Osborne’s conversation and ways might very possibly have been just the same as before, had he been thrown amongst new people; but Molly only saw him in their own circle in which he was on terms of decided8 intimacy9. Still there was no doubt that he was really improved, though perhaps not to the extent for which Molly gave him credit; and this exaggeration on her part arose very naturally from the fact, that he, perceiving Roger’s warm admiration10 for Cynthia, withdrew a little out of his brother’s way; and used to go and talk to Molly in order not to intrude11 himself between Roger and Cynthia. Of the two, perhaps, Osborne preferred Molly; to her he needed not to talk if the mood was not on him — they were on those happy terms where silence is permissible12, and where efforts to act against the prevailing13 mood of the mind are not required. Sometimes, indeed, when Osborne was in the humour to be critical and fastidious as of yore, he used to vex14 Roger by insisting upon it that Molly was prettier than Cynthia.
‘You mark my words, Roger. Five years hence the beautiful Cynthia’s red and white will have become just a little coarse, and her figure will have thickened, while Molly’s will only have developed into more perfect grace. I don’t believe the girl has done growing yet; I am sure she is taller than when I first saw her last summer.’
‘Miss Kirkpatrick’s eyes must always be perfection. I cannot fancy any could come up to them: soft, grave, appealing, tender; and such a heavenly colour — I often try to find something in nature to compare them to; they are not like violets — that blue in the eyes is too like physical weakness of sight; they are not like the sky — that colour has something of cruelty in it.’
‘Come, don’t go on trying to match her eyes as if you were a draper, and they a bit of ribbon; say at once “her eyes are loadstars,” and have done with it! I set up Molly’s grey eyes and curling black lashes15, long odds16 above the other young woman’s; but, of course, it’s all a matter of taste.’
And now both Osborne and Roger had left the neighbourhood. In spite of all that Mrs. Gibson had said about Roger’s visits being ill-timed and intrusive17, she began to feel as if they had been a very pleasant variety, now they had ceased altogether. He brought in a whiff of a new atmosphere from that of Hollingford. He and his brother had been always ready to do numberless little things which only a man can do for women; small services which Mr. Gibson was always too busy to render. For the good doctor’s business grew upon him. He thought that this increase was owing to his greater skill and experience, and he would probably have been mortified18 if he could have known how many of his patients were solely19 biassed20 in sending for him, by the fact that he was employed at the Towers. Something of this sort must have been contemplated21 in the low scale of payment adopted long ago by the Cumnor family. Of itself the money he received for going to the Towers would hardly have paid him for horse-flesh, but then as Lady Cumnor in her younger days had worded it —
‘It is such a thing for a man just setting up in practice for himself to be able to say he attends at this house!’
So the prestige was tacitly sold and paid for; but neither buyer nor seller defined the nature of the bargain. On the whole, it was as well that Mr. Gibson spent so much of his time from home. He sometimes thought so himself when he heard his wife’s plaintive22 fret23 or pretty babble24 over totally indifferent things, and perceived of how flimsy a nature were all her fine sentiments. Still, he did not allow himself to repine over the step he had taken; he wilfully25 shut his eyes and waxed up his ears to many small things that he knew would have irritated him if he had attended to them; and, in his solitary26 rides, he forced himself to dwell on the positive advantages that had accrued27 to him and his through his marriage. He had obtained an unexceptionable chaperone, if not a tender mother, for his little girl; a skilful28 manager of his formerly29 disorderly household; a woman who was graceful30 and pleasant to look at for the head of his table. Moreover, Cynthia reckoned for something in the favourable31 side of the balance. She was a capital companion for Molly; and the two were evidently very fond of each other. The feminine companionship of the mother and daughter was agreeable to him as well as to his child — when Mrs. Gibson was moderately sensible and not over-sentimental32, he mentally added; and then he checked himself, for he would not allow himself to become more aware of her faults and foibles by defining them. At any rate, she was harmless, and wonderfully just to Molly for a stepmother. She piqued33 herself upon this indeed, and would often call attention to the fact of her being unlike other women in this respect. Just then sudden tears came into Mr. Gibson’s eyes, as he remembered how quiet and undemonstrative his little Molly had become in her general behaviour to him; but how once or twice, when they had met upon the stairs, or were otherwise unwitnessed, she had caught him and kissed him — hand or cheek — in a sad passionateness35 of affection. But in a moment he began to whistle an old Scotch36 air he had heard in his childhood, and which had never recurred37 to his memory since; and five minutes afterwards he was too busily treating a case of white swelling38 in the knee of a little boy, and thinking how to relieve the poor mother, who went out charring all day, and had to listen to the moans of her child all night, to have any thought for his own cares, which, if they really existed, were of so trifling39 a nature compared to the hard reality of this hopeless woe40.
Osborne came home first. He returned, in fact, not long after Roger had gone away; but he was languid and unwell, and, though he did not complain, he felt unequal to any exertion41. Thus a week or more elapsed before any of the Gibsons knew that he was at the Hall; and then it was only by chance that they became aware of it. Mr. Gibson met him in one of the lanes near Hamley; the acute surgeon noticed the gait of the man as he came near, before he recognized who it was. When he overtook him he said —
‘Why, Osborne, is it you? I thought it was an old man of fifty loitering before me! I didn’t know you had come back.’
‘Yes,’ said Osborne, ‘I’ve been at home nearly ten days. I daresay I ought to have called on your people, for I made a half promise to Mrs. Gibson to let her know as soon as I returned; but the fact is, I’m feeling very good-for-nothing — this air oppresses me; I could hardly breathe in the house, and yet I’m already tired with this short walk.’
‘You’d better get home at once; and I’ll call and see you as I come back from Rowe’s.’
‘No, you mustn’t, on any account!’ said Osborne, hastily; my father is annoyed enough about my going from home, so often, he says, though it was six weeks. He puts down all my languor42 to my having been away — he keeps the purse-strings, you know,’ he added, with a faint smile, ‘and I’m in the unlucky position of a penniless heir, and I’ve been brought up so — In fact, I must leave home from time to time, and, if my father gets confirmed in this notion of his that my health is worse for my absences, he will stop the supplies altogether.’
‘May I ask where you do spend your time when you are not at Hamley Hall?’ asked Mr. Gibson, with some hesitation43 in his manner.
‘No!’ replied Osborne, reluctantly. ‘I will tell you this:— I stay with friends in the country. I lead a life which ought to be conducive44 to health, because it is thoroughly45 simple, rational, and happy. And now I’ve told you more about it than my father himself knows. He never asks me where I have been; and I shouldn’t tell him if he did — at least, I think not.’
Mr. Gibson rode on by Osborne’s side, not speaking for a moment or two.
‘Osborne, whatever scrapes you may have got into, I should advise your telling your father boldly out. I know him; and I know he’ll be angry enough at first, but he’ll come round, take my word for it; and, somehow or another, he’ll find money to pay your debts and set you free, if it’s that kind of difficulty; and if it’s any other kind of entanglement46, why still he’s your best friend. It’s this estrangement47 from your father that’s telling on your health, I’ll be bound.’
‘No,’ said Osborne, ‘I beg your pardon; but it’s not that; I am really out of order. I daresay my unwillingness48 to encounter any displeasure from my father is the consequence of my indisposition; but I’ll answer for it, it is not the cause of it. My instinct tells me there is something real the matter with me.’
‘Come, don’t be setting up your instinct against the profession,’ said Mr. Gibson, cheerily. He dismounted, and throwing the reins49 of his horse round his arm, he looked at Osborne’s tongue and felt his pulse, asking him various questions. At the end he said —
‘We’ll soon bring you about, though I should like a little more quiet talk with you, without this tugging50 brute51 for a third. If you’ll manage to ride over and lunch with us tomorrow, Dr Nicholls will be with us; he’s coming over to see old Rowe; and you shall have the benefit of the advice of two doctors instead of one. Go home now, you’ve had enough exercise for the middle of a day as hot as this is. And don’t mope in the house, listening to the maunderings of your stupid instinct.’
‘What else have I to do?’ said Osborne. ‘My father and I are not companions; one can’t read and write for ever, especially when there is no end to be gained by it. I don’t mind telling you — but in confidence, recollect52 — that I’ve been trying to get some of my poems published; but there’s no one like a publisher for taking the conceit53 out of one. Not a man among them would take them as a gift.’
‘O ho! so that’s it, is it, Master Osborne? I thought there was some mental cause for this depression of health. I wouldn’t trouble my head about it, if I were you, though that’s always very easily said, I know. Try your hand at prose, if you can’t manage to please the publishers with poetry; but, at any rate, don’t go on fretting54 over spilt milk. But I mustn’t lose my time here. Come over to us tomorrow, as I said; and what with the wisdom of two doctors, and the wit and folly55 of three women, I think we shall cheer you up a bit.’
So saying, Mr. Gibson remounted, and rode away at the long, slinging56 trot57 so well known to the country people as the doctor’s pace.
‘I don’t like his looks,’ thought Mr. Gibson to himself at night, as over his daybooks he reviewed the events of the day. ‘And then his pulse. But how often we’re all mistaken; and, ten to one, my own hidden enemy lies closer to me than his does to him — even taking the worse view of the case.’
Osborne made his appearance a considerable time before luncheon58 the next morning; and no one objected to the earliness of his call. He was feeling better. There were few signs of the invalid59 about him; and what few there were disappeared under the bright pleasant influence of such a welcome as he received from all. Molly and Cynthia had much to tell him of the small proceedings60 since he went away, or to relate the conclusions of half-accomplished projects. Cynthia was often on the point of some gay, careless inquiry61 as to where he had been, and what he had been doing; but Molly, who conjectured62 the truth, as often interfered63 to spare him the pain of equivocation64 — a pain that her tender conscience would have felt for him, much more than he would have felt it for himself.
Mrs. Gibson’s talk was desultory65, complimentary66, and sentimental, after her usual fashion; but still, on the whole, though Osborne smiled to himself at much that she said, it was soothing67 and agreeable. Presently, Dr Nicholls and Mr. Gibson came in; the former had had some conference with the latter on the subject of Osborne’s health; and, from time to time, the skilful old physician’s sharp and observant eyes gave a comprehensive look at Osborne.
Then there was lunch, when every one was merry and hungry, excepting the hostess, who was trying to train her midday appetite into the genteelest of all ways, and thought (falsely enough) that Dr Nicholls was a good person to practise the semblance68 of ill-health upon, and that he would give her the proper civil amount of commiseration69 for her ailments70, which every guest ought to bestow71 upon a hostess who complains of her delicacy72 of health. The old doctor was too cunning a man to fall into this trap. He would keep recommending her to try the coarsest viands73 on the table; and, at last, he told her if she could not fancy the cold beef to try a little with pickled onions. There was a twinkle in his eye as he said this, that would have betrayed his humour to any observer; but Mr. Gibson, Cynthia, and Molly were all attacking Osborne on the subject of some literary preference he had expressed, and Dr Nicholls had Mrs. Gibson quite at his mercy. She was not sorry when luncheon was over to leave the room to the three gentlemen; and ever afterwards she spoke74 of Dr Nicholls as ‘that bear.’
Presently, Osborne came upstairs, and, after his old fashion, began to take up new books, and to question the girls as to their music. Mrs. Gibson had to go out and pay some calls, so she left the three together; and after a while they adjourned75 into the garden, Osborne lounging on a chair, while Molly employed herself busily in tying up carnations76, and Cynthia gathered flowers in her careless, graceful way.
‘I hope you notice the difference in our occupations, Mr. Hamley. Molly, you see, devotes herself to the useful, and I to the ornamental77. Please, under what head do you class what you are doing? I think you might help one of us, instead of looking on like the Grand Seigneur.’
‘I don’t know what I can do,’ said he, rather plaintively78. ‘I should like to be useful, but I don’t know how; and my day is past for purely79 ornamental work. You must let me be, I am afraid. Besides, I am really rather exhausted80 by being questioned and pulled about by those good doctors.’
‘Why, you don’t mean to say they have been attacking you since lunch!’ exclaimed Molly.
‘Yes; indeed, they have; and they might have gone on till now if Mrs Gibson had not come in opportunely81.’
‘I thought mamma had gone out some time ago!’ said Cynthia, catching82 wafts83 of the conversation as she flitted hither and thither84 among the flowers.
‘She came into the dining-room not five minutes ago. Do you want her, for I see her crossing the hall at this very moment?’ and Osborne half rose.
‘Oh, not at all!’ said Cynthia. ‘Only she seemed to be in such a hurry to go out, I fancied she had set off long ago. She had some errand to do for Lady Cumnor, and she thought she could manage to catch the housekeeper85, who is always in the town on Thursday.’
‘Are the family coming to the Towers this autumn?’
‘I believe so. But I don’t know, and I don’t much care. They don’t take kindly86 to me,’ continued Cynthia, ‘and so I suppose I am not generous enough to take kindly to them.’
‘I should have thought that such a very unusual blot87 in their discrimination would have interested you in them as extraordinary people,’ said Osborne, with a little air of conscious gallantry.
‘Isn’t that a compliment?’ said Cynthia, after a pause of mock meditation88. ‘If any one pays me a compliment, please let it be short and clear. I’m very stupid at finding out hidden meanings.’
‘Then such speeches as “you are very pretty,” or “you have charming manners,” are what you prefer. Now, I pique34 myself on wrapping up my sugar-plums delicately.’
‘Then would you please to write them down, and at my leisure I’ll parse89 them.’
‘No! It would be too much trouble. I’ll meet you half way, and study clearness next time.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ said Molly, resting on her light spade.
‘It’s only a discussion on the best way of administering compliments,’ said Cynthia, taking up her flower-basket again, but not going out of the reach of the conversation.
‘I don’t like them at all in any way,’ said Molly. ‘But, perhaps, it’s rather sour grapes with me,’ she added.
‘Nonsense!’ said Osborne. ‘Shall I tell you what I heard of you at the ball?’
‘Or shall I provoke Mr. Preston,’ said Cynthia, ‘to begin upon you? It is like turning a tap, such a stream of pretty speeches flow out at the moment.’ Her lip curled with scorn.
‘For you, perhaps,’ said Molly; ‘but not for me.’
‘For any woman. It is his notion of making himself agreeable. If you dare me, Molly, I will try the experiment, and you’ll see with what success.’
‘No, don’t, pray!’ said Molly, in a hurry. ‘I do so dislike him!’
‘Why?’ said Osborne, roused to a little curiosity by her vehemence90.
‘Oh! I don’t know. He never seems to know what one is feeling.’
‘He wouldn’t care if he did know,’ said Cynthia. ‘And he might know he is not wanted,’
‘If he chooses to stay, he cares little whether he is wanted or not.’
‘Come, this is very interesting,’ said Osborne. ‘It is like the strophe and anti-strophe in a Greek chorus. Pray, go on.’
‘Don’t you know him?’ asked Molly.
‘Yes, by sight, and I think we were once introduced. But, you know, we are much farther from Ashcombe, at Hamley, than you are here, at Hollingford.’
‘Oh! but he is coming to take Mr. Sheepshanks’ place, and then he will live here altogether,’ said Molly.
‘Molly! who told you that?’ said Cynthia, in quite a different tone of voice to that in which she had been speaking hitherto.
‘Papa, didn’t you hear him? Oh, no! it was before you were down this morning. Papa met Mr. Sheepshanks yesterday, and he told him it was all settled: you know we heard a rumour91 about it in the spring!’
Cynthia was very silent after this. Presently, she said that she had gathered all the flowers she wanted, and that the heat was so great she would go indoors. And then Osborne went away. But Molly had set herself a task to dig up such roots as had already flowered, and to put down some bedding-out plants in their stead. Tired and heated as she was she finished it, and then went upstairs to rest, and change her dress. According to her wont92, she sought for Cynthia; there was no reply to her soft knock at the bedroom-door opposite to her own, and, thinking that Cynthia might have fallen asleep, and be lying uncovered in the draught93 of the open window, she went in softly. Cynthia was lying upon the bed as if she had thrown herself down on it without caring for the ease or comfort of her position. She was very still; and Molly took a shawl, and was going to place it over her, when she opened her eyes, and spoke —
‘Is that you, dear? Don’t go. I like to know that you are there.’
She shut her eyes again, and remained quite quiet for a few minutes longer. Then she started up into a sitting posture94, pushed her hair away from her forehead and burning eyes, and gazed intently at Molly.
‘Do you know what I’ve been thinking, dear?’ said she. ‘I think I’ve been long enough here, and that I had better go out as a governess.’
‘Cynthia, what do you mean?’ asked Molly, aghast. ‘You’ve been asleep — you’ve been dreaming. You’re overtired,’ continued she, sitting down on the bed, and taking Cynthia’s passive hand, and stroking it softly — a mode of caressing95 that had come down to her from her mother — whether as an hereditary96 instinct, or as a lingering remembrance of the tender ways of the dead woman, Mr Gibson often wondered within himself when he observed it.
‘Oh, how good you are, Molly. I wonder, if I had been brought up like you, if I should have been as good. But I’ve been tossed about so.’
‘Then, don’t go and be tossed about any more,’ said Molly, softly.
‘Oh, dear! I had better go. But, you see, no one ever loved me like you, and, I think, your father — doesn’t he, Molly? And it’s hard to be driven out.’
‘Cynthia, I am sure you’re not well, or else you’re not half awake.’ Cynthia sate97 with her arms encircling her knees, and looking at vacancy98.
‘Well!’ said she, at last, heaving a great sigh; but, then, smiling as she caught Molly’s anxious face, ‘I suppose there’s no escaping one’s doom99; and anywhere else I should be much more forlorn and unprotected.’
‘What do you mean by your doom?’
‘Ah, that’s telling, little one,’ said Cynthia, who seemed now to have recovered her usual manner. ‘I don’t mean to have one, though. I think that, though I am an arrant100 coward at heart, I can show fight.’
‘With whom?’ asked Molly, really anxious to probe the mystery — if, indeed, there was one — to the bottom, in the hope of some remedy being found for the distress101 Cynthia was in when first Molly had entered,
Again Cynthia was lost in thought; then, catching the echo of Molly’s last words in her mind, she said —
‘“With whom?”— oh! show fight with whom — with my doom, to be sure. Am not I a grand young lady to have a doom? Why, Molly, child, how pale and grave you look!’ said she, kissing her all of a sudden. ‘You ought not to care so much for me; I’m not good enough for you to worry yourself about me. I’ve given myself up a long time ago as a heartless baggage!’
‘Nonsense! I wish you wouldn’t talk so, Cynthia!’
‘And I wish you wouldn’t always take me “at the foot of the letter,” as an English girl at school used to translate it. Oh, how hot it is! Is it never going to get cool again? My child! what dirty hands you’ve got, and face too; and I’ve been kissing you — I daresay I’m dirty with it, too. Now, isn’t that like one of mamma’s speeches? But, for all that, you look more like a delving102 Adam than a spinning Eve.’
This had the effect that Cynthia intended; the daintily clean Molly became conscious of her soiled condition, which she had forgotten while she had been attending to Cynthia, and she hastily withdrew to her own room. When she had gone, Cynthia noiselessly locked the door; and, taking her purse out of her desk, she began to count over her money. She counted it once — she counted it twice, as if desirous of finding out some mistake which should prove it to be more than it was; but the end of it all was a sigh.
‘What a fool! — what a fool I was!’ she said, at length. ‘But even if I don’t go out as a governess, I shall make it up in time.’
Some weeks after the time he had anticipated when he had spoken of his departure to the Gibsons, Roger returned back to the Hall. One morning when he called, Osborne told them that his brother had been at home for two or three days.
‘And why has he not come here, then?’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘It is not kind of him not to come and see us as soon as he can. Tell him I say so — pray do.’
Osborne had gained one or two ideas as to her treatment of Roger the last time he had called. Roger had not complained of it, or even mentioned it, till that very morning; when Osborne was on the point of starting, and had urged Roger to accompany him, the latter had told him something of what Mrs. Gibson had said. He spoke rather as if he was more amused than annoyed; but Osborne could read that he was chagrined103 at those restrictions104 placed upon calls which were the greatest pleasure of his life. Neither of them let out the suspicion which had entered both their minds — the well-grounded suspicion arising from the fact that Osborne’s visits, be they paid early or late, had never yet been met with a repulse106.
Osborne now reproached himself with having done Mrs. Gibson injustice107. She was evidently a weak, but probably a disinterested108, woman; and it was only a little bit of ill-temper on her part which had caused her to speak to Roger as she had done.
‘I daresay it was rather impertinent of me to call at such an untimely hour,’ said Roger.
‘Not at all; I call at all hours, and nothing is ever said about it. It was just because she was put out that morning. I’ll answer for it she’s sorry now, and I’m sure you may go there at any time you like in the future.’
Still, Roger did not choose to go again for two or three weeks, and the consequence was that the next time he called the ladies were out. Once again he had the same ill-luck, and then he received a little pretty three-cornered note from Mrs. Gibson:—
MY DEAR SIR — How is it that you are become so formal all on a sudden, leaving cards, instead of awaiting our return? Fie for shame! If you had seen the faces of disappointment that I did when the horrid109 little bits of pasteboard were displayed to our view, you would not have borne malice110 against me so long; for it is really punishing others as well as my naughty self. If you will come tomorrow — as early as you like — and lunch with us, I’ll own I was cross, and acknowledge myself a penitent111. — Yours ever, HYACINTH C. K. GIBSON.
There was no resisting this, even if there had not been strong inclination112 to back up the pretty words. Roger went, and Mrs. Gibson caressed113 and petted him in her sweetest, silkiest manner. Cynthia looked lovelier than ever to him for the slight restriction105 that had been laid for a time on their intercourse. She might be gay and sparkling with Osborne; with Roger she was soft and grave. Instinctively114 she knew her men. She saw that Osborne was only interested in her because of her position in a family with whom he was intimate; that his friendship was without the least touch of sentiment; and that his admiration was only the warm criticism of an artist for unusual beauty. But she felt how different Roger’s relation to her was. To him she was the one, alone, peerless. If his love was prohibited, it would be long years before he could sink down into tepid115 friendship; and to him her personal loveliness was only one of the many charms that made him tremble into passion. Cynthia was not capable of returning such feelings; she had had too little true love in her life, and perhaps too much admiration to do so; but she appreciated this honest ardour, this loyal worship that was new to her experience. Such appreciation116, and such respect for his true and affectionate nature, gave a serious tenderness to her manner to Roger, which allured117 him with a fresh and separate grace. Molly sate by, and wondered how it would all end, or, rather, how soon it would all end, for she thought that no girl could resist such reverent118 passion; and on Roger’s side there could be no doubt — alas119! there could be no doubt. An older spectator might have looked far ahead, and thought of the question of pounds, shillings, and pence. Where was the necessary income for a marriage to come from? Roger had his fellowship now, it is true; but the income of that would be lost if he married; he had no profession, and the life interest of the two or three thousand pounds that he inherited from his mother, belonged to his father. This older spectator might have been a little surprised at the empressement of Mrs. Gibson’s manner to a younger son, always supposing this said spectator to have read to the depths of her worldly heart. Never had she tried to be more agreeable to Osborne; and though her attempt was a great failure when practised upon Roger, and he did not know what to say in reply to the delicate Batteries which he felt to be insincere, he saw that she intended him to consider himself henceforward free of the house; and he was too glad to avail himself of this privilege to examine over-closely into what might be her motives120 for her change of manner. He shut his eyes, and chose to believe that she was now desirous of making up for her little burst of temper on his previous visit.
The result of Osborne’s conference with the two doctors had been certain prescriptions121 which appeared to have done him much good, and which would in all probability have done him yet more, could he have been free of the recollection of the little patient wife in her solitude122 near Winchester. He went to her whenever he could; and, thanks to Roger, money was far more plentiful123 with him now than it had been. But he still shrank, and perhaps even more and more, from telling his father of his marriage. Some bodily instinct made him dread124 all agitation125 inexpressibly. If he had not had this money from Roger, he might have been compelled to tell his father all, and to ask for the necessary funds to provide for the wife and the coming child. But with enough in hand, and a secret, though remorseful126, conviction that as long as Roger had a penny his brother was sure to have half of it, made him more reluctant than ever to irritate his father by a revelation of his secret. ‘Not just yet, not just at present,’ he kept saying both to Roger and to himself. ‘By and by, if we have a boy, I will call it Roger’— and then visions of poetical127 and romantic reconciliations128 brought about between father and son, through the medium of a child, the offspring of a forbidden marriage, became still more vividly129 possible to him, and at any rate it was a staving-off of an unpleasant thing. He atoned130 to himself for taking so much of Roger’s fellowship money by reflecting that, if Roger married, he would lose this source of revenue; yet Osborne was throwing no impediment in the way of this event, rather forwarding it by promoting every possible means of his brother’s seeing the lady of his love. Osborne ended his reflections by convincing himself of his own generosity131.
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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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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intimacy
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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permissible
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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vex
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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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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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18
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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19
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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biassed
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| （统计试验中）结果偏倚的，有偏的 | |
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21
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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22
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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23
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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24
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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25
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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26
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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accrued
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| adj.权责已发生的v.增加( accrue的过去式和过去分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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28
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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29
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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30
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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31
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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32
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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33
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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34
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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35
passionateness
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36
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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37
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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38
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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39
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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40
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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41
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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42
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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43
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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44
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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45
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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46
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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47
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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48
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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49
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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50
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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51
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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52
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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53
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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54
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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55
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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56
slinging
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| 抛( sling的现在分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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57
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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58
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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59
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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60
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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61
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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62
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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64
equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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65
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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66
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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67
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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68
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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69
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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70
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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71
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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72
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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73
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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74
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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75
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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77
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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78
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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79
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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80
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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81
opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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82
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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83
wafts
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| n.空中飘来的气味，一阵气味( waft的名词复数 )；摇转风扇v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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85
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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86
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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87
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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88
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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89
parse
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| v.从语法上分析；n.从语法上分析 | |
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90
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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91
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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92
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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93
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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94
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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95
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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96
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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97
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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98
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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99
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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100
arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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101
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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102
delving
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的现在分词 ) | |
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103
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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105
restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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106
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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107
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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108
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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109
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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110
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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111
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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112
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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113
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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115
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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116
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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117
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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119
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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120
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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121
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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122
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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123
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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124
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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125
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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126
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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127
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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128
reconciliations
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| 和解( reconciliation的名词复数 )； 一致； 勉强接受； （争吵等的）止息 | |
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129
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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130
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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131
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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