Something of the same disappointed and disapproving16 sentiment filled Mrs. Methven’s mind when she heard of his visit to the Cottage. She knew no reason why he should take a special leave of July Herbert; if he knew himself a reason, which he did not disclose, that was another matter. Thoughts like this embittered17 the preparations for his departure, which otherwise would have been so agreeable. She had to see after many things which a young man of more wealth, or more independent habits, would have done for himself—his linen18, his portmanteau, most of the things he wanted, except the tailor part of the business; but it was not until the last evening that there was any of the confidential19 consultation, for which her heart had longed. Even on that last day Walter had been very little indoors. He had been busy with a hundred trifles, and she had begun to make up her mind to his going away without a word said as to their future relations, as to whether he meant his mother to share any of the advantages of his new position, or to drop her at Sloebury as something done with, which he did not care to burden himself with, any more than the other circumstances of his past career. She did so little justice to the real generosity21 of her son’s temper in the closeness of her contest with him, and the heat of personal feeling, that she had begun to make up her mind to this, with what pain and bitterness it is unnecessary to say.
She had even began to make excuses for her own desertion in the tumult22 of endless thought upon this one subject which possessed23 her. She would be just; after all, was it not better perhaps that she should be left in the little house which was her independent home, for which she owed nothing to any one? If any unnecessary sense of gratitude24 made him offer her reluctantly a share in his new life, that would be humiliation25 indeed. If, as was apparent, her society, her advice, her love were nothing to him, was it not far better that both should recognise the situation, and view things in their true light? This the proud woman had made up her mind to, with what depth of wounded tenderness and embittered affection who could say? She had packed for him with her own hands, for all his permanent arrangements were to be made after he had left Sloebury, and to change her household in consequence of an alteration26 of fortune which, according to all appearances, would not concern her, was, she had proudly decided27, quite out of the question. She packed for him as in the days when he was going to school, when he was a boy, and liked everything better that had been done by his mother. A woman may be pardoned for feeling such a difference with a passionate28 soreness and sense of downfall. In those days how she had thought of the time when he would be grown up, when he would understand all her difficulties and share all her cares, and in his own advancement29 make her triumphant30 and happy! God forgive me, she said to herself, now he has got advancement far above my hopes, and I am making myself wretched thinking of myself. She stopped and cried a little over his new linen. No, he was right; if it must be allowed that they did not “get on,” it was indeed far better in the long run that there should be no false sentiment, no keeping up of an untenable position. Thank God she required nothing; she had enough; she wanted neither luxury nor grandeur31, and her home, her natural place was here, where she had lived so many years, where she could disarm32 all comment upon Walter’s neglect of her, by saying that she preferred the place where she had lived so long, and where she had so many friends. Why, indeed, should she change her home at her time of life? No doubt he would come back some time and see her; but after all why should her life be unsettled because his was changed? It was he who showed true sense in his way of judging the matter, she said to herself with a smile, through the hastily dried and momentary33 tears.
Walter came in when the packing was just about concluded. He came half way up the stairs and called “Mother, where are you?” as he had often done when he was a boy and wanted her at every turn, but as he never did now. This touched and weakened her again in her steady resolution to let him see no repining in her. “Are you packing for me?” he called out again; “what a shame while I have been idling! But come down, mother, please, and leave that. You forget we have everything to settle yet.”
“What is there to settle?” she said, with a certain sharpness of tone which she could not quite suppress, coming out upon the landing. The maids who were going to bed, and who heard all this, thought it was beautiful to hear his lordship speaking like that, quite natural to his mother; but that missus was that hard it was no wonder if they didn’t get on; and Cousin Sophia from her virgin34 retirement35, where she sat in her dressing-gown reading a French novel, and very much alive to every sound, commented in her own mind, closing her book, in the same sense. “Now she will just go and hold him at arm’s length while the boy’s heart is melting, and then break her own,” Miss Merivale said to herself. Thus everybody was against her and in favour of the fortunate young fellow who had been supping on homage36 and flattery, and now came in easy and careless to make everything straight at the last moment. Mrs. Methven on her side was very tired, and tremulous with the exertion37 of packing. It would have been impossible for her to banish38 that tone out of her voice. She stood in the subdued39 light upon the stairs looking down upon him, leaning on the banister to support herself; while he, with all the light from below upon his face, ruddy with the night air, and the applauses, and his own high well-being40, looked up gaily41 at her. He had shaken off all his old irritability42 in the confidence of happiness and good fortune that had taken possession of him. After a moment he came springing up the stairs three at a time.
“You look tired, mother, while I have been wasting my time. Come down, and let us have our talk. I’ll do all the rest to-morrow,” he said, throwing his arm round her and leading her down-stairs. He brought her some wine first of all and a footstool, and threw himself into the easy task of making her comfortable. “Now,” he said, “let’s talk it all over,” drawing a chair to her side.
All this was quite new upon Walter’s part—or rather quite old, belonging to an age which had long ago gone.
“Isn’t it rather late for that?” she said, with a faint smile.
“Yes, and I am ashamed of myself; but, unfortunately, you are so used to that. We must settle, however, mother. I am to go first of all to Kinloch-houran, which Milnathort says is not a place for you. Indeed, I hear——” here he paused a little as if he would have named his authority, and continued, “that it is a ruinous sort of place; and why I should go there, I don’t know.”
“Where did you hear?” she said, with quick suspicion.
“Well, mother, I would rather not have mentioned his name; but if you wish to know, from Underwood. I know you are prejudiced against him. Yes, it is prejudice, though I don’t wonder at it. I care nothing for the fellow; but still it comes out, which is rather strange, that he knows these places, and a good deal about the Erradeens.”
“Is that, then,” cried the mother quickly, “the reason of his being here?”
“He never said so, nor have I asked him,” answered Walter, with something of his old sullenness43; but then he added—“The same thought has crossed my own mind, mother, and I shouldn’t wonder if it were so.”
“Walter,” she said, “a man like that can have but one motive—the desire to aggrandise himself. For heaven’s sake, don’t have anything to do with him; don’t let him get an influence over you.”
“You must have a very poor opinion of me, mother,” he said, in an aggrieved44 tone.
She looked at him with a curious gaze, silenced, as it seemed. She loved him more than anything in the world, and thought of him above everything; and yet perhaps in that wrath45 with those we love which works like madness in the brain, it was true what he said—that she had a poor opinion of him. Extremes meet, as the proverb says. However, this was a mystery too deep for Walter to enter into.
“Don’t let us waste words about Underwood,” he said. “I care nothing for the fellow; he is vulgar and presuming—as you always said.”
Partly, no doubt, this avowal46 was made with the intention of pleasing his mother; at the same time it proved the great moral effect of promotion47 in rank. Lord Erradeen saw with the utmost distinctness what Walter Methven had only glimpsed by intervals48. And it is impossible to describe how this speech pleased Mrs. Methven. Her tired eyes began to shine, her heart to return to its brighter hopes.
“The thing is, what arrangements you wish me to make,” said Walter. “What are you going to do? I hear Mulmorrel is a handsome house, but it’s November, and naturally it is colder in the north. Do you think you would care to go there now, or wait till the weather is better? It may want furnishing, for anything I know; and it appears we’ve got a little house in town.”
“Walter,” she said, in a voice which was husky and tremulous, “before you enter upon all this—you must first think, my dear. Are you sure it will be for your comfort to have me with you at all? Wouldn’t you rather be free, and make your own arrangements, and leave me—as I am?”
“Mother?“ the young man cried. He got up suddenly from where he was sitting beside her, and pushed away his chair, and stood facing her, with a sudden paleness and fiery49 eyes that seemed to dazzle her. He had almost kicked her footstool out of his way in his excitement and wounded feeling. “Do you mean to say you want to have nothing to do with me?” he said.
“Oh! my boy, you could not think so. I thought that was what—you meant. I wish only what is for your good.”
“Would it be for my good to be an unnatural50 cad?” said the young man, with rising indignation—“a heartless, ill-conditioned whelp, with no sense and no feeling? Oh, mother! mother! what a poor opinion you must have of me!” he cried; and so stung was he with this blow that sudden tears sprang to his eyes. “All because I’m a fool and put everything off to the last moment,” he added, in a sort of undertone, as if explaining it to himself. “But I’m not a beast for all that,” he said, fiercely.
She made him no reply, but sat and gazed at him with a remorse51 and compunction, which, painful sentiments as they are, were to her sweet as the dews from heaven. Yes, it appeared that through all her passionate and absorbing tenderness she had had a poor opinion of him. She had done him injustice52. The conviction was like a new birth. That he should be Lord Erradeen was nothing in comparison of being, as he thus proved himself, good and true, open to the influences of affection and nature. She could not speak, but her eyes were full of a thousand things; they asked him mutely to forgive her. They repented53, and were abashed54 and rejoiced all in one glance. The young man who had not been nearly so heartless as she feared, was now not nearly so noble as she thought: but he was greatly touched by the crisis, and by the suggestion of many a miserable55 hour which was in her involuntary sin against him and in her penitence56. He came back again and sat close by her, and kissed her tremulously.
“I have been a cad,” he said. “I don’t wonder you lost all faith in me, mother.”
“Not that, not that,” she said faintly; and then there was a moment of exquisite57 silence, in which, without a word, everything was atoned58 for, and pardon asked and given.
And then began perhaps the happiest hour of Mrs. Methven’s life, in which they talked over everything and decided what was to be done. Not to give up the house in Sloebury at present, nor indeed to do anything at present, save wait till he had made his expedition into Scotland and seen his new property, and brought her full particulars. After he had investigated everything and knew exactly the capabilities59 of the house, and the condition in which it was, and all the necessities and expediencies, they would then decide as to the best thing to be done; whether to go there, though at the worst time of the year, or to go to London, which was an idea that pleased Walter but alarmed his mother. Mrs. Methven did her best to remember what were the duties of a great landed proprietor60 and to bring them home to her son.
“You ought to spend Christmas at your own place,” she said. “There will be charities and hospitalities and the poor people to look after.”
She did not know Scotland, nor did she know very well what it was to be a great country magnate. She had been but a poor officer’s daughter herself, and had married another officer, and been beaten about from place to place before she settled down on her small income at Sloebury. She had not much more experience than Walter himself had in this respect; indeed, if the truth must be told, both of them drew their chief information from novels, those much-abused sources of information, in which the life of rural potentates61 is a favourite subject, and not always described with much knowledge. Walter gravely consented to all this, with a conscientious62 desire to do what was right: but he thought the place would most likely be gloomy for his mother in winter, and that hospitalities would naturally be uncalled for so soon after the death of the old lord.
“What I would advise would be Park Lane,” he said, with a judicial63 tone. “Milnathort said that it was quite a small house.”
“What is a small house in Park Lane would look a palace at Sloebury,” Mrs. Methven said: “and you must not begin on an extravagant64 footing, my dear.”
“You will let us begin comfortably, I hope,” he said; “and I must look for a nice carriage for you, mother.”
Walter felt disposed to laugh as he said the words, but carried them off with an air of easy indifference65 as if it were the most natural thing in the world: while his mother on her side could have cried for pleasure and tenderness.
“You must not mind me, Walter; we must think what is best for yourself,” she said, as proud and pleased as if she had twenty carriages.
“Nothing of the sort,” he said. “We are going to be comfortable, and you must have everything that is right first of all.”
What an hour it was! now and then there will be given to one individual out of a class a full measure of recompense heaped and overflowing66, out of which the rest may get a sympathetic pleasure though they do not enjoy it in their own persons. Mrs. Methven had never imagined that this would come to her, but lo! in a moment it was pouring upon her in floods of consolation67. So absorbing was this happy consultation that it was only when her eyes suddenly caught the clock on the mantelpiece, and saw that the hands were marking a quarter to two! that Mrs. Methven startled awoke out of her bliss68.
“My poor boy! that I should keep you up to this hour talking, and a long journey before you to-morrow!” she cried.
She hustled69 him up to his room after this, talking and resisting gaily to the very door. He was happy too with that sense of happiness conferred, which is always sweet, and especially to youth in the delightful70, easy sense of power and beneficence. When he thought of it he was a little remorseful71, to think that he had possessed the power so long and never exercised it, for Walter was generous enough to be aware that the house in Park Lane and the carriage were not the occasions of his mother’s blessedness. “Poor mother,” he said to himself softly. He might have made her a great deal more happy if he had chosen before these fine things were dreamt of. But Mrs. Methven remembered that no more. She begged pardon of God on her knees for misjudging her boy, and for once in her life was profoundly, undoubtingly happy, with a perfection and fulness of content which perhaps could only come after long experience of the reverse. After such a moment a human creature, if possible, should die, so as to taste nothing less sweet: for the less sweet, to be sure, must come back if life goes on, and at that moment there was not a cloud or a suggestion of darkness upon the firmament72. She grudged73 falling asleep, though she was very tired, and so losing this beautiful hour; but nature is wilful74 and will seldom abdicate75 the night for joy, whatever she may do for grief.
Next morning she went to the station with him to see him away. Impossible to describe the devotion of all the officials to Lord Erradeen’s comfort on his journey. The station-master kindly76 came to superintend this august departure, and the porters ran about contending for his luggage with an excitement which made, at least, one old gentleman threaten to write to the Times. There was nothing but “my lord” and “his lordship” to be heard all over the station; and so many persons came to bid him good-bye and see the last of him, as they said, that the platform was quite inconveniently77 crowded. Among these, of course, was Captain Underwood, whose fervent—“God bless you, my boy”—drowned all other greetings. He had, however, a disappointed look—as if he had failed in some object. Mrs. Methven, whose faculties78 were all sharpened by her position, and who felt herself able to exercise a toleration which, in former circumstances, would have been impossible to her, permitted him to overtake her as she left the place, and acknowledged his greeting with more cordiality, or, at least, with a less forbidding civility than usual. And then a wonderful sight was seen in Sloebury. This béte noir of the feminine world, this man whom every lady frowned upon, was seen walking along the High Street, side by side, in earnest conversation with one of the women who had been most unfavourable to him. Was she listening to an explanation, a justification79, an account of himself, such as he had not yet given, to satisfy the requirements of the respectability of Sloebury? To tell the truth, Mrs. Methven now cared very little for any such explanation. She did not remember, as she ought to have done, that other women’s sons might be in danger from this suspicious person, though her own was now delivered out of his power. But she was very curious to know what anybody could tell her of Walter’s new possessions, and of the family which it was rather humiliating to know so little about. It was she, indeed, who had begun the conversation after his first remark upon Walter’s departure and the loss which would result to Sloebury.
“You know something about the Erradeens, my son tells me,” she said almost graciously.
“Something! I know about as much as most people. I knew he was the heir, which few, except yourselves, did,” the captain said. He cast a keen glance at her when he said, “except yourselves.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Methven, “that is scarcely correct, for Walter did not know, and I had forgotten. I had, indeed, lost sight of my husband’s family and the succession seemed so far off.”
It was thus that she veiled her ignorance and endeavoured to make it appear that indifference on her part, and a wise desire to keep Walter’s mind unaffected by such a dazzling possibility, had been her guiding influence. She spoke80 with such modest gravity that Captain Underwood, not used to delusion81 under that form, was tempted82 into a sort of belief. He looked at her curiously83, but her veil was down, and her artifice84, if it was an artifice, was of a kind more delicate than any to which he was accustomed.
“Well!” he said, “then it was not such a surprise to you as people thought? Sloebury has talked of nothing else, I need not tell you, for several days; and everybody was of opinion that it burst upon you like a thunderbolt.”
“Upon my son, yes,” Mrs. Methven said with a smile.
He looked at her again, and she had the satisfaction of perceiving that this experienced man of the world was taken in.
“Well, then,” he said, “you will join with me in wishing him well out of it: you know all the stories that are about.”
“I have never been at Mulmorrel—my husband’s chances in his own lifetime were very small, you know.”
“It isn’t Mulmorrel, it is that little ruined place where something uncanny is always said to go on—oh, I don’t know what it is; nobody does but the reigning85 sovereign himself, and some hangers-on, I suppose. I have been there. I’ve seen the mysterious light, you know. Nobody can ever tell what window it shows at, or if it is any window at all. I was once with the late man—the late lord, he who died the other day—when it came out suddenly. We were shooting wildfowl, and his gun fell out of his hands. I never saw a man in such a funk. We were a bit late, and twilight86 had come on before we knew.”
“So then you actually saw something of it yourself?” Mrs. Methven said. She had not the remotest idea what this was, but if she could find out something by any means she was eager enough to take advantage of it.
“No more than that; but I can tell you this: Erradeen was not seen again for twenty-four hours. Whether it was a call to him or what it was I can’t undertake to say. He never would stand any questioning about it. He was a good fellow enough, but he never would put up with anything on that point. So I can only wish Walter well through it, Mrs. Methven. In my opinion he should have had some one with him; for he is young, and, I dare say, he is fanciful.”
“My son, Lord Erradeen,” said Mrs. Methven with dignity, “is man enough, I hope, to meet an emergency. Perhaps you think him younger than he is.” She propounded87 this delicately as, perhaps, a sort of excuse for the presumption88 of the Christian89 name.
Underwood grew very red: he was disappointed and irritable90. “Oh, of course you know best,” he said. “As for my Lord Erradeen (I am sure I beg your pardon for forgetting his dignity), I dare say he is quite old enough to take care of himself—at least, we’ll hope so; but a business of that kind will upset the steadiest brain, you know. Old Erradeen had not a bad spirit of his own, and he funked it. I confess I feel a little anxious for your boy; he’s a nice fellow, but he’s nervous. I was in a dozen minds to go up with him to stand by him; but, perhaps, it is better not, for the best motives91 get misconstrued in this world. I can only wish him well out of it,” Captain Underwood said, taking off his hat, and making her a fine bow as he stalked away.
It is needless to say that this mysterious intimation of danger planted daggers92 in Mrs. Methven’s heart. She stopped aghast: and for the moment the idea of running back to the station, and signalling that the train was to be stopped came into her mind. Ridiculous folly93! Wish him well out of it? What, out of his great fortune, his peerage, his elevation94 in the world? Mrs. Methven smiled indignantly, and thought of the strange manifestations95 under which envy shows itself. But she went home somewhat pale, and could not dismiss it from her mind as she wished to do. Well out of it! And there were moments when, she remembered, she had surprised a very serious look on the countenance96 of Mr. Milnathort. Was Walter going unwarned, in the elation20 and happy confidence of his heart, into some danger unknown and unforeseen? This took her confidence away from her, and made her nervous and anxious. But after all, what folly it must be: something uncanny and a mysterious light! These were stories for Christmas, to bring a laugh or a shiver from idle circles round the fire. To imagine that they could effect anything in real life was a kind of madness; an old-fashioned, exploded superstition97. It was too ridiculous to be worthy98 a thought.
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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disapproving
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embittered
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linen
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confidential
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elation
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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possessed
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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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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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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homage
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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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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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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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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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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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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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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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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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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abdicate
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| v.让位，辞职，放弃 | |
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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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inconveniently
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| ad.不方便地 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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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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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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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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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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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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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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