‘I did not think you would be such idiots as to come down the north side of the hill in a tempest,’ said Maulevrier; ‘we could see the clouds racing4 over the crest5 of Seat Sandal, and knew it was blowing pretty hard up there, though it was calm enough down here.’
‘Blowing pretty hard;’ echoed Hammond, ‘I don’t think I was ever out in a worse gale6; and yet I have been across the Bay of Biscay when the waves struck the side of the steamer like battering7 rams8, and when the whole surface of the sea was white with seething9 foam10.’
‘It was a most imprudent thing to go up Helvellyn in such weather,’ said Fr?ulein Müller, shaking her head gloomily as she ate her fish.
Mary felt that the Fr?ulein’s manner boded11 ill. There was a storm brewing12. A scolding was inevitable13. Mary felt quite capable of doing battle with the Fr?ulein; but her feelings were altogether different when she thought of facing that stern old lady upstairs, and of the confession14 she had to make. It was not that her courage faltered15. So far as resolutions went she was as firm as a rock. But she felt that there was a terrible ordeal16 to be gone through; and it seemed a mockery to be sitting there and pretending to eat her dinner and take things lightly, with that ordeal before her.
‘We did not go up the hill in bad weather, Miss Müller,’ said Mr. Hammond. ‘The sun was shining and the sky was blue when we started. We could not foresee darkness and storm at the top of the hill. That was the fortune of war.’
‘I am very sorry Lady Mary had not more good sense,’ replied Fr?ulein with unabated gloom; but on this Maulevrier took up the cudgels.
‘If there was any want of sense in the business, that’s my look-out, Fr?ulein,’ he said, glaring angrily at the governess. ‘It was I who advised Hammond and Lady Mary to climb the hill. And here they are, safe and sound after their journey I see no reason why there should be any fuss about it.’
‘People have different ways of looking at things, replied Fr?ulein, plodding17 steadily18 on with her dinner. Mary rose directly the dessert had been handed round, and marched out of the room: like a warrior19 going to a battle in which the chances of defeat were strong. Fr?ulein Müller shuffled20 after her.
‘Will you be kind enough to go to her ladyship’s room at once, Lady Mary,’ she said. ‘She wants to speak to you.’
‘And I want to speak to her,’ said Mary.
She ran quickly upstairs and arrived in the morning room, a little out of breath. The room was lighted by one low moderator lamp, under a dark red velvet21 shade, and there was the glow of the wood fire, which gave a more cheerful light than the lamp. Lady Maulevrier was lying on her couch in a loose brocade tea-gown, with old Brussels collar and ruffles22. She was as well dressed in her day of affliction and helplessness as she had been in her day of strength; for she knew the value of surroundings, and that her stateliness and power were in some manner dependent on details of this kind. The one hand which she could use glittered with diamonds, as she waved it with a little imperious gesture towards the chair on which she desired Lady Mary to seat herself; and Mary sat down meekly23, knowing that this chair represented the felon’s dock.
‘Mary,’ began her grandmother, with freezing gravity, ‘I have been surprised and shocked by your conduct to-day. Yes, surprised at such conduct even in you.’
‘I do not think I have done anything very wrong, grandmother.’
‘Not wrong! You have done nothing wrong? You have done something absolutely outrageous24. You, my granddaughter, well born, well bred, reared under my roof, to go up Helvellyn and lose yourself in a fog alone with a young man. You could hardly have done worse if you were a Cockney tourist,’ concluded her ladyship, with ineffable25 disgust.
‘I could not help the fog,’ said Mary, quietly. The battle had to be fought, and she was not going to flinch26. ‘I had no intention of going up Helvellyn alone with Mr. Hammond. Maulevrier was to have gone with us; but when we got to Dolly Waggon27 he was tired, and would not go any further. He told me to go on with Mr. Hammond.’
‘He told you! Maulevrier! — a young man who has spent some of the best hours of his youth in the company of jockeys and trainers — who hasn’t the faintest idea of the fitness of things. You allow Maulevrier to be your guide in a matter in which your own instinct should have guided you — your womanly instinct! But you have always been an unwomanly girl. You have put me to shame many a time by your hoydenish28 tricks; but I bore with you, believing that your madcap follies29 were at least harmless. To-day you have gone a step too far, and have been guilty of absolute impropriety, which I shall be very slow to pardon.’
‘Perhaps you will be still more angry when you know all, grandmother,’ said Mary.
Lady Maulevrier flashed her dark eyes at the girl with a look which would have almost killed a nervous subject; but Mary faced her steadfastly30, very pale, but as resolute31 as her ladyship.
‘When I know all! What more is there for me to know?’
‘Only that while we were on the top of Helvellyn, in the fog and the wind, Mr. Hammond asked me to be his wife.’
‘I am not surprised to hear it,’ retorted her ladyship, with a harsh laugh. ‘A girl who could act so boldly and flirtingly was a natural mark for an adventurer. Mr. Hammond no doubt has been told that you will have a little money by-and-by, and thinks he might do worse than marry you. And seeing how you have flung yourself at his head, he naturally concludes that you will not be too proud to accept your sister’s leavings.’
‘There is nothing gained by making cruel speeches, grandmother,’ said Mary, firmly. ‘I have promised to be John Hammond’s wife, and there is nothing you nor anyone else can say which will make me alter my mind. I wish to act dutifully to you, if I can, and I hope you will be good to me and consent to this marriage. But if you will not consent, I shall marry him all the same. I shall be full of sorrow at having to disobey you, but I have promised, and I will keep my promise.’
‘You will act in open rebellion against me — against the kinswoman who has reared you, and educated you, and cared for you in all these years!’
‘But you have never loved me,’ answered Mary, sadly. ‘Perhaps if you had given me some portion of that affection which you lavished32 on my sister I might be willing to sacrifice this now deep love for your sake — to lay down my broken heart as a sacrifice on the altar of gratitude33. But you never loved me. You have tolerated me, endured my presence as a disagreeable necessity of your life, because I am my father’s daughter. You and Lesbia have been all the world to each other; and I have stood aloof34, outside your charmed circle, almost a stranger to you. Can you wonder, grandmother, recalling this, that I am unwilling35 to surrender the love that has been given me to-day — the true heart of a brave and good man!’
Lady Maulevrier looked at her for some moments in scornful wonderment; looked at her with a slow, deliberate smile.
‘Poor child!’ she said; ‘poor ignorant, inexperienced baby! For what a Will-o-the-wisp are you ready to sacrifice my regard, and all the privileges of your position as my granddaughter! No doubt this Mr. Hammond has said all manner of fine things to you; but can you be weak enough to believe that he who half a year ago was sighing and dying at the feet of your sister can have one spark of genuine regard for you? The thing is not in nature; it is an obvious absurdity36. But it is easy enough to understand that Mr. Hammond without a penny in his pocket, and with his way to make in the world, would be very glad to secure Lady Mary Haselden and her five hundred a year, and to have Lord Maulevrier for his brother in-law?’
‘Have I really five hundred a year? Shall I have five hundred a year when I marry?’ asked Mary, suddenly radiant.
‘Yes; if you marry with your brother’s consent.’
‘I am so glad — for his sake. He could hardly starve if I had five hundred a year. He need not be obliged to emigrate.’
‘Has he been offering you the prospect37 of emigration as an additional inducement?’
‘Oh, no, he does not say that he is very poor, but since you say he is penniless I thought we might be obliged to emigrate. But as I have five hundred a year —’
‘You will stay at home, and set up a lodging-house, I suppose,’ sneered38 Lady Maulevrier.
‘I will do anything my husband pleases. We can live in a humble39 way in some quiet part of London, while Mr. Hammond works at literature or politics. I am not afraid of poverty or trouble, I am willing to endure both for his sake.’
‘You are a fool!’ said her grandmother sternly. ‘And I have nothing more to say to you. Go away, and send Maulevrier to me.’
Mary did not obey immediately. She went over to her grandmother’s couch and knelt by her side, and kissed the poor maimed hand which lay on the velvet cushion.
‘Dear grandmother,’ she said gently. ‘I am very sorry to rebel against you. But this is a question of life or death with me. I am not like Lesbia. I cannot barter40 love and truth for worldly advantage — for pride of race. Do not think me so weak or so vain as to be won by a few fine speeches from an adventurer. Mr. Hammond is no adventurer, he has made no fine speeches — but, I will tell you a secret, grandmother. I have liked and admired him from the first time he came here. I have looked up to him and reverenced41 him; and I must be a very foolish girl if my judgment42 is so poor that I can respect a worthless man.’
‘You are a very foolish girl,’ answered Lady Maulevrier, more kindly43 than she had spoken before, ‘but you have been very good and dutiful to me since I have been ill, and I don’t wish to forget that. I never said that Mr. Hammond was worthless; but I say that he is no fit husband for you. If you were as yielding and obedient as Lesbia it would be all the better for you; for then I should provide for your establishment in life in a becoming manner. But as you are wilful45, and bent46 upon taking your own way — well — my dear, you must take the consequence; and when you are a struggling wife and mother, old before your time, weighed down with the weary burden of petty cares, do not say, “My grandmother might have saved me from this martyrdom.”’
‘I will run the risk, grandmother. I will be answerable for my own fate.’
‘So be it, Mary. And now send Maulevrier to me.’
Mary went down to the billiard room, where she found her brother and her lover engaged in a hundred game.
‘Take my cue and beat him if you can, Molly,’ said Maulevrier, when he had heard Mary’s message. ‘I’m fifteen ahead of him, for he has been falling asleep over his shots. I suppose I am going to get a lecture.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mary.
‘Well, my dearest, how did you fare in the encounter?’ asked Hammond, directly Maulevrier was gone.
‘Oh, it was dreadful! I made the most rebellious47 speeches to poor grandmother, and then I remembered her affliction, and I asked her to forgive me, and just at the last she was ever so much kinder, and I think that she will let me marry you, now she knows I have made up my mind to be your wife — in spite of Fate.’
‘My bravest and best.’
‘And do you know, Jack’— she blushed tremendously as she uttered this familiar name —‘I have made a discovery!’
‘Indeed!’
‘I find that I am to have five hundred a year when I am married. It is not much. But I suppose it will help, won’t it? We can’t exactly starve if we have five hundred a year. Let me see. It is more than a pound a day. A sovereign ought to go a long way in a small house; and, of course, we shall begin in a very wee house, like De Quincey’s cottage over there, only in London.’
‘Yes, dear, there are plenty of such cottages in London. In Mayfair, for instance, or Belgravia.’
‘Now, you are laughing at my rustic48 ignorance. But the five hundred pounds will be a help, won’t it?’
‘Yes, dear, a great help.’
‘I’m so glad.’
She had chalked her cue while she was talking, but after taking her aim, she dropped her arm irresolutely49.
‘Do you know I’m afraid I can’t play to-night,’ she said.
‘Helvellyn and the fog and the wind have quite spoilt my nerve. Shall we go to the drawing-room, and see if Fr?ulein has recovered from her gloomy fit?’
‘I would rather stay here, where we are free to talk; but I’ll do whatever you like best.’
Mary preferred the drawing-room. It was very sweet to be alone with her lover, but she was weighed down with confusion in his presence. The novelty, the wonderment of her position overpowered her. She yearned50 for the shelter of Fr?ulein Müller’s wing, albeit51 the company of that most prosaic52 person was certain death to romance.
Miss Müller was in her accustomed seat by the fire, knitting her customary muffler. She had appropriated Lady Maulevrier’s place, much to Mary’s disgust. It irked the girl to see that stout53, clumsy figure in the chair which had been filled by her grandmother’s imperial form. The very room seemed vulgarised by the change.
Fr?ulein looked up with a surprised air when Mary and Hammond entered together, the girl smiling and happy. She had expected that Mary would have left her ladyship’s room in tears, and would have retired54 to her own apartment to hide her swollen55 eyelids56 and humiliated57 aspect. But here she was, after the fiery58 ordeal of an interview with her offended grandmother, not in the least crestfallen59.
‘Are we not to have any tea to-night?’ asked Mary, looking round the room.
‘I think you are unconscious of the progress of time, Lady Mary,’ answered Fr?ulein, stiffly. ‘The tea has been brought in and taken out again.’
‘Then it must be brought again, if Lady Mary wants some,’ said Hammond, ringing the bell in the coolest manner.
Fr?ulein felt that things were coming to a pretty pass, if Maulevrier’s humble friend was going to give orders in the house. Quiet and commonplace as the Hanoverian was, she had her ambition, and that was to grasp the household sceptre which Lady Maulevrier must needs in some wise resign, now that she was a prisoner to her rooms. But so far Fr?ulein had met with but small success in this endeavour. Her ladyship’s authority still ruled the house. Her ladyship’s keen intellect took cognisance even of trifles: and it was only in the most insignificant60 details that Fr?ulein felt herself a power.
‘Well, your ladyship, what’s the row?’ said Maulevrier marching into his grandmother’s room with a free and easy air. He was prepared for a skirmish, and he meant to take the bull by the horns.
‘I suppose you know what has happened to-day?’ said her ladyship.
‘Molly and Hammond’s expedition, yes, of course. I went part of the way with them, but I was out of training, got pumped out after a couple of miles, and wasn’t such a fool as to go to the top.’
‘Do you know that Mr. Hammond made Mary an offer, while they were on the hill, and that she accepted him?’
‘A queer place for a proposal, wasn’t it? The wind blowing great guns all the time. I should have chosen a more tranquil61 spot.’
‘Maulevrier, cannot you be serious? Do you forget that this business of to-day must affect your sister’s welfare for the rest of her life?’
‘No, I do not. I will be as serious as a judge after he has put on the black cap,’ said Maulevrier, seating himself near his grandmother’s couch, and altering his tone altogether. ‘Seriously I am very glad that Hammond has asked Mary to be his wife, and still more glad that she is tremendously in love with him. I told you some time ago not to put your spoke44 in that wheel. There could not be a happier or a better marriage for Mary.’
‘You must have rather a poor opinion, of your sister’s attractions, personal or otherwise, if you consider a penniless young man — of no family — good enough for her.’
‘I do not consider my sister a piece of merchandise to be sold to the highest bidder62. Granted that Hammond is poor and a nobody. He is an honourable63 man, highly gifted, brave as a lion, and he is my dearest friend. Can you wonder that I rejoice at my sister’s having won him for her adoring lover?’
‘Can he really care for her, after having loved Lesbia?’
‘That was the desire of the eye, this is the love of the heart. I know that he loves Mary ever so much better than he loved Lesbia. I can assure your ladyship that I am not such a fool as I look. I am very fond of my sister Mary, and I have not been blind to her interests. I tell you on my honour that she ought to be very happy as John Hammond’s wife.’
‘I am obliged to believe what you say about his character,’ said Lady Maulevrier. ‘And I am willing to admit that the husband’s character has a great deal to do with the wife’s happiness, from a moral point of view; but still there are material questions to be considered. Has your friend any means of supporting a wife?’
‘Yes, he has means; quite sufficient means for Mary’s views, which are very simple.’
‘You mean to say he would keep her in decent poverty? Cannot you be explicit64, Maulevrier, and say what means the man has, whether an income or none? If you cannot tell me I must question Mr. Hammond himself.’
‘Pray do not do that,’ exclaimed her grandson urgently. ‘Do not take all the flavour of romance out of Molly’s love story, by going into pounds, shillings, and pence. She is very young. You would hardly wish her to marry immediately?’
‘Not for the next year, at the very least.’
‘Then why enter upon this sordid65 question of ways and means. Make Hammond and Mary happy by consenting to their engagement, and trust the rest to Providence66, and to me. Take my word for it, Hammond is not a beggar, and he is a man likely to make his mark in the world. If a year hence his income is not enough to allow of his marrying, I will double Mary’s allowance out of my own purse. Hammond’s friendship has steadied me, and saved me a good deal more than five hundred a year.’
‘I can quite believe that. I believe Mr. Hammond is a worthy67 man, and that his influence has been very good for you; but that does not make him a good match for Mary. However, you seem to have settled the business among you, and I suppose I must submit. You had better all drink tea with me to morrow afternoon; and I will receive your friend as Mary’s future husband.’
‘That is the best and kindest of grandmothers.’
‘But I should like to know more of his antecedents and his relations.’
‘His antecedents are altogether creditable. He took honours at the University; he has been liked and respected everywhere. He is an orphan68, and it is better not to talk to him of his family. He is sensitive on that point, like most men who stand alone in the world.’
‘Well, I will hold my peace. You have taken this business into your hands, Maulevrier; and you must be responsible for the result.’
Maulevrier left his grandmother soon after this, and went downstairs, whistling for very joyousness69. Finding the billiard-room deserted70 he repaired to the drawing-room, where he found Mary playing scraps71 of melody to her lover at the shadowy end of the room, while Fr?ulein sat by the fire weaving her web as steadily as one of the Fatal Sisters, and with a brow prophetic of evil.
Maulevrier crept up to the piano, and came stealthily behind the lovers.
‘Bless you, my children,’ he said, hovering72 over them with outspread hands. ‘I am the dove coming back to the ark. I am the bearer of happy tidings. Lady Maulevrier consents to your acquiring the legal right to make each other miserable73 for the rest of your lives.’
‘God bless you, Maulevrier,’ said Hammond, clasping him by the hand.
‘Only as this sister of mine is hardly out of the nursery you will have to wait for her at least a year. So says the dowager, whose word is like the law of the Modes and Persians, and altereth not.’
‘I would wait for her twice seven years, as Jacob waited, and toil1 for her, as Jacob toiled,’ answered Hammond, ‘but I should like to call her my own to-morrow, if it were possible.’
Nothing could be happier or gayer than the tea-drinking in Lady Maulevrier’s room on the following afternoon. Her ladyship having once given way upon a point knew how to make her concession74 gracefully75. She extended her hand to Mr. Hammond as frankly76 as if he had been her own particular choice.
‘I cannot refuse my granddaughter to her brother’s dearest friend,’ she said, ‘but I think you are two most imprudent young people.’
‘Providence takes care of imprudent lovers, just as it does of the birds in their nests,’ answered Hammond, smiling.
‘Just as much and no more, I fear. Providence does not keep off the cat or the tax-gatherer.’
‘Birds must take care of their nests, and husbands must work for their homes,’ argued Hammond. ‘Heaven gives sweet air and sunlight, and a beautiful world to live in.’
‘I think,’ said Lady Maulevrier, looking at him critically, ‘you are just the kind of person who ought to emigrate. You have ideas that would do for the Bush or the Yosemite Valley, but which are too primitive77 for an over-crowded country.’
‘No, Lady Maulevrier, I am not going to steal your granddaughter. When she is my wife she shall live within call. I know she loves her native land, and I don’t think either of us would care to put an ocean between us and rugged78 old Helvellyn.’
‘Of course having made idiots of yourselves up there in the fog and the storm you are going to worship the mountain for ever afterwards,’ said her ladyship laughing.
Never had she seemed gayer or brighter. Perhaps in her heart of hearts she rejoiced at getting Mary engaged, even to so humble a suitor as fortuneless John Hammond. Ever since the visit of the so-called Rajah she had lived as Damocles lived, with the sword of destiny — the avenging79 sword — hanging over her by the finest hair. Every time she heard carriage wheels in the drive — every time the hall-door bell rang a little louder than usual, her heart seemed to stop beating and her whole being to hang suspended on a thread. If the thread were to snap, there would come darkness and death. The blow that had paralysed one side of her body must needs, if repeated, bring total extinction80. She who believed in no after life saw in her maimed and wasting arm the beginning of death. She who recognised only the life of the body felt that one half of her was already dead. But months had gone by, and Louis Asoph had made no sign. She began to hope that his boasted documents and witnesses were altogether mythical81. And yet the engines of the law are slow to put in motion. He might be working up his case, line upon line, with some hard-headed London lawyer; arranging and marshalling his facts; preparing his witnesses; waiting for affidavits82 from India; working slowly but surely, underground like the mole83; and all at once, in an hour, his case might be before the law courts. His story and the story of Lord Maulevrier’s infamy84 might be town talk again; as it had been forty years ago, when the true story of that crime had been happily unknown.
Yes, with the present fear of this Louis Asoph’s revelations, of a new scandal, if not a calamity85, Lady Maulevrier felt that it was a good thing to have her younger granddaughter’s future in some measure secured. John Hammond had said of himself to Lesbia that he was not the kind of man to fail, and looking at him critically to-day Lady Maulevrier saw the stamp of power and dauntless courage in his countenance86 and bearing. It is the inner mind of a man which moulds the lines of his face and figure; and a man’s character may be read in the way he walks and holds himself, the action of his hand, his smile, his frown, his general outlook, as clearly as in any phrenological development. John Hammond had a noble outlook: bold, without impudence87 or self-assertion; self-possessed, without vanity. Yes, assuredly a man to wrestle88 with difficulty, and to conquer fate.
When that little tea-drinking was over and Maulevrier and his friend were going away to dress for dinner, Lady Maulevrier detained Mary for a minute or two by her couch. She took her by the hand with unaccustomed tenderness.
‘My child, I congratulate you,’ she said. ‘Last night I thought you a fool, but I begin to think that you are wiser than Lesbia. You have won the heart of a noble young man.’
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1
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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largo
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| n.广板乐章；adj.缓慢的，宽广的；adv.缓慢地，宽广地 | |
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scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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rams
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| n.公羊( ram的名词复数 )；(R-)白羊（星）座；夯；攻城槌v.夯实（土等）( ram的第三人称单数 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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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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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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hoydenish
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| adj.顽皮的，爱嬉闹的，男孩子气的 | |
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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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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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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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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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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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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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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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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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bidder
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| n.(拍卖时的)出价人，报价人，投标人 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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82
affidavits
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| n.宣誓书，（经陈述者宣誓在法律上可采作证据的）书面陈述( affidavit的名词复数 ) | |
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83
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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84
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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85
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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86
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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88
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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