They could not but admire all the nice things I had gathered together, and Mrs. Townley remarked many times upon the beauty of my home and its surroundings.
Mary, however, said very little, but I could see well enough that she was quietly taking it all in. It thrilled me with a delicious joy to see her walking through the rooms that I knew she would one day call her own.
I felt sure she knew it too, for there was a gentle shyness over her the whole time, and she hardly looked at me when we were in the house.
When we came to my room —‘our room’ as I always loved to call it in my mind — Mrs. Townley was quite enthusiastic.
“Good gracious,” she ejaculated. “Everything in pink. What a luxurious1 apartment for a bachelor! Much too good for you! My word, how you have the impudence2 to tuck yourself in here every night passes my comprehension. I thought, young man, that life in the trenches3 had sickened you all of luxury. I expected to find you sleeping almost on bare boards, at any rate, nothing at all like this.”
“Well, Mrs. Townley,” I replied, rather embarrassed, “as a matter of fact I do generally sleep outside, but still,” I added lamely4, “it’s always nice to have a room like this in a house, now, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Townley snorted. “Why, all the rooms are got up far more beautifully than you’ll ever need them, but, there, I suppose, you’ve got so much money that you really don’t know what to do with it!”
We had tea out on the verandah, and two or three times I caught Mrs. Townley taking me in very intently when Mary and I were talking together.
I thought it was perhaps striking her then for the first time that I was more than casually5 interested in her niece. At any rate she ceased harping6 on the unnecessary extravagance of everything she saw, and when we at last said good-bye and the car moved off down the drive, she turned round behind Mary and gave me what I thought was intended to be a very knowing and crafty7 nodding of her head.
Things went on much the same with us all for about a month, and then I thought it was high time matters came to a crisis.
Surely Mary and I had known each other long enough now, I thought, for me to go boldly to her father and tell him plainly what I meant.
At the same time I felt I would like to speak to Mary herself first. The awkward part of it was I could never somehow seem to catch her alone. There was always someone else buzzing round when I went up, and although Mary herself upon several occasions had seemed to me to be trying to manage it on her own account, in the end nothing had come off.
One Saturday afternoon when I was driving alone in my car towards the bottom of King William Street I saw the Aviemore car flash by in front of me and go down towards the Port Road. Only Sir Henry and Mrs. Townley were inside.
Then I remembered suddenly that I had heard Mrs. Townley was going to spend the week end with some friends of hers at Henley Beach, and it flashed upon me quickly that no doubt Sir Henry was then driving her over.
What an opportunity I thought to catch Mary alone. Sir Henry had not seen me, I was sure, and I could easily make up some excuse for calling unexpectedly at Aviemore.
I would ask, of course, for Sir Henry, and trust to luck for finding Mary up there on her own.
I turned the car round at once, and twenty minutes later, at most, was passing up the drive at Aviemore.
“No, Sir Henry wasn’t in; only Miss Vane, and she was somewhere in the rose garden.”
I pretended to hesitate for a moment, and then told Bunting Miss Vane would do, but he needn’t trouble, I would find her myself.
Bunting only replied “Very good, sir.” He had had many nice tips from me, and if he did think anything in his cold placid8 way, he at any rate allowed none of his thoughts to filter through to his face.
I walked round to the rose garden, and there, sure enough, I found Mary alone. She was cutting roses and putting them in a basket. At the sound of my footsteps on the gravel9 she looked up quickly.
She blushed crimson10 when she saw I was alone, and a pathetic helpless look came into her pretty eyes.
To my distress11 she looked really frightened — like some gentle hunted creature at last brought to bay.
A great pity instantly came to me, and all the triumph of my advance was checked by the questioning look of fear upon her face.
Perhaps for the first time I realised what a big thing it was I should be asking her — to become my wife.
All my sure confidence left me in a flash, and I felt as humble12 and uncertain as before I had been confident and proud.
After all, what right had I, I thought, to break so roughly into the calm and peaceful happenings of her maiden13 ways. Would all that I could offer her outweigh14 what she would lose?
Would love and passion, with their attendant fuller life and burdens make up to her for the for-ever closing of the chapter of girlhood’s untroubled days?
Would the red roses atone15 for the white?
I tell you, I felt pretty small as I stood there before her, and it was in a very humble tone of voice that I explained how I came to be there.
“I do hope I don’t disturb you, Miss Mary?” I said, looking everywhere but at her, “I came up to see Sir Henry, and Bunting told me they were all out except you, so I thought perhaps you’d not mind my leaving the message with you. But what lovely white roses you’re gathering16.”
“Yes,” replied Mary, quickly recovering herself and hiding her nervousness with a little laugh, “and a certain gentleman was good enough to tell me once that he didn’t think much of the roses here — now, didn’t he?”
“No, no, Miss Mary!” I denied firmly. “I didn’t for a moment say that. I only said there were no roses here good enough for the purpose you intended for them, and I still adhere to it. As a matter of fact, there are no flowers good enough anywhere.”
She made me a little mock bow, and, to my relief, I saw the happy, roguish look steal back into her eyes.
“Dear me, Mr. Stratton,” she said ironically, “I suppose you learnt to make those pretty speeches in France. The French girls are so dainty, aren’t they?”
“Yes, some of them are awfully17 dainty; but, all the same, I still prefer the English and the Australian varieties.”
“I’m sure it’s very nice of you to say so, but, seriously, talking of roses, I’ll show you some glorious ones round here. So please carry my basket for me.”
I followed obediently behind her to another part of the garden, and in the subsequent half hour I noticed with grim humour how completely our relative positions had changed.
I had not yet got over the shock of seeing how frightened she undoubtedly18 had been at first at finding herself so unexpectedly alone with me. I knew she would be remembering the only other time we had been actually alone — those few seconds on the verandah when I had forcibly kissed her in the dark, and I was dreadfully afraid she would be thinking that, willing or unwilling20, she was now helpless in my power.
So I kept away from her as far as possible, and as we passed up and down along the old-fashioned narrow paths between the roses, I took care to walk well behind her, with the big basket in my arms always well between me and the dainty little figure that trotted21 on in front.
For the time being at all events, I had quite given up all idea of telling her what I had purposely come up there that afternoon to say.
But if I was glum22 and timid, she was quite the reverse. She kept hanging back so that I should come up nearer to her, and every now and then she insisted upon my bending down to inhale23 the perfume of some particular bloom which she obligingly held up to me in the prettiest of little white hands imaginable.
Then, too, she apparently24 had no longer any fear of being alone with me in secluded25 parts of the garden. She didn’t keep by any means to the main paths that were in full view of the windows of the house, but led me round and round in out-of-the-way places where we were quite safe from the prying26 eyes of anyone who might be interested in watching us.
Presently we came to a secluded seat, arched over with a trellis of climbing roses.
Mary appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then announced that she was tired and going to sit down for a little rest. I, of course, at once sat down too but with the big basket of roses still between us.
We chatted on for a few minutes, and then Mary noticed I had not too much room at my end of the seat on account of the space occupied by the basket.
“It’s all right, Mr. Stratton,” she laughed, “you can put the basket down on the ground. I see you’re on your best behaviour today, and can be a good boy when you like.”
I put the basket down and sighed deeply.
“Well, you’re not helping27 me much, Miss Mary,” I said at last.
“What do you mean, I’m not helping you?” she said innocently.
“Why, you’re not helping me to be good.”
“Well, I’m not hindering you, am I?”
“I don’t know so much about that — you’re tempting28 me.”
“Oh, and how am I tempting you, please?”
“You know quite well enough — by coming so close to me and bringing me those roses to smell. You know what I think of you, and what an effort it is for me to be a good boy, as you call it.”
I got up and walked a few paces from the seat, but Mary made no attempt to get up.
She lay back in her corner, watching me with a roguish, provoking smile, in which, however, I fancied there was something now deeper than amusement.
I was watching her too and thinking, with a pulse that was quickening every moment now, how supremely29 pretty she was looking. Sitting there she was just the very perfection of daintiness, I thought.
A dream of sweetly flushed pink and white, with oh, such glorious eyes, that laughed and mocked at the same time; rich coils of golden hair over the queenly head and a determined30 little white chin resting in its turn meditatively31 upon a pretty little white hand.
She said nothing, but just watched me narrowly with a half wistful, half questioning look upon her face.
All my good resolutions flew to the four winds.
“Mary,” I said briskly, “I’m afraid you’re a little minx — at any rate, you’ve asked me plainly for all you’re now going to get.”
I methodically sat down again, but this time close beside her.
For a moment we looked intently at each other without moving, and on my face at any rate there was not the ghost of a smile.
Then she crimsoned32 up all over, and turning her head away looked straight before her with eyes that were half closed under the long lashes33 that made shadows on her cheeks.
I could stand it no longer, I reached out, and picking her up without an effort, sat her on my knees. Then putting one arm round her neck I tipped up her face quickly, and with all the passion in me free, gently brought her lips to mine.
She struggled for a moment, but then closing her eyes, lay limp and even responsive in my arms. She trembled a little, but I put her arms round my neck and she let them remain there.
It was a long while before either of us spoke34, and much longer still before our thoughts came back to earth.
She let me take my fill of all I asked, and with her head upon my shoulder made no secret that she was in the same happiness as I was.
At length, after a while — a really long while — she shook herself free and started to put straight her disarranged hair.
“Well, you’re a nice boy, aren’t you, to do all this? What do you think father will say?”
“Oh, your father will say I’m a very good judge; I’m sure he will. You know, darling, yourself, that you’re awfully sweet. I really couldn’t help it, now could I?”
“Of course you could. I didn’t ask you to kiss me.”
“No, but you wanted me to, didn’t you?”
“What impudence! and another time, if you kiss me, John, please don’t disarrange my hair so.”
I at once promptly35 kissed her again, and this time as there was no struggling — I didn’t upset her hair.
“Look here, darling,” I said, after another long silence, “when can I see your father about you?”
She made a little wry36 face, and considered for a moment. “You’d better stop to dinner to-night. Father won’t be home until nearly seven.”
“Yes, but what excuse can I give. I can’t blurt37 out all at once, ‘Oh, please Sir Henry, Mary loves me.’”
“You’d better not,” she laughed; “father thinks a lot of me.”
“Just as if I didn’t know that. But, what sweetheart, shall I say?”
“Well, give him the message you were going to leave with me when you came up.”
I grinned, and Mary shook her head prettily38 and laughed.
“Oh, you fibber, I thought at the time you were not speaking the truth. I knew you had no message to leave.”
“No,” I said calmly, “I saw your father and your aunt going off in the car towards Henley — that’s what made me come up here to catch you alone.”
“Well, I kept you at your distance, Mr. John, didn’t I?” with a little mocking bow, “until at any rate I saw fit to let you — to let you come near me.”
“You did that, sweetheart.” I replied gravely, “in fact, I was almost going off without kissing you at all, if you hadn’t suddenly encouraged me and egged me on.”
“Oh, you are a fibber again; but, dear boy, I just loved you for it. I could see you were trying so hard to be good. Do you know,” she went on laughing, “I think I shall get really fond of you?” and of her own accord she put up her face for me to kiss.
“Well, dear,” I said presently, “what about that excuse? I must find something to say.”
“Say then that you came up to inquire how aunty was. Father will be rather amused, I’m sure; and then you can say I kept you to mend the chicken run. You told us the other day you could do any kind of carpentering. Yes, that’s a splendid idea. The door of the chicken run was blown down in the gale39 on Sunday, and there’s no one to mend it as the gardener is away ill. It’s worrying father a lot, for the fowls40 keep on getting out. But I hope, for goodness sake, you really do know something about carpentering, and it isn’t another of your dreadful fibs.”
“Mary,” I replied solemnly, “I’m a dab41 at it.”
An hour later, when Sir Henry came into the paddock, he found Mary and me with our heads close together, proudly inspecting a most workman-like repair of the wretched chicken door.
“Hello, Mr. Stratton,” he called out genially42. “Bunting told me what you were doing (the deuce he did I thought). Why, you’ve made quite a good job of it! The least we can do is to ask you to dinner, isn’t it, Mary?”
Mary went off to get ready for the meal, and I stood chatting to Sir Henry about the Repatriation43 League — the first thing that came into my mind.
Fortunately for me, he didn’t seem curious about why I had come up, and the dinner gong sounded before he had stumbled upon any awkward questions.
Mary and I sat down guiltily to dinner, and the meal opened in embarrassed silence. I felt nervous and uneasy, and Mary hardly lifted her eyes from her plate.
Sir Henry too seemed rather thoughtful. When the fish was removed he abruptly44 asked Bunting how many bottles of old ‘47 port were left.
“Three, Sir Henry,” laconically45 replied the butler, who never wasted breath upon unnecessary words.
“When did we first break into that last dozen?”
“The day Miss Mary was christened, sir.”
“And when did I open the last one?”
“The night the Armistice46 was signed, Sir Henry.”
“You’ve a marvellous memory, Bunting. Well,” after a long pause, “I think we’ll have another bottle to-night. There’ll be two left then. One to console myself with when Miss Mary’s married, and the other — we’ll keep for a later occasion.”
Mary flushed up crimson, and I felt myself trembling in my chair.
Bunting glided47 silently from the room.
“Come, children,” said Sir Henry kindly48, after a moment’s pause. “You’re neither of you eating anything, and I’m not going to have this dinner spoiled for all the love-making in the world. Let’s get it over now. I know what John’s going to tell me, and as he’s mended the chicken door so nicely, I suppose I shall have to say ‘Yes.’”
Mary threw her arms round her father’s neck, and I stood up with my heart too full to speak, to shake his hand.
“Sit down, my boy,” said Sir Henry bravely, but with moisture in his fine grey eyes. “I know it’s only the way of the world, but it will be a bit hard on me to lose my Mary.”
“Father, dear, you’re quite a wizard,” said Mary between her blushes and her tears, “how on earth did you know?”
“Oh, one hadn’t need to be a wizard to find it out, dear,” replied Sir Henry, recovering himself. “When I come suddenly upon a young man and a young woman together, and the young man looks as guilty as if he’d been stealing my pears, and the young woman has one side of her red face even redder than the other — well, one begins to suspect something, naturally.”
I am quite sure if Bunting had been less cold and fish-like in his temperament49, he would have noticed the change in us all when he returned with the ‘47 port.
Mary was all smiles and blushing glances at me across the table; I was supremely happy and mightily50 proud already that the pretty creature opposite to me was now openly to be my own; and Sir Henry, dear old, fine Sir Henry, brave Sir Henry, was happy as us both, seeing how happy his beloved child was in the love of the man of her choice.
Yes, we were indeed a happy party that night.
The next few weeks were like a glorious dream to me.
I haunted Aviemore, much to the pleased amusement of everyone there. Even the fish-like Bunting quickly acquired the general habit of pretending to be amused, and wreathed his lips into some sort of ghostly smile whenever I appeared.
Mary was a general favourite with all who knew her, and I had to run the gauntlet of a lot of searching criticism before I was finally approved of by her friends.
Everyone congratulated me in their own different ways. Mrs. Townley shook her finger at me when she met me. “Oh, you crafty one,” she said reprovingly, “you laid your plans a long way ahead, didn’t you? But I wasn’t taken in all the time; no not I. Let me tell you now, sir, that I suspected you for a long time, and directly I went over to Mitcham I was certain at once. I knew for whom all those fine pink furnishings were intended and I’m very much mistaken if that sly little Mary didn’t know it too. Oh, you young people, what duffers you think all we old people are.”
The Chief was quite merry when he called.
“Well, John, you’re over all the fences at last, and you’ve a clear run in now to the winning post. But, by Jove, lad, what about a brazen51 cheek? Just fancy taking a tenner from a man in the street and using that same tenner as a stepping-stone to marrying his only daughter, and all within eighteen months, too! Well, boy, at any rate I wish you every happiness. I shan’t be here to see you married, because I’m going home to England on leave for six months, but, John, I’ll send you the nicest wedding present this expensive city of Adelaide can produce. Oh, by the bye, I met Inspector52 Kitson in Ballarat last week, and he was most interested to hear about you. Do you know, the old man’s quite fond of you. He reckons you saved his reputation at Gawler that afternoon. He says if he’d gone back empty handed to Melbourne, he’d have almost got the sack. Oh, yes, I tell you he asked a lot about you. But good-bye, old man, my kindest regards to Mary. Tell her I had half a mind to send her a kiss.”
It was arranged we should be married the first week in May, and for weeks before Mary’s various relations had discussed where we should go for our honeymoon53.
We let them talk about it as much as they liked, but privately54 we had arranged almost from the very first what we would do.
We were not going away at all. I was going to drive Mary straight from her father’s house to the new home I had prepared for her all along.
It was Mary’s own wish that it should be so, and nothing fell in better with what I wanted.
Why should we give, I thought, the happiest memories of our life to the drab and crowded rooms of some strange hotel! Far better to for ever hallow in our minds the walls and pathways of the home where I hoped we might live together for so long.
We said nothing about it to any of our friends, but I quietly arranged that all my household should have a holiday and go away for the first three days after we were married.
Then Mary and I would keep house together by ourselves, and it would be so glorious to be all alone and have no one to consider but each other.
Percy Thornton was to be my best man, and there was nothing braver than the way he had choked down his disappointment and offered his services to me.
One thing I have always noticed about lovers of the turf. Your true racing55 man, whatever may be his faults in other directions, is nearly always a man of stout56 and generous heart, who can take the worst buffetings of life with a smile, and a stiff upper lip.
Well, one bright, crisp, autumn morning, when Adelaide was at its very best, we were married at the Cathedral, and because Mary was Mary all the world was there.
It was a tense and solemn moment for me before the service, as I sat waiting for my bride.
All the rapture57 and sweetness of life called to me in the low, soft organ peels, but in the hushed and waiting silence of the place there was something that whispered also of the sacredness and the self-sacrifice of love.
I should have my obligations, it told me, as well as my joys, and in the hollow of my hand would lie the happiness of this so-longed-for bride of mine, whose life I was now linking to my own.
Giving up all to me in the subtle and mysterious impulse of her love — for everything in the future she would look to me.
In my pleasure or displeasure would be her laughter or her tears, and as I so willed it would the sun or shadow fall across her wedded58 days.
Queen of my kingdom she would be, but in my love or coldness I alone could endow her sovereignty with either a wreath of roses or a crown of thorns.
Mary came up the aisle59 a vision of white purity, and as I stood up beside her, happy as I was, I had hard work to choke back my tears.
I was to drive her back myself to Aviemore in my own car, and as I took my place at the steering60 wheel, the crowd outside the Cathedral cheered enthusiastically and someone called out “Good old Rataplan, you’ve got the finest dividend61 now you’ll ever get, my boy.”
I remember very little of the wedding breakfast, except the continual clinking of champagne62 glasses and old Admiral James annoying me most intensely by clapping me on the back and telling me boisterously63 in a very loud voice “to keep a tight rein64 on the filly from the start.”
In the early hours of that sunny afternoon we left Aviemore in a perfect fusilade of confetti and good-byes and drove straight home to Mitcham.
I put the car in the garage, and unlocking the front door followed Mary shyly into the deserted65 house.
Mary promptly sat down on a sofa in the hall. “Oh, John, dear, I’m so tired,” she said, “aren’t you glad it’s all over?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” I replied, kissing her tenderly, “but it is worth all the trouble and bother, isn’t it, darling?”
“Of course it is, dear,” and she turned away her eyes.
We amused ourselves going round and round the house, and just as it got dark sat down under the shaded lights to the previously66 prepared evening meal.
Everything had been got ready for us, and we had only to lift the covers and there we were.
Afterwards we sat out together upon the verandah, and I must confess I was terribly nervous.
For all these months I had so longed for this time when we should be alone together, and now that I had got my wish I was as timid and tongue-tied as any girl at her first ball.
The thoughts that had come to me as I sat waiting in the Cathedral surged back with added force, and I could understand and was not ashamed of my timidity. I had taken Mary from an extremely happy home, and could realise the sacrifice she was making for me. I was made silent, too, by the great joy of now actually possessing her.
So, now that she was wholly mine, I was afraid almost to touch her, lest the roughness of my ways should jar upon the gentle, childlike nature, the sweetness of which was never more apparent to me than now when we were quite alone.
Much as I loved her it sobered me and in part frightened me to see the depths of love she was prepared to offer in return.
My responsibility almost oppressed me, and the passion in me was tied down and brought to heel by remembering she was to be mine, not only in the joys and tenderness of early wedded love, but mine also to cherish and to comfort in those dread19 hours that would one day surely come to a woman who so loved and was beloved.
But if I was timid and afraid, Mary was exactly the reverse. She sat on my knees with her arms about my neck, in the perfect love and confidence of sweet abandon and surrender. She kissed me repeatedly, and confided67 in me prettily the secrets of her girlhood days.
“Do you know, dear, you’re the only boy I’ve ever thought anything about, and you’re the only one I’ve ever let kiss me. I never thought about boys at all until you came into my life. Of course, I’ve liked men, as I like Percy Thornton, but I’ve never wanted them to kiss me, and they’ve never come into my dreams at all.
“But you came in, John. I’ve often dreamed about you, long before I got to know you. Sometimes I used to dream you were kissing me, and then I’d wake up and think for hours how lovely it would be to have my arms round your neck, just like I’m doing now. You worried me a lot once, dear; although of course you never knew it.”
“Well, I shan’t worry you any more darling, shall I?”
“No, John, you’re going to be mine always now. Do you know, dear, I’ve wanted you for such a long time, long before I knew you to speak to. And that’s why, when you looked at me, I used to look at you straight back. I should have never dared to do it with anybody else. But I wanted you to come after me and not to be choked off because father was a baronet, and all that. And I knew you’d come some day, John, something always told me you would.”
“I always meant to, sweetheart. I was always looking for an opportunity, little woman.”
“Yes, and do you remember the first time you came up to Aviemore about those horses of father’s?”
“Of course, I do — it was the first time I really spoke to you. I shall never forget how adorable you looked then.”
“Yes, John, and I managed about your stopping to lunch all right, didn’t I? Do you know, father was awfully astonished at my daring to suggest you should stop. He laughed about it afterwards, and told aunty in fun there must be no mistletoe about the next time, if you came up here. Dear old dad, he little knew how far things had gone, did he?”
“When did you first think I was sweet on you Mary?”
“I don’t quite know, John, but I think it was as you were speaking to father when Rataplan won that first time at Victoria Park. You kept on looking for me in the crowd, and then when you found me, you kept turning your eyes a lot my way. I thought you rather liked me then, but I wasn’t certain you did for some time afterwards.”
“Great Scott, and when did you think, Miss Blue Eyes, that I was really gone dead nuts on you — quite certain?”
“Oh, John, the day you had lunch with us. I began to be certain at lunch because you looked at me so much, but I was quite certain when you played ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’ on my violin. I knew then you had come up purposely after me, and when you chose that piece to play I was positive you’d get me too.”
“Why, sweetheart, why were you positive?” I asked, greatly taken with all these naive68 confessions69.
“Well, I thought if you were brave enough to play ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’ before us all, on my violin — on my violin, if you please, John! you would be brave enough also to get me somehow. After you had gone that afternoon, aunt said: ‘Hum, that young man has got such a nerve that I for one am sure he’ll get anything he wants, in this world at all events.’ That comforted me a lot too.”
“Well, darling,” I said, kissing her, “I’ve got all I want now, haven’t I, sweetheart?”
“Yes, dear, I know you love me ever so much, and O John, I’ve always thought such a lot about you. I had a dream about you once — the night after you first kissed me. Yes, you were a bad boy. I dreamed that I got married to you and we had a little son. It was such a little angel, and I saw it walking round the garden here holding on to you with its little pink fingers round one of your long brown ones. O dear, I’m so happy now.”
She lay for a long time silent in my arms, and the moon came up over the mountains and bathed us softly in its silver light. Presently she nestled closer to me and whispered very gently:—
“Perhaps one day I shall have a baby, dear, and if I do I should like it to have blue eyes and fair hair like me, but I should like its face to be like yours — very stern and proud, just like you looked when you were riding Rataplan. But let’s go in now, dear. I’m tired, and want to go to bed. Yes, you may carry me if you like.”
I woke up several times during the night, but Mary was sleeping quietly like a little child. I forbore to wake her, and did not even kiss her. My self-sacrifice had begun.
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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crafty
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placid
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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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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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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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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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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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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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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repatriation
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| n.遣送回国，归国 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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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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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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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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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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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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62
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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64
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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65
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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67
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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68
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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69
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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