One Saturday evening towards the end of November, Helen Norman had again called to spend an hour with Lucy, previous to their setting out together for the chapel9. She was paler and thinner than she had been even a few months before, and, owing to the persistency10 with which she pursued her work, even in the worst weather, had contracted a severe cold, which at times rendered her almost speechless. Mr. Heatherley had frequently pressed upon her of late the necessity of her paying more attention to her health, but as yet had succeeded in obtaining little more than promises. The truth was that Helen was bound to be active. She dreaded11 shutting herself up in the house alone with Mrs. Cumberbatch, or even alone with her own thoughts, for these had become the more insufferable companion of the two. To renounce12 her daily work would, she well knew, be equivalent to succumbing13 under an attack of illness. Such a prospect14 presented itself to her in the guise15 of unknown terror. To lie day after day, alone and suffering — no; rather work till she fell down in the street from mere16 exhaustion17. The horror of such a fate would be considerably18 less than that of gradually wasting away in a sick room, haunted by the demon19 of ennui20. Death, and speedy death, she felt could alone terminate such suffering as this would imply.
She had a special object in seeking Lucy’s society this after noon. During the last few days a thought had ripened21 within her mind which had held out to her such a cheery gleam of consolation22 that she could lose no time in seeking to realise its promptings. When she and Lucy had taken their seats by the fire in the cheerful little parlour, she proceeded at once t communicate the main purpose of her visit.
“In a few weeks I am going to change my home, Lucy,” she said.
Her companion looked up into her face with a startled expression.
“Indeed, Miss Norman!”
“Yes, I am going to have a little house of my own.”
“You — you are going to be married, Miss Norman!” faltered23 Lucy, looking a little frightened at her own boldness in suggesting such a possibility. And when she saw a smile of amused astonishment25 rise to Helen’s face, followed at length by one of her cheerful laughs, she reddened, and stammered26 excuses.
“Married!” exclaimed Helen. “What have I done, Lucy, that you should be so ready to attribute such enormities to me? There, you have done no harm, dear. Do you think I am so foolish as to be offended at any word that your lips could speak? Should you like to see me married?”
“Yes, I should,” replied Lucy, with a blush, after reflecting for a moment. “For I am sure you deserve as much happiness as it is possible for any one to have.”
“And you think that marriage is the highest possible happiness?”
“I think — perhaps — I scarcely know,” stammered Lucy, in some confusion. “But I often think that no woman can be so happy as she who has a good husband to devote her life to, never thinking of anything but how to please him, and being able to ask his advice in every difficulty or trouble. How quiet one’s life must be, when one feels there is always some one close at hand to trust in, some one who can never lead you astray, but whose advice is always for the best.”
“I am afraid there are few such husbands, Lucy. But haven’t you your father for a guide?”
“Oh, yes, I love my father,” replied Lucy, earnestly, “and have no greater pleasure than to obey him. But — but a husband must be so different ——”
She broke off and satin silence, her eyes drooping27 somewhat sadly. Helen suppressed a sigh, and returned to the subject she had most in her mind.
“But I was speaking of my new home,” she said. “I am going to live in a very delightful little house in Highbury. I shall not be quite by myself, for a lady I have known some time, and who is much older than myself, has kindly28 promised to come and keep house for me. But still I fear I shall be a little lonely through the winter. I have scarcely any friends in London, and even those I have will be a long way from me. Now I wanted to ask you, Lucy, whether you thought you could manage to come and live with me, to be a companion for me when I am at home. You cannot think how glad I should be if you could do so.”
She paused and observed Lucy’s face, the expression of which had passed from surprise to delight, and then again to surprise mingled29 with doubt. Such was the confusion introduced into her thoughts by this most unexpected proposition, that she was quite unable to reply at once.
“You are thinking of your father,” continued Helen. “I know I should be robbing him of his greatest comfort, but I cannot help being selfish in this matter, Lucy. You could always spend Sunday with him, and also an evening or two in the week.”
“But the house-work?” said Lucy, faltering30 between her delight at the proposal and the difficulties which stood in its way. “I am often afraid that father is not very comfortable as it is, for I have only the evenings and about an hour every morning to give to keeping our rooms in order. We have a girl in now and then to do rough work, but she couldn’t get father’s meals and keep his rooms neat.”
“But suppose you found some better kind of servant to do that work?”
“I am afraid we are too poor for that,” replied Lucy, simply.
“But if I took you away,” replied Helen, “it would be only fair that I should provide some one in your place. So that we needn’t trouble any more about that. Would you be willing to come to me, Lucy, if your father gave his consent?”
“It would make me very happy,” replied the girl, sincerity31 speaking in her tone and look.
“Not more so than it would make me,” said Helen, who really felt that with this single, child-hearted girl beside her she would be able to set at defiance32 the melancholy33 which so oppressed her. “You will see my library, then — more books than you ever saw in your life, Lucy. And we will read together; and I will teach you to like the things that I like, and will teach you foreign languages. Won’t it be delightful?”
“Oh, it is too good to be true,” said Lucy, covering her face with her hands. Helen, too, became silent, but in happy visions of the delight she would find in training this pure intelligence and seeing that sweet character expand in her presence. Another thought there was in her mind, a thought which had not been quite without its influence in determining her to this step. Bent34, as always, on the good of others, Helen had reflected that, if Lucy lived with her, Mr. Heatherley would have his attention more attracted to the girl’s virtues35; she would be able to talk more to him about her, and so to assist in some measure to render the termination of Lucy’s secret love happier than at present seemed possible.
As they sat thus in silence only two sounds were audible in the room; the one was the crackling of the fire, the other was the unceasing tread of a footstep pacing backwards36 and forwards in the room above their heads. To the latter sound Helen’s attention had already been once or twice directed, but now that it became still more observable she could not help wondering who it was that paced thus perpetually. She broke silence by asking the question.
“Oh,” replied Lucy, looking up from her happy reverie, “that is Mr. Golding, a lodger37 we have in our spare room. He nearly always spends his evenings in walking up and down his room.”
“What did you say his name is?” asked Helen, with an interest in her tone which surprised Lucy.
“Mr. Golding,” she replied. “He is a printer. He has only just recovered from a bad illness, and I am afraid he is not quite well yet.”
“He is a printer, you say?” continued Helen. “Do you know what his Christian38 name is, Lucy?”
Lucy looked up in some surprise.
“I really forget,” she said; “but I can — oh, I remember; his name in the rent book is A. Golding. I don’t know what A. stands for.”
“He is a young man?”
“Yes, quite young.”
“And — rather handsome, Lucy?”
“I think so,” replied Lucy, smiling; “but his face is very pale, and he always looks sad. Whenever I see him I feel to pity him. I suppose it is his illness that makes him look so.”
Helen’s eyes had been fixed39 immutably40 on her companion’s face since the latter had pronounced the lodger’s name, and their expression had something in it of strange pleasure which added to Lucy’s surprise. As she spoke41 of his illness, this expression changed to one of sympathy, and this continued now for several minutes, whilst neither spoke. Helen was gazing into the fire, and evidently listening to the footfall overhead.
“How long has he been here, Lucy?” she asked at length, speaking in a lower tone.
“About a fortnight,” was the reply; and then she added, seeing Helen still much interested — “He was recommended to us by a friend of ours who comes to see father now and then, Mr. Noble. Once, a long time ago, Mr. Noble brought him here on a Sunday night, and he had tea with us. He’s very pleasant whenever he does speak, but that’s very seldom. Once or twice we have asked him to come down and sit with us in the evening, but he has only consented once. Hush42! he is coming down stairs. I heard his door open.”
“I must see him, Lucy,” whispered Helen, rising from her seat. “How can I see him and not be noticed? Stop, if I hear his voice it will be enough. Could you go out and speak to him? About anything. He is coming down stairs.”
In the utmost astonishment, but eager to do anything to oblige Miss Norman, Lucy quickly left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her, and, standing43 just outside it, she addressed to the lodger some question concerning his meals, which, in the morning and evening, she always prepared for him. Helen had stolen up close to the door, and heard distinctly the questions and replies. As soon as the lodger spoke she recognised Arthur’s voice.
He went on and out of the house, and Helen, trembling in every limb, sank into the nearest chair. At first she felt angry with herself for her weakness, but the next moment a warm glow of pleasure had rushed over her whole body, driving away every other feeling. Then Lucy reentered the room, and Helen, with a low laugh of joy, folded her in her arms and kissed her on the forehead. Lucy’s face flushed with delight, but her eyes still retained their expression of astonishment. She feared, however, to make any remark, and resumed her seat in silence by the fire-side.
“It is as I thought,” said Helen, speaking still in a very low voice, and fixing her eyes, which glowed with unusual brightness, upon her companion’s wondering face; “I once knew Mr. Golding. Lucy, you say he passes the evening with you and your father sometimes?”
She replied in the affirmative.
“Do you think my name has ever been mentioned in his presence?”
“Yes, it has,” replied Lucy. “Mr. Heatherley came in last Wednesday night, when Mr. Golding was with us, and he asked me if I did not think you looked very poorly, Miss Norman. And then he spoke for some minutes about your untiring patience.”
“And Mr. Golding?” asked Helen, bending forward and taking Lucy’s hand. “He said nothing?”
“I — I think not,” returned the other, fearful lest her answer should displease44.
There was silence for some minutes, during which Helen still held Lucy’s hand, playing with it now and then whilst varied45 emotions made themselves seen upon her features.
“What must you think of me, Lucy?” she asked at length. “No doubt you are quite at a loss to understand my strange behaviour. The truth is that Mr. Golding is an old acquaintance, in whom I have much interest. I have not seen him for more than a year, and had no idea where he was, so you may imagine my surprise when I heard you call your lodger by his name. Would you do me a kindness, something very difficult for me to do for myself, but easy for you to do for me?”
“I will do anything in my power for you, Miss Norman.”
“Then it is this. When next you have an opportunity of speaking to him alone will you say, as if by chance, that I had heard of him from you, that I had recognised him as an acquaintance, and had made friendly inquiries46 with regard to him — all this, you know, as if coming naturally from yourself? — I wish him to know, in short, that I am aware of his being here. And I should like to know how he hears this, Lucy, with what expression of face, or what reply he makes. Are you artful enough to practise all this deceit, dear?”
“I think it will be a very harmless deceit,” replied Lucy, with her customary na?veté. “I can easily find an opportunity to do this. Very likely I shall be able to bring you word next Tuesday night at the class.”
“And you — you will not say anything of this to your father, Lucy? It is only a foolish fancy. I can trust you, but others, who do not know me so well, might — you know what I mean.”
“Indeed, I will tell no one,” replied Lucy earnestly, truth beaming from her wide blue eyes.
Helen smiled gratefully, and, drawing the girl towards her, pressed an affectionate kiss upon her lips.
On the following Tuesday night Helen was in the schoolroom rather earlier than usual. She had come in the hope of having a quarter of an hour’s talk with Lucy before the lessons commenced, but in this she was disappointed, for Lucy, who usually made her appearance some time before eight o’clock, was late to-night. Helen’s cold had increased severity during the last few days, and to-night she was scarcely able to speak. Prudence47 had urged her throughout the day to send a note to Mr. Heatherley, begging him to take her place that evening, but the temptation of the news she hoped to hear from Lucy was too strong and she had braved the night air. The girls were collecting in the white-walled school-room, each one curtseying as she entered, whilst Helen was looking over a number of dictation exercises, when Mr. Heatherley suddenly appeared, his face flushed with rapid walking, and a dripping umbrella in his hand. A look of pain and vexation crossed his face as he saw Helen sitting at his desk.
“How extremely imprudent of you, Miss Norman!” he said, pointing to the wrapper in which Helen had encircled her throat. “I certainly hoped you would have remained at home a day like this. In fact I made so sure you would, that I especially arranged to be able to take your class to-night. As I was on the way here I just stepped into Mrs. Hawley’s, and imagine my horror when I heard that you had been walking about as usual all this morning. Poor Mrs. Hawley was in despair on your account. ‘She’s killing48 herself, Mr. Heatherley; she’s killing herself!’ — that’s all I could get from her. And, upon my word, I believe she’s quite right. Now, Miss Norman, I beg you will go home at once, and let me take your place to-night.”
“It is very kind of you to be so concerned on my account,” replied Helen, in a voice but little above a whisper. “Indeed, if you can spare the time, I shall be very glad to have you take my class. I fear I could not make myself heard. But you must not send me away. This room is very warm and comfortable, I am sure.”
As she spoke the clock in the chapel struck eight.
“Where is Miss Venning?” asked the clergyman, looking round in a kind of despair. “I ought to have her to second my entreaties49. I really believe she has been afraid to come out to-night.”
“Oh no,” replied Helen, quickly, “I am sure she will be here. She does not allow herself to be withheld50 from her work by a little rain.”
The girls were all sitting in expectant silence at their desks, books open before them.
“We must not set an example of unpunctuality,” said Mr. Heatherley, in a low voice. “I will begin the lesson, and leave further remonstrance51 till afterwards. In the meantime prepare yourself for severe things, Miss Norman.”
Then he turned to the pupils, and spoke to them in that frank, friendly tone which made him liked wherever he went.
“Scholars,” he said, “I shall have the pleasure of teaching you myself this evening. Miss Norman, I grieve to say, is suffering from such a severe cold that it is impossible for her to talk to you as usual. She has, however, too great an interest in you to stay away even under these circumstances. I trust you will appreciate the value of such a teacher and never fail to do your best to please her. I will take the first class to begin with. The second class will please to study quietly for the present.”
When he ceased to speak of Helen, a murmur52 of approbation53 and sympathy had made itself heard in the room, and all eyes were turned with glances of pitying affection to the latter’s face. At any other time Helen would have been profoundly moved by that manifestation54 of feeling, but at present she scarcely knew what was happening. Where was Lucy Venning? Why was she absent for the first time just when Helen wished especially to see her? In spite of herself, Helen had become the prey55 of an intolerable impatience56 to hear how the intelligence of her interest in him had been received by Arthur Golding. The impatience had been increasing ever since Saturday night. Reason was powerless against it. She endeavoured to impress upon herself that in all likelihood Arthur would hear of her with some surprise, and the next moment dismiss her from his mind. And why should it be otherwise? What special interest could she expect him to take in her? Nay57, what was the explanation of this strange excitement which had continued to trouble her ever since she had listened for his voice and recognised it at the first tone? Two or three months ago she had never thought of him; why should she have all at once conceived this violent desire to see him once more, this eager longing58 to hear that her name was not altogether indifferent to him?
She had become so absorbed in these reflections that the sound of voices in the room had altogether died from her ears. But all at once a fresh voice spoke at her side, making her start nervously59, whilst a flush covered her face. It was Lucy Venning, who had entered unseen by her.
“Good evening, Miss Norman,” Lucy whispered. “I am so sorry I am late. Is your cold worse?”
“A little,” whispered Helen hurriedly in return; then asked, with an eagerness she could not subdue60, “Any news?”
“Yes,” replied Lucy, meeting the other’s look with eyes full of affectionate sympathy. “That is what made me late. I must tell you afterwards.”
Then she quickly took her usual place and commenced the lesson of the second class.
It seemed many hours to Helen before the lessons were at an end. But at length the last copy-book had been closed, the last question asked and answered, and the last girl had curtseyed and disappeared. Then Mr. Heatherley once more turned his attention to her.
“Miss Venning,” he said, looking at Lucy, who sank her eyes, “I must ask for your assistance here. Do come and help me to persuade Miss Norman to take a few days’ rest. Promise us, Miss Norman, that you will at least exercise the ordinary prudence of remaining indoors till your cold is better. Indeed, in my position of your director in the work you have undertaken, I must insist on your doing this.”
“If you speak so authoritatively61,” replied Helen, smiling, “I have no alternative but to obey. Yet it distresses62 me unspeakably to think that at the very time when the poor need most assistance I should keep away from them.”
“Just so,” replied Mr. Heatherley, “but you appear to forget, Miss Norman, that it is better to lose a week now than to be laid up for several months during the winter. Your zeal63 blinds you to this self-evident truth. Pray, have you seen your physician?”
“I have scarcely thought it worth while to do so.”
“Then, once more, I speak authoritatively, Miss Norman, and request you to do so without delay. These colds are often more serious things than one imagines. Will you permit me to call upon you — say on Thursday morning, and inquire after your health?”
“I shall be very glad to see you, Mr. Heatherley,” replied Helen, speaking, as she had done in reply to each question, with mechanical effort. She was burning with eagerness to be alone with Lucy.
They all three left the chapel together. It was raining hard, and bitterly cold. They walked in silence towards the railway station, Helen all the time distressing64 herself with the fear lest Mr. Heatherley would accompany her all the way there, as he frequently did, in which case she would have no opportunity of speaking with Lucy. But the latter also foresaw this, and, with an artfulness of which her simple nature could only be capable under the inspiration of her tender regard for Helen, obviated65 the difficulty. They had to pass her house on the way to the station, and, on arriving at it, she appeared suddenly to recollect66 something.
“Oh, Miss Norman,” she exclaimed, “please to come in for a moment whilst I fetch the book you lent me. I finished it yesterday, and, as I shall not see you for some days, I should be sorry to keep it longer. Please to step in, too, Mr. Heatherley. Father is alone and will be glad to see you.”
The clergyman was about to make some remark as to the lateness of the hour, but Lucy had already opened the door, and Helen was following her into the passage, so he was obliged to enter also. Lucy quickly introduced him into the parlour, where her father was sitting, in his usual brown study, and then she beckoned67 to Helen, who followed her upstairs. At the top of the stairs were two doors, from between the chinks of one light was evident. The other was Lucy’s bedroom, and into this she led the way.
“I could think of no other way,” said Lucy, laughing quietly at her own address. “We must speak very quietly, Mr. Golding is in his room.”
Helen listened, and again she heard the steady footfall going up and down the floor in the next chamber68. She seized Lucy’s hand, and looked into her face expectantly.
“I found an opportunity,” began Lucy, in a whisper, “on Sunday night. At first he didn’t seem to understand exactly what I meant. No doubt it was my awkwardness; so I repeated to him what you wished him to know, of course making him understand that it was my own thought to mention it. Then he looked at me rather curiously69, and said, ‘Please to tell Miss Norman that I have heard of her inquiries, and that I am much obliged to her.’ I think these were his words, and they were said very coldly, quite in a different way from his usual manner of speaking to me.”
Helen suddenly relinquished70 the speaker’s hand, and turned away her head. “Come, let us go, Lucy,” she said, quickly. “I am sorry I troubled you about such a foolish matter.”
“But that is not all,” hastily added the other. “That was only the first time I saw him. But just as I was leaving the house to-night to go to the chapel, Mr. Golding met me in the street and asked me if I would let him walk a short distance with me, as he wished to ask me one or two questions. He spoke in a rather confused way, and I couldn’t think what he meant; but, as it was raining, I asked him to return and speak to me in the parlour, for father was not at home. When we were in the room, he didn’t seem quite able to begin at first, but when I asked him what he wished to know he said that his questions were about Miss Norman; would I mind telling him whether you had ever said anything about him except what he had already heard? I was rather put about for an answer, but at last I said that you had not. Was I right, Miss Norman?”
“Quite right,” replied Helen, who was now listening eagerly again. “And then?”
“And then he asked me how you had spoken of him, whether you seemed sorry to hear that he had been ill, how you looked when you asked after him. Again I was troubled to know how to answer, but — I hope I wasn’t wrong, Miss Norman? I said that — that you had spoken in a kind way, but you always did that of everyone, and that I felt sure you were very sorry to hear of his illness. I hope I didn’t say more than was proper, Miss Norman?”
“And then?”
“Then he said he should very much like to see you.”
“To see me?” broke in Helen, much surprised, and trembling slightly.
“Yes; but he spoke in a very respectful way. He wished to know whether I would tell you this, and ask if you would be willing to see him. There was something he very much wanted to speak to you about. He should consider it a great favour. And he spoke so earnestly that I’m sure he has some very good reason for asking it.”
Helen became thoughtful, and, as she mused24, a slight smile played fitfully about her lips. Still the footsteps in the next room paced backward and forwards unceasingly, and she even thought that she could hear something that resembled a deep sigh.
“Will you tell Mr. Golding,” she said, all at once, “that I will expect him between six and seven tomorrow evening? But stay, is he free then?”
“He is always home at six.”
“Very well; between six and seven then, in Portland Place. Will you tell him this, Lucy? And — and will you say that I shall be quite alone?”
“I will let him know to-night,” was the reply.
They passed down stairs again, and found Mr. Heatherley growing impatient. He insisted upon accompanying Helen to the station.
“But not a word on the way, Miss Norman,” he said. “Please to cover your mouth up closely, and on no account to take off the scarf.”
Helen laughed as she obeyed him, and they walked quickly the short distance which remained to the station. Neither spoke on the way, but Mr. Heatherley frequently glanced aside at his companion’s face whenever the light from the shops or the street-lamps illumined it.
“On Thursday morning I shall take the liberty of calling upon you,” he said as he shook hands at parting. “I beg you will see your physician in the interval71, and on no account think of going out.”
Helen had scarcely heard him, so much was her mind disturbed by what Lucy had told her. What could be Arthur’s object in wishing to see her? This she was utterly72 unable to divine. Her mind was distracted by doubts as to whether she had done rightly in granting an interview. What must be Lucy Venning’s thoughts of the singular mystery in which she had been made to play a part. Lucy evidently saw nothing shocking in the course her friend pursued, and her pure mind was a far better judge of propriety73 than all the conventionalities of a prurient74 society. But what kind of man was she about to receive? A year may effect a great change in character, and could she be certain that Arthur was still the high-minded youth he had appeared to her formerly75? Of his life in the interval she was totally ignorant, and it might be that he had altered much for the worse. Yet that was an idea to which she could not reconcile herself. In the conversation between him and Lucy, which the latter had repeated, there seemed so much of his old manner; it was so clear that the boldness of his request was forced upon him by some exceptional need; no, she could not believe that he had deteriorated76. And then came the thought of his suffering, the recollection of the monotonous77 footfall going to and fro, at which her heart warmed with womanly tenderness and pity. It was clear he was not happy, that he was suffering in mind as well as in body, and if indeed she could do anything to relieve him how gladly would she venture much more than a mere unusual tête-à-tête.
On reaching home she at once sought her own chamber. The excitement of the evening had brought on a severe headache, and this, combined with her cold, made her feel so ill that she was glad to extinguish the light and seek rest at once. It was some time before her thoughts would allow her to become sufficiently78 composed to sleep, and when at last her eyes closed it was only in a troubled slumber79, broken by shapeless dreams. These at length assumed the form of a terrible nightmare, in which she seemed to be struggling for her life with some fearful monster which had encircled her throat and was stifling80 her. Just as the agony was becoming intolerable it awoke her. She was coughing with dreadful violence, each gasp81 causing her excruciating pain. When the fit came to an end, she reached her hand to the table which stood beside her bed, and struck a match. The little flame shot up, illuminating82 the hand that held it, but surely with a strange light. The colour of her fingers was blood-red. For a moment she thought her eyes were deceiving her, but then she felt something warm upon her lips. She wiped them with her other hand, and that too became red. Then she knew that it was really blood which she saw. The same moment the match went out between her fingers, and she shuddered83 with horror in the darkness.
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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mere
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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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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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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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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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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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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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immutably
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| adv.不变地，永恒地 | |
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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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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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obviated
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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prurient
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| adj.好色的，淫乱的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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81
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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