his son. And yet he did love his son. Feeling sure that he loved his son while he spoke so loftily, she reverenced90 him still, baffled as she was, and sensible that she had been quibbled with.
“All I ask of you is to open your heart to him,” she said.
He kept silent.
“Call him a man — he is, and must ever be the child of your education, my friend.”
“You would console me, Emmeline, with the prospect91 that, if he ruins himself, he spares the world of young women. Yes, that is something!”
Closely she scanned the mask. It was impenetrable. He could meet her eyes, and respond to the pressure of her hand, and smile, and not show what he felt. Nor did he deem it hypocritical to seek to maintain his elevation92 in her soft soul, by simulating supreme93 philosophy over offended love. Nor did he know that he had an angel with him then: a blind angel, and a weak one, but one who struck upon his chance.
“Am I pardoned for coming to you?” she said, after a pause.
“Surely I can read my Emmeline’s intentions,” he gently replied.
“Very poor ones. I feel my weakness. I cannot utter half I have been thinking. Oh, if I could!”
“You speak very well, Emmeline.”
“At least, I am pardoned!”
“Surely so.”
“And before I leave you, dear friend, shall I be forgiven? — may I beg it? — will you bless him?”
He was again silent.
“Pray for him, Austin! pray for him ere the night is over.”
As she spoke she slid down to his feet and pressed his hand to her bosom.
The baronet was startled. In very dread72 of the soft fit that wooed him, he pushed back his chair, and rose, and went to the window.
“It’s day already!” he said with assumed vivacity94, throwing open the shutters95, and displaying the young light on the lawn.
Lady Blandish dried her tears as she knelt, and then joined him, and glanced up silently at Richard’s moon standing96 in wane97 toward the West. She hoped it was because of her having been premature98 in pleading so earnestly, that she had failed to move him, and she accused herself more than the baronet. But in acting99 as she had done, she had treated him as no common man, and she was compelled to perceive that his heart was at present hardly superior to the hearts of ordinary men, however composed his face might be, and apparently100 serene101 his wisdom. From that moment she grew critical of him, and began to study her idol102 — a process dangerous to idols103. He, now that she seemed to have relinquished104 the painful subject, drew to her, and as one who wished to smooth a foregone roughness, murmured: “God’s rarest blessing105 is, after all, a good woman! My Emmeline bears her sleepless106 night well. She does not shame the day.” He gazed down on her with a fondling tenderness.
“I could bear many, many!” she replied, meeting his eyes, “and you would see me look better and better, if . . . if only . . . ” but she had no encouragement to end the sentence.
Perhaps he wanted some mute form of consolation107; perhaps the handsome placid108 features of the dark-eyed dame109 touched him: at any rate their Platonism was advanced by his putting an arm about her. She felt the arm and talked of the morning.
Thus proximate, they by and by both heard something very like a groan110 behind them, and looking round, beheld111 the Saurian eye. Lady Blandish smiled, but the baronet’s discomposure was not to be concealed112. By a strange fatality113 every stage of their innocent loves was certain to have a human beholder114.
“Oh, I’m sure I beg pardon,” Benson mumbled115, arresting his head in a melancholy116 pendulosity. He was ordered out of the room.
“And I think I shall follow him, and try to get forty winks,” said Lady Blandish. They parted with a quiet squeeze of hands.
The baronet then called in Benson.
“Get me my breakfast as soon as you can,” he said, regardless of the aspect of injured conscience Benson sombrely presented to him. “I am going to town early. And, Benson,” he added, “you will also go to town this afternoon, or tomorrow, if it suits you, and take your book with you to Mr. Thompson. You will not return here. A provision will be made for you. You can go.”
The heavy butler essayed to speak, but the tremendous blow and the baronet’s gesture choked him. At the door he made another effort which shook the rolls of his loose skin pitiably. An impatient signal sent him out dumb — and Raynham was quit of the one believer in the Great Shaddock dogma.
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1
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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condoled
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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solely
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usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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exhausted
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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corrupts
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的第三人称单数 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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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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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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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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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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50
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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51
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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52
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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53
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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54
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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55
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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57
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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60
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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61
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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62
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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63
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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64
embryos
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| n.晶胚；胚，胚胎( embryo的名词复数 ) | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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67
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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68
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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71
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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72
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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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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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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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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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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81
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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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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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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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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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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wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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101
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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102
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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103
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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104
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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105
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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106
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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107
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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108
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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109
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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110
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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111
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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112
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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113
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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114
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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115
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
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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