Father and son came at last to the chateau5: for the Count de Bassompierre that night accompanied Dr. Bretton. I know not which of our trio heard the horses first; the asperity6, the violence of the weather warranted our running down into the hall to meet and greet the two riders as they came in; but they warned us to keep our distance: both were white — two mountains of snow; and indeed Mrs. Bretton, seeing their condition, ordered them instantly to the kitchen; prohibiting them, at their peril7, from setting foot on her carpeted staircase till they had severally put off that mask of Old Christmas they now affected8. Into the kitchen, however, we could not help following them: it was a large old Dutch kitchen, picturesque9 and pleasant. The little white Countess danced in a circle about her equally white sire, clapping her hands and crying, “Papa, papa, you look like an enormous Polar bear.”
The bear shook himself, and the little sprite fled far from the frozen shower. Back she came, however, laughing, and eager to aid in removing the arctic disguise. The Count, at last issuing from his dreadnought, threatened to overwhelm her with it as with an avalanche10.
“Come, then,” said she, bending to invite the fall, and when it was playfully advanced above her head, bounding out of reach like some little chamois.
Her movements had the supple11 softness, the velvet12 grace of a kitten; her laugh was clearer than the ring of silver and crystal; as she took her sire’s cold hands and rubbed them, and stood on tiptoe to reach his lips for a kiss, there seemed to shine round her a halo of loving delight. The grave and reverend seignor looked down on her as men do look on what is the apple of their eye.
“Mrs. Bretton,” said he: “what am I to do with this daughter or daughterling of mine? She neither grows in wisdom nor in stature13. Don’t you find her pretty nearly as much the child as she was ten years ago?”
“She cannot be more the child than this great boy of mine,” said Mrs. Bretton, who was in conflict with her son about some change of dress she deemed advisable, and which he resisted. He stood leaning against the Dutch dresser, laughing and keeping her at arm’s length.
“Come, mamma,” said he, “by way of compromise, and to secure for us inward as well as outward warmth, let us have a Christmas wassail-cup, and toast Old England here, on the hearth14.”
So, while the Count stood by the fire, and Paulina Mary still danced to and fro — happy in the liberty of the wide hall-like kitchen — Mrs. Bretton herself instructed Martha to spice and heat the wassail-bowl, and, pouring the draught15 into a Bretton flagon, it was served round, reaming hot, by means of a small silver vessel16, which I recognised as Graham’s christening-cup.
“Here’s to Auld17 Lang Syne18!” said the Count; holding the glancing cup on high. Then, looking at Mrs. Bretton. —
“We twa ha’ paidlet i’ the burn
Fra morning sun till dine,
But seas between us braid ha’ roared
Sin’ auld lane syne.
“And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup,
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll taste a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne.”
“Scotch20! Scotch!” cried Paulina; “papa is talking Scotch; and Scotch he is, partly. We are Home and de Bassompierre, Caledonian and Gallic.”
“And is that a Scotch reel you are dancing, you Highland21 fairy?” asked her father. “Mrs. Bretton, there will be a green ring growing up in the middle of your kitchen shortly. I would not answer for her being quite cannie: she is a strange little mortal.”
“Tell Lucy to dance with me, papa; there is Lucy Snowe.”
Mr. Home (there was still quite as much about him of plain Mr. Home as of proud Count de Bassompierre) held his hand out to me, saying kindly22, “he remembered me well; and, even had his own memory been less trustworthy, my name was so often on his daughter’s lips, and he had listened to so many long tales about me, I should seem like an old acquaintance.”
Every one now had tasted the wassail-cup except Paulina, whose pas de fée, ou de fantaisie, nobody thought of interrupting to offer so profanatory a draught; but she was not to be overlooked, nor baulked of her mortal privileges.
“Let me taste,” said she to Graham, as he was putting the cup on the shelf of the dresser out of her reach.
Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home were now engaged in conversation. Dr. John had not been unobservant of the fairy’s dance; he had watched it, and he had liked it. To say nothing of the softness and beauty of the movements, eminently23 grateful to his grace-loving eye, that ease in his mother’s house charmed him, for it set him at ease: again she seemed a child for him — again, almost his playmate. I wondered how he would speak to her; I had not yet seen him address her; his first words proved that the old days of “little Polly” had been recalled to his mind by this evening’s child-like light-heartedness.
“Your ladyship wishes for the tankard?”
“I think I said so. I think I intimated as much.”
“Couldn’t consent to a step of the kind on any account. Sorry for it, but couldn’t do it.”
“Why? I am quite well now: it can’t break my collar-bone again, or dislocate my shoulder. Is it wine?”
“No; nor dew.”
“I don’t want dew; I don’t like dew: but what is it?”
“Ale — strong ale — old October; brewed24, perhaps, when I was born.”
“It must be curious: is it good?”
“Excessively good.”
And he took it down, administered to himself a second dose of this mighty25 elixir26, expressed in his mischievous27 eyes extreme contentment with the same, and solemnly replaced the cup on the shelf.
“I should like a little,” said Paulina, looking up; “I never had any ‘old October:’ is it sweet?”
“Perilously sweet,” said Graham.
She continued to look up exactly with the countenance28 of a child that longs for some prohibited dainty. At last the Doctor relented, took it down, and indulged himself in the gratification of letting her taste from his hand; his eyes, always expressive29 in the revelation of pleasurable feelings, luminously30 and smilingly avowed31 that it was a gratification; and he prolonged it by so regulating the position of the cup that only a drop at a time could reach the rosy32, sipping33 lips by which its brim was courted.
“A little more — a little more,” said she, petulantly34 touching35 his hand with the forefinger36, to make him incline the cup more generously and yieldingly. “It smells of spice and sugar, but I can’t taste it; your wrist is so stiff, and you are so stingy.”
He indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity: “Don’t tell my mother or Lucy; they wouldn’t approve.”
“Nor do I,” said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon as she had fairly assayed the beverage37, just as if it had acted upon her like some disenchanting draught, undoing38 the work of a wizard: “I find it anything but sweet; it is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath. Your old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you, no more.”
And, with a slight bend — careless, but as graceful40 as her dance — she glided41 from him and rejoined her father.
I think she had spoken truth: the child of seven was in the girl of seventeen.
Graham looked after her a little baffled, a little puzzled; his eye was on her a good deal during the rest of the evening, but she did not seem to notice him.
As we ascended43 to the drawing-room for tea, she took her father’s arm: her natural place seemed to be at his side; her eyes and her ears were dedicated45 to him. He and Mrs. Bretton were the chief talkers of our little party, and Paulina was their best listener, attending closely to all that was said, prompting the repetition of this or that trait or adventure.
“And where were you at such a time, papa? And what did you say then? And tell Mrs. Bretton what happened on that occasion.” Thus she drew him out.
She did not again yield to any effervescence of glee; the infantine sparkle was exhaled46 for the night: she was soft, thoughtful, and docile47. It was pretty to see her bid good-night; her manner to Graham was touched with dignity: in her very slight smile and quiet bow spoke42 the Countess, and Graham could not but look grave, and bend responsive. I saw he hardly knew how to blend together in his ideas the dancing fairy and delicate dame48.
Next day, when we were all assembled round the breakfast-table, shivering and fresh from the morning’s chill ablutions, Mrs. Bretton pronounced a decree that nobody, who was not forced by dire49 necessity, should quit her house that day.
Indeed, egress50 seemed next to impossible; the drift darkened the lower panes51 of the casement52, and, on looking out, one saw the sky and air vexed53 and dim, the wind and snow in angry conflict. There was no fall now, but what had already descended54 was torn up from the earth, whirled round by brief shrieking55 gusts56, and cast into a hundred fantastic forms.
The Countess seconded Mrs. Bretton.
“Papa shall not go out,” said she, placing a seat for herself beside her father’s arm-chair. “I will look after him. You won’t go into town, will you, papa?”
“Ay, and No,” was the answer. “If you and Mrs. Bretton are very good to me, Polly — kind, you know, and attentive57; if you pet me in a very nice manner, and make much of me, I may possibly be induced to wait an hour after breakfast and see whether this razor-edged wind settles. But, you see, you give me no breakfast; you offer me nothing: you let me starve.”
“Quick! please, Mrs. Bretton, and pour out the coffee,” entreated58 Paulina, “whilst I take care of the Count de Bassompierre in other respects: since he grew into a Count, he has needed so much attention.”
She separated and prepared a roll.
“There, papa, are your ‘pistolets’ charged,” said she. “And there is some marmalade, just the same sort of marmalade we used to have at Bretton, and which you said was as good as if it had been conserved59 in Scotland —”
“And which your little ladyship used to beg for my boy — do you remember that?” interposed Mrs. Bretton. “Have you forgotten how you would come to my elbow and touch my sleeve with the whisper, ‘Please, ma’am, something good for Graham — a little marmalade, or honey, or jam?”’
“No, mamma,” broke in Dr. John, laughing, yet reddening; “it surely was not so: I could not have cared for these things.”
“Did he or did he not, Paulina?”
“He liked them,” asserted Paulina.
“Never blush for it, John,” said Mr. Home, encouragingly. “I like them myself yet, and always did. And Polly showed her sense in catering60 for a friend’s material comforts: it was I who put her into the way of such good manners — nor do I let her forget them. Polly, offer me a small slice of that tongue.”
“There, papa: but remember you are only waited upon with this assiduity; on condition of being persuadable, and reconciling yourself to La Terrasse for the day.”
“Mrs. Bretton,” said the Count, “I want to get rid of my daughter — to send her to school. Do you know of any good school?”
“There is Lucy’s place — Madame Beck’s.”
“Miss Snowe is in a school?”
“I am a teacher,” I said, and was rather glad of the opportunity of saying this. For a little while I had been feeling as if placed in a false position. Mrs. Bretton and son knew my circumstances; but the Count and his daughter did not. They might choose to vary by some shades their hitherto cordial manner towards me, when aware of my grade in society. I spoke then readily: but a swarm61 of thoughts I had not anticipated nor invoked62, rose dim at the words, making me sigh involuntarily. Mr. Home did not lift his eyes from his breakfast-plate for about two minutes, nor did he speak; perhaps he had not caught the words — perhaps he thought that on a confession63 of that nature, politeness would interdict64 comment: the Scotch are proverbially proud; and homely65 as was Mr. Home in look, simple in habits and tastes, I have all along intimated that he was not without his share of the national quality. Was his a pseudo pride? was it real dignity? I leave the question undecided in its wide sense. Where it concerned me individually I can only answer: then, and always, he showed himself a true-hearted gentleman.
By nature he was a feeler and a thinker; over his emotions and his reflections spread a mellowing66 of melancholy67; more than a mellowing: in trouble and bereavement68 it became a cloud. He did not know much about Lucy Snowe; what he knew, he did not very accurately69 comprehend: indeed his misconceptions of my character often made me smile; but he saw my walk in life lay rather on the shady side of the hill: he gave me credit for doing my endeavour to keep the course honestly straight; he would have helped me if he could: having no opportunity of helping70, he still wished me well. When he did look at me, his eye was kind; when he did speak, his voice was benevolent71.
“Yours,” said he, “is an arduous72 calling. I wish you health and strength to win in it — success.”
His fair little daughter did not take the information quite so composedly: she fixed73 on me a pair of eyes wide with wonder — almost with dismay.
“Are you a teacher?” cried she. Then, having paused on the unpalatable idea, “Well, I never knew what you were, nor ever thought of asking: for me, you were always Lucy Snowe.”
“And what am I now?” I could not forbear inquiring.
“Yourself, of course. But do you really teach here, in Villette?”
“I really do.”
“And do you like it?”
“Not always.”
“And why do you go on with it?”
Her father looked at, and, I feared, was going to check her; but he only said, “Proceed, Polly, proceed with that catechism — prove yourself the little wiseacre you are. If Miss Snowe were to blush and look confused, I should have to bid you hold your tongue; and you and I would sit out the present meal in some disgrace; but she only smiles, so push her hard, multiply the cross-questions. Well, Miss Snowe, why do you go on with it?”
“Chiefly, I fear, for the sake of the money I get.”
“Not then from motives74 of pure philanthropy? Polly and I were clinging to that hypothesis as the most lenient75 way of accounting76 for your eccentricity77.”
“No — no, sir. Rather for the roof of shelter I am thus enabled to keep over my head; and for the comfort of mind it gives me to think that while I can work for myself, I am spared the pain of being a burden to anybody.”
“Papa, say what you will, I pity Lucy.”
“Take up that pity, Miss de Bassompierre; take it up in both hands, as you might a little callow gosling squattering out of bounds without leave; put it back in the warm nest of a heart whence it issued, and receive in your ear this whisper. If my Polly ever came to know by experience the uncertain nature of this world’s goods, I should like her to act as Lucy acts: to work for herself, that she might burden neither kith nor kin19.”
“Yes, papa,” said she, pensively79 and tractably80. “But poor Lucy! I thought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends.”
“You thought like a little simpleton. I never thought so. When I had time to consider Lucy’s manner and aspect, which was not often, I saw she was one who had to guard and not be guarded; to act and not be served: and this lot has, I imagine, helped her to an experience for which, if she live long enough to realize its full benefit, she may yet bless Providence81. But this school,” he pursued, changing his tone from grave to gay: “would Madame Beck admit my Polly, do you think, Miss Lucy?”
I said, there needed but to try Madame; it would soon be seen: she was fond of English pupils. “If you, sir,” I added, “will but take Miss de Bassompierre in your carriage this very afternoon, I think I can answer for it that Rosine, the portress, will not be very slow in answering your ring; and Madame, I am sure, will put on her best pair of gloves to come into the salon82 to receive you.”
“In that case,” responded Mr. Home, “I see no sort of necessity there is for delay. Mrs. Hurst can send what she calls her young lady’s ‘things’ after her; Polly can settle down to her horn-book before night; and you, Miss Lucy, I trust, will not disdain83 to cast an occasional eye upon her, and let me know, from time to time, how she gets on. I hope you approve of the arrangement, Countess de Bassompierre?”
The Countess hemmed84 and hesitated. “I thought,” said she, “I thought I had finished my education —”
“That only proves how much we may be mistaken in our thoughts I hold a far different opinion, as most of these will who have been auditors85 of your profound knowledge of life this morning. Ah, my little girl, thou hast much to learn; and papa ought to have taught thee more than he has done! Come, there is nothing for it but to try Madame Beck; and the weather seems settling, and I have finished my breakfast —”
“But, papa!”
“Well?”
“I see an obstacle.”
“I don’t at all.”
“It is enormous, papa; it can never be got over; it is as large as you in your greatcoat, and the snowdrift on the top.”
“And, like that snowdrift, capable of melting?”
“No! it is of too — too solid flesh: it is just your own self. Miss Lucy, warn Madame Beck not to listen to any overtures86 about taking me, because, in the end, it would turn out that she would have to take papa too: as he is so teasing, I will just tell tales about him. Mrs. Bretton and all of you listen: About five years ago, when I was twelve years old, he took it into his head that he was spoiling me; that I was growing unfitted for the world, and I don’t know what, and nothing would serve or satisfy him, but I must go to school. I cried, and so on; but M. de Bassompierre proved hard-hearted, quite firm and flinty, and to school I went. What was the result? In the most admirable manner, papa came to school likewise: every other day he called to see me. Madame Aigredoux grumbled87, but it was of no use; and so, at last, papa and I were both, in a manner, expelled. Lucy can just tell Madame Beck this little trait: it is only fair to let her know what she has to expect.”
Mrs. Bretton asked Mr. Home what he had to say in answer to this statement. As he made no defence, judgment88 was given against him, and Paulina triumphed.
But she had other moods besides the arch and na?ve. After breakfast; when the two elders withdrew — I suppose to talk over certain of Mrs. Bretton’s business matters — and the Countess, Dr. Bretton, and I, were for a short time alone together — all the child left her; with us, more nearly her companions in age, she rose at once to the little lady: her very face seemed to alter; that play of feature, and candour of look, which, when she spoke to her father, made it quite dimpled and round, yielded to an aspect more thoughtful, and lines distincter and less mobile.
No doubt Graham noted89 the change as well as I. He stood for some minutes near the window, looking out at the snow; presently he, approached the hearth, and entered into conversation, but not quite with his usual ease: fit topics did not seem to rise to his lips; he chose them fastidiously, hesitatingly, and consequently infelicitously90: he spoke vaguely91 of Villette — its inhabitants, its notable sights and buildings. He was answered by Miss de Bassompierre in quite womanly sort; with intelligence, with a manner not indeed wholly disindividualized: a tone, a glance, a gesture, here and there, rather animated92 and quick than measured and stately, still recalled little Polly; but yet there was so fine and even a polish, so calm and courteous93 a grace, gilding94 and sustaining these peculiarities95, that a less sensitive man than Graham would not have ventured to seize upon them as vantage points, leading to franker intimacy96.
Yet while Dr. Bretton continued subdued97, and, for him, sedate98, he was still observant. Not one of those petty impulses and natural breaks escaped him. He did not miss one characteristic movement, one hesitation99 in language, or one lisp in utterance100. At times, in speaking fast, she still lisped; but coloured whenever such lapse101 occurred, and in a painstaking102, conscientious103 manner, quite as amusing as the slight error, repeated the word more distinctly.
Whenever she did this, Dr. Bretton smiled. Gradually, as they conversed104, the restraint on each side slackened: might the conference have but been prolonged, I believe it would soon have become genial105: already to Paulina’s lip and cheek returned the wreathing, dimpling smile; she lisped once, and forgot to correct herself. And Dr. John, I know not how he changed, but change he did. He did not grow gayer — no raillery, no levity106 sparkled across his aspect — but his position seemed to become one of more pleasure to himself, and he spoke his augmented107 comfort in readier language, in tones more suave108. Ten years ago this pair had always found abundance to say to each other; the intervening decade had not narrowed the experience or impoverished109 the intelligence of either: besides, there are certain natures of which the mutual110 influence is such, that the more they say, the more they have to say. For these out of association grows adhesion, and out of adhesion, amalgamation111.
Graham, however, must go: his was a profession whose claims are neither to be ignored nor deferred112. He left the room; but before he could leave the house there was a return. I am sure he came back — not for the paper, or card in his desk, which formed his ostensible113 errand — but to assure himself, by one more glance, that Paulina’s aspect was really such as memory was bearing away: that he had not been viewing her somehow by a partial, artificial light, and making a fond mistake. No! he found the impression true — rather, indeed, he gained than lost by this return: he took away with him a parting look — shy, but very soft — as beautiful, as innocent, as any little fawn114 could lift out of its cover of fern, or any lamb from its meadow-bed.
Being left alone, Paulina and I kept silence for some time: we both took out some work, and plied115 a mute and diligent116 task. The white-wood workbox of old days was now replaced by one inlaid with precious mosaic117, and furnished with implements118 of gold; the tiny and trembling fingers that could scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, were now swift and skilful119: but there was the same busy knitting of the brow, the same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns and movements — now to replace a stray tress, and anon to shake from the silken skirt some imaginary atom of dust — some clinging fibre of thread.
That morning I was disposed for silence: the austere120 fury of the winter-day had on me an awing44, hushing influence. That passion of January, so white and so bloodless, was not yet spent: the storm had raved121 itself hoarse122, but seemed no nearer exhaustion123. Had Ginevra Fanshawe been my companion in that drawing-room, she would not have suffered me to muse124 and listen undisturbed. The presence just gone from us would have been her theme; and how she would have rung the changes on one topic! how she would have pursued and pestered125 me with questions and surmises126 — worried and oppressed me with comments and confidences I did not want, and longed to avoid.
Paulina Mary cast once or twice towards me a quiet but penetrating127 glance of her dark, full eye; her lips half opened, as if to the impulse of coming utterance: but she saw and delicately respected my inclination128 for silence.
“This will not hold long,” I thought to myself; for I was not accustomed to find in women or girls any power of self-control, or strength of self-denial. As far as I knew them, the chance of a gossip about their usually trivial secrets, their often very washy and paltry129 feelings, was a treat not to be readily foregone.
The little Countess promised an exception: she sewed till she was tired of sewing, and then she took a book.
As chance would have it, she had sought it in Dr. Bretton’s own compartment130 of the bookcase; and it proved to be an old Bretton book — some illustrated131 work of natural history. Often had I seen her standing132 at Graham’s side, resting that volume on his knee, and reading to his tuition; and, when the lesson was over, begging, as a treat, that he would tell her all about the pictures. I watched her keenly: here was a true test of that memory she had boasted would her recollections now be faithful?
Faithful? It could not be doubted. As she turned the leaves, over her face passed gleam after gleam of expression, the least intelligent of which was a full greeting to the Past. And then she turned to the title-page, and looked at the name written in the schoolboy hand. She looked at it long; nor was she satisfied with merely looking: she gently passed over the characters the tips of her fingers, accompanying the action with an unconscious but tender smile, which converted the touch into a caress133. Paulina loved the Past; but the peculiarity134 of this little scene was, that she said nothing: she could feel without pouring out her feelings in a flux135 of words.
She now occupied herself at the bookcase for nearly an hour; taking down volume after volume, and renewing her acquaintance with each. This done, she seated herself on a low stool, rested her cheek on her hand, and thought, and still was mute.
The sound of the front door opened below, a rush of cold wind, and her father’s voice speaking to Mrs. Bretton in the hall, startled her at last. She sprang up: she was down-stairs in one second.
“Papa! papa! you are not going out?”
“My pet, I must go into town.”
“But it is too — too cold, papa.”
And then I heard M. de Bassompierre showing to her how he was well provided against the weather; and how he was going to have the carriage, and to be quite snugly136 sheltered; and, in short, proving that she need not fear for his comfort.
“But you will promise to come back here this evening, before it is quite dark; — you and Dr. Bretton, both, in the carriage? It is not fit to ride.”
“Well, if I see the Doctor, I will tell him a lady has laid on him her commands to take care of his precious health and come home early under my escort.”
“Yes, you must say a lady; and he will think it is his mother, and be obedient And, papa, mind to come soon, for I shall watch and listen.”
The door closed, and the carriage rolled softly through the snow; and back returned the Countess, pensive78 and anxious.
She did listen, and watch, when evening closed; but it was in stillest sort: walking the drawing-room with quite noiseless step. She checked at intervals137 her velvet march; inclined her ear, and consulted the night sounds: I should rather say, the night silence; for now, at last, the wind was fallen. The sky, relieved of its avalanche, lay naked and pale: through the barren boughs138 of the avenue we could see it well, and note also the polar splendour of the new-year moon — an orb39 white as a world of ice. Nor was it late when we saw also the return of the carriage.
Paulina had no dance of welcome for this evening. It was with a sort of gravity that she took immediate139 possession of her father, as he entered the room; but she at once made him her entire property, led him to the seat of her choice, and, while softly showering round him honeyed words of commendation for being so good and coming home so soon, you would have thought it was entirely140 by the power of her little hands he was put into his chair, and settled and arranged; for the strong man seemed to take pleasure in wholly yielding himself to this dominion-potent only by love.
Graham did not appear till some minutes after the Count. Paulina half turned when his step was heard: they spoke, but only a word or two; their fingers met a moment, but obviously with slight contact. Paulina remained beside her father; Graham threw himself into a seat on the other side of the room.
It was well that Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home had a great deal to say to each other-almost an inexhaustible fund of discourse141 in old recollections; otherwise, I think, our party would have been but a still one that evening.
After tea, Paulina’s quick needle and pretty golden thimble were busily plied by the lamp-light, but her tongue rested, and her eyes seemed reluctant to raise often their lids, so smooth and so full-fringed. Graham, too, must have been tired with his day’s work: he listened dutifully to his elders and betters, said very little himself, and followed with his eye the gilded142 glance of Paulina’s thimble; as if it had been some bright moth1 on the wing, or the golden head of some darting143 little yellow serpent.
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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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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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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16
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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17
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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18
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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19
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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20
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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21
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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22
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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23
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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24
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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25
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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26
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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27
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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28
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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29
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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30
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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31
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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32
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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33
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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34
petulantly
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35
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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36
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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37
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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38
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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39
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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40
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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41
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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42
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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43
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
awing
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| adj.& adv.飞翔的[地]v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的现在分词 ) | |
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45
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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46
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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47
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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48
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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49
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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50
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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51
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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52
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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53
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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54
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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55
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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56
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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57
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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58
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
conserved
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| v.保护，保藏，保存( conserve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
catering
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| n. 给养 | |
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61
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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62
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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63
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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64
interdict
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| v.限制；禁止；n.正式禁止；禁令 | |
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65
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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66
mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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67
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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68
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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69
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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70
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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71
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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72
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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73
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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74
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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75
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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76
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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77
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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78
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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79
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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80
tractably
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| 驯良地，温顺地 | |
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81
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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82
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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83
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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84
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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85
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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86
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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87
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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88
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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89
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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90
infelicitously
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91
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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92
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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93
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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94
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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95
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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96
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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97
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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98
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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99
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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100
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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101
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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102
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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103
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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104
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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105
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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106
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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107
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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108
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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109
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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110
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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111
amalgamation
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| n.合并，重组；；汞齐化 | |
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112
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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113
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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114
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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115
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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116
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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117
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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118
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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119
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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120
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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121
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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122
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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123
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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124
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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125
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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127
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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128
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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129
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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130
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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131
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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132
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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133
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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134
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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135
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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136
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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137
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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138
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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139
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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140
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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141
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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142
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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143
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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