He had not been able to rest after this strange inclination13 came upon him, and it seemed to him in the heat of it that he had always had the same desire, that all the time this was what he had wanted, to get back. He hurried along over land and water, sometimes in the stream of summer tourists coming home, sometimes crossing the other tide of the sick and feeble going away—and when he touched English soil again, that he should have hurried to Edinburgh of all places in the world, was beyond Walter’s power of explanation even to himself. He had felt a barrier between himself and the home of his youth. His mother was separated altogether from his new existence. She could not comprehend it, he thought, and his heart turned from the explanations that would be necessary. He could not go to her; and to whom could he go? The suggestion that came into his mind was as fantastical as the whole strange story of his recent life. He was nothing indeed but a bundle of caprices, moved and played upon as if by the winds. And it had seemed a sort of relief to his uncertain mind and consuming thoughts when it occurred to him to come to Moray Place to see the invalid14 who had known so much about him, while he knew nothing of her. It relieved him, as any resolution relieves an uncertain mind. It was something between him and that future which always failed to his expectations. When he had made up his mind he reflected no more, but went on, and even had an uneasy nap in the railway-carriage as he came north; nor ever asked himself why he was coming till he went up the steps at Mr. Milnathort’s door, and then it was too late for any such question. He mounted the long stone staircase with all the throbbings of fatigue15 in his brain, the sweep and movement of a long journey. Only once before had he been in this house, yet it seemed familiar to him as if it had been his home, and the unchanged aspect of everything affected16 him as it affects men who have been away for half a life-time—so many things happening to him, and nothing here. This gave him a certain giddiness as he followed the same servant up the same stairs. He was not the same. He had been unconscious of all the peculiarities17 of his fate when he crossed that threshold before. He had known the good, but not the evil; and now the very carpets, the sound of the door rumbling18 into the echoes of the tall, silent house, were the same—but he so far from being the same! Then in a moment out of the dim night, the half-lighted stair, he came upon the soft blaze of light in which Miss Milnathort delighted. She lay on her sofa as if she had never stirred, her old-young face in all its soft brightness, her small delicate hands in continual motion. She gave a little cry at the sight of Walter, and held out those hands to him.
“You have come!” she cried. “I was looking for you;” raising herself on her couch as much as was possible to her, as if she would have thrown herself into his arms. When she felt the pressure of his hands, tears sprang to her eyes. “I knew,” she cried, “that you would come. I have been looking for you, and praying for you, Lord Erradeen.”
“Perhaps,” said Walter, moved too, he could scarcely tell why, “that is how I have come.”
“Oh, but I am glad, glad to see you,” the poor lady said. “You never came back last year; but I will not reproach you—I am too glad to have you here. And where have you been, and what have you been doing? To see you is like a child coming home.”
“I have been in many different places, and uneasy in all,” said Walter; “and as for what I have been doing, it has not been much good: wandering about the face of the earth, seeking I don’t know what; not knowing, I think, even what I want.”
She held out her hand to him again: her eyes were full of pity and tenderness.
“Oh how I wanted you to come back that I might have spoken freely to you. I will tell you what you want, Lord Erradeen.”
“Stop a little,” he said, “I don’t wish to plunge20 into that. Let us wait a little. I think I am pleased to come back, though I hate it. I am pleased always more or less to do what I did not do yesterday.”
“That is because your mind is out of order, which is very natural,” she said. “How should it be in order with so much to think of? You will have been travelling night and day?”
“Rather quickly; but that matters nothing; it is easy enough travelling. I am not so effeminate as to mind being tired; though as a matter of fact I am not tired,” he said. “So far as that goes, I could go on night and day.”
She looked at him with that mingling21 of pleasure and pain with which a mother listens to the confidences of her child.
“Have you been home to see your mother?” she asked.
Walter shook his head.
“I have had no thought but how to get to Scotland the quickest way. I have felt as if something were dragging me. What is it? All this year I have been struggling with something. I have sometimes thought if I had come back here you could have helped me.”
“I would—I would! if I could,” she cried.
“It is not a thing that can be endured,” said Walter; “it must come to an end. I don’t know how or by what means; but one thing is certain, I will not go on bearing it. I will rather make an end of myself.”
She put a hand quickly upon his arm.
“Oh do not say that; there is much, much that must be done before you can despair: and that is the thought of despair. Some have done it, but you must not. No—not you—not you.”
“What must I do then?”
She caressed22 his arm with her thin, little, half-transparent hand, and looked at him wistfully with her small face, half child, half old woman, suffused24 and tremulous.
“Oh!” she said, “my bonnie lad! you must be good—you must be good first of all.”
Walter laughed; he drew himself back a little out of her reach.
“I am not good,” he said. “I have never been good. Often enough I have been disgusted with myself, and miserable25 by moments. But if that is the first thing, I do not know how to attain6 to it, for I am not good.”
She looked at him without any change in her face while he made this confession26. It did not seem to make much impression upon her.
“I can tell you,” she said, “how to overcome the devil and all his ways; but it costs trouble, Lord Erradeen. Without that you will always be as you are, full of troubles and struggles: but you should thank your God that you cannot be content with ill-doing like those that are the children of perdition. To be content with it—that is the worst of all.”
“Well, then I am in a hopeful way, it appears,” said Walter with a sort of laugh, “for I am certainly far enough from being content.” After a minute’s pause he added—“I said we should not plunge into this subject at once; tell me about yourself. Are you well? Are you better?”
“I am well enough,” she said, “but never will I be better. I have known that for many years—almost from the moment when, to get away from him, I fell off yon old walls, and became what you see.”
“To get away from—whom?” He glanced round him as she spoke19 with a look which was half alarmed and half defiant27. “I know,” he said, in a low voice, “what delusions29 are about.”
“From Him. What he is, or who he is, I know no more than you. I have thought like you that it was my own delusion28. I have wondered from year to year if maybe I had deceived myself. But the upshot of all is what I tell you. I am lying here these thirty years and more, because, being very young, I had no command of myself, but was frightened and flew from Him.”
“It is against all possibility, all good sense, against everything one believes. I will not believe it,” cried Walter; “you were young as you say, and frightened. And I was—a fool—unprepared, not knowing what to think.”
Miss Milnathort shook her head. She made no further reply; and there was a little interval30 of silence which Walter made no attempt to break. What could he say? It was impossible: and yet he had no real scepticism to oppose to this strange story. In words, in mind, he could not allow that either he or she were more than deceived; but in himself he had no doubt on the subject. His intelligence was easily convinced, indeed, that to attribute the events that happened to him to supernatural influence was in contradiction to everything he had ever been taught, and that it was superstition31 alone which could invest the mysterious inhabitant of Kinloch Houran with power to act upon his mind across great seas and continents, or to set any occult forces to work for that purpose. Superstition beyond all excuse; and yet he was as thoroughly32 convinced of it in the depths of his being as he was defiant on the surface. There was perfect silence in the room where these two sat together with a sense of fellowship and sympathy. As for Lord Erradeen, he had no inclination to say anything more. It was impossible, incredible, contrary to everything he believed: and yet it was true: and he did not feel the contradiction to be anything extraordinary, anything to be protested against, in this curious calm of exhaustion33 in which he was. While he sat thus quite silent Miss Milnathort began to speak.
“Thirty years ago,” she said, “there was a young Lord Erradeen that was something like yourself. He was a distant cousin once, that never thought to come to the title. He was betrothed34 when he was poor to a young girl of his own condition in life. When he became Lord Erradeen he was bidden to give her up and he refused. Oh, if he had lived he would have broken the spell! He would not give up his love. I will not say that he was not terribly beaten down and broken with what he heard and saw, and what he had to bear; but he never said a word to me of what was the chief cause. When the summons came he got us all to go to see the old castle, and perhaps, with a little bravado35, to prove that he would never, never yield. How it was that I was left alone I can never remember, for my head was battered36 and stupid, and it was long, long, before I got the command of my senses again. It was most likely when Walter (he was Walter too; it is the great Methven name) was attending to the others, my brother and my mother, who was living then. I was a romantic bit girlie, and fond of beautiful views and all such things. When I was standing37 upon the old wall, there suddenly came forward to speak to me a grand gentleman. I thought I had never seen such a one before. You have seen him and you know; often and often have I thought I have seen him since. And it may be that I have,” she said, pausing suddenly. It was perhaps the interruption in the soft flowing of her voice that startled Walter. He made a sudden movement in his chair, and looked round him as if he too felt another spectator standing by.
“I am not frightened now,” said the invalid with her calm little voice, “lying here so long putting things together I am frightened no more. Sometimes I am sorry for him, and think that it is not all ill that is in that burdened spirit. I have taken it upon me even,” she said, folding her little, worn hands, “to say a word about him now and then when I say my prayers. I never thought at that time that he was anything more than the grandest gentleman I ever saw. He began to speak to me about my engagement, and if I thought of the harm I was doing Walter, and that it was his duty to think of the family above all. It was like death to hear it, but I had a great deal of spirit in those days, and I argued with him. I said it was better for the family that he should marry me, than marry nobody—and that I had no right to take my troth from him. Then he began to argue too. He said that to sacrifice was always best, that I could not love him, if I would not give up everything for him. It might have been Scripture38. What could I answer to that? I was just dazed by it, and stood and looked in his face: he looked like a prophet of God, and he said I should give up my love, if I knew what true love was. I have little doubt I would have done it, after that; but just then my Walter’s voice sounded up from where he was calling out to me. ‘Where are you, where are you? nothing can be done without you,’ he cried. Oh, how well I remember the sound of his voice filling all the air! I turned round and I said, ‘No, no, how can I break his heart’:—when there came an awful change upon the face you know. His eyes flared39 like a great light, he made a step forward as if he would have seized me with his hands. And then terror took hold upon me, a kind of horrible panic. They say I must have started back. I mind nothing more for months and months,” the soft little voice said.
The young man listened to this strange tragedy with an absorbed and wondering interest; and the sufferer lay smiling at him in a kind of half childlike, half angelic calm. One would have said she had grown no older since that day; and yet had lived for long ages with her little crushed frame and heart. He was overawed by the simplicity41 of the tale. He said after a pause, “And Walter—? how did it end?”
For a moment she did not say anything, but lay smiling, not looking at him. At last she answered softly with a great gravity coming over her face—“Lord Erradeen, after some years and many struggles, married the heiress of the Glen Oriel family, and brought a great deal of property to the house. He was to me like an angel from heaven. And his heart was broken. But how could I help him, lying crushed and broken here? What he did was well. It was not the best he could have done; because you see he could not give his heart’s love again, and that is essential: but he did no harm. There was just an ending of it for one generation when I fell over yon wall. And his son died young, without ever coming to the age to bear the brunt, and the late lord, poor man, was just confused from the commencement, and never came to any good.”
“What is the best he could have done?”
She turned to him with a little eagerness. “I have no instruction,” she said, “I have only the sense that comes with much thinking and putting things together, if it is sense. I have lain here and thought it over for years and years, both in the night when everybody was sleeping, and in the day when they were all thinking of their own concerns. I think one man alone will never overcome that man we know. He is too much for you. If I have gleaned42 a little in my weakness, think what he must have found out in all these years. But I think if there were two, that were but one—two that had their hearts set upon what was good only, and would not listen to the evil part—I think before them he would lose his strength: he could do no more. But oh, how hard to be like that and to find the other? I am afraid you are far, far from it, Lord Erradeen.”
“Call me Walter—like my predecessor,” he said.
“You are not like him. He was never soiled with the world. His mind was turned to everything that was good. And me, though I was but a small thing, I had it in me to stand by him. Two souls that are one! I am thinking—and I have had a long, long time to think in—that this is what is wanted to free the race from that bondage43.”
“Do you mean—that there has never been such a pair to do what you say?”
“Perhaps it is that there never has been a cripple creature like me,” she said with a smile, “to find it out. And at the best it is just a guess of mine. I have thought of everything else, but I can find nothing that will do. If you will think, however,” said Miss Milnathort, “you will find it no such a light thing. Two of one mind—and that one mind set intent upon good, not evil. They will have to know. They will have to understand. The woman might miss it for want of knowing. She would have to be instructed in the whole mystery, and set her mind to it as well as the man. Do you think that is too easy? No, oh, no, it is not so very easy, Lord Erradeen.”
“It would be impossible to me,” said Walter with keen emotion, “my mind is not intent upon good. What I am intent on is—I don’t know that there is anything I am intent on: except to pass the time and have my own way.”
Miss Milnathort looked at him with the seriousness which changed the character of her face. “He that says that,” she said, “is near mending it, Lord Erradeen.”
“Do you think so?” he cried with a harsh little laugh, “then I have something to teach you still, ignorant as I am. To know you are wrong, alas44! is not the same as being on the way to mend it. I have known that of myself for years, but I have never changed. If I have to decide a hundred times I will do just the same, take what I like best.”
She looked at him wonderingly, folding her hands.
“I think you must be doing yourself injustice,” she said.
“It is you that do human nature more than justice,” said Walter; “you judge by what you know, by yourself; you prefer what is good; but I—don’t do so. It is true: to know what is good does not make one like it, as you think. It is not a mistake of judgment45, it is a mistake of the heart.”
“Oh, my dear,” said the poor lady, “you must be wronging yourself; your heart is tender and good, your eyes filled when I was telling you my story. I have seen that when there was any talk of fine and generous things your eyes have filled and your countenance46 changed. You have forgotten by times, and turned away from the right way; but you will not tell me that, looking it in the face, you prefer what is wrong. Oh no, Lord Erradeen, no, no.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “I never look anything in the face; that may be the reason or part of the reason; but the fact is that I do not prefer good because it is good. Oh no, I cannot deceive you. To be fully23 convinced that one is wrong is very little argument against one’s habits, and the life that one likes. It does not seem worth while to test small matters by such a big standard, and, indeed one does not test them at all, but does—what happens to come in one’s way at the moment.”
A shade of trouble came over the soft little face. She looked up wondering and disturbed at the young man who sat smiling upon her, with a smile that was half scorn, half sympathy. The scorn, perhaps, was for himself; he made no pretence47 to himself of meaning better, or wishing to do better than his performance. And Miss Milnathort’s distress48 was great.
“I thought,” she said, faltering49, “that the truth had but to be seen, how good it is, and every heart would own it. Oh, my young lord, you have no call to be like one of the careless that never think at all. You are forced to think: and when you see that your weirdless way leads to nothing but subjection and bondage, and that the good is your salvation50, as well for this world as the world to come——”
“Does not every man know that?” cried Walter. “Is it not instinctive51 in us to know that if we behave badly, the consequences will be bad one way or another? There is scarcely a fool in the world that does not know that—but what difference does it make? You must find some stronger argument. That is your innocence,” he said, smiling at her.
At that moment the young man, with his experiences which were of a nature so different from hers, felt himself far more mature and learned in human nature than she; and she, who knew at once so much and so little, was abashed52 by this strange lesson. She looked at him with a deprecating anxious look, not knowing what to say.
“If the victory is to be by means of two whose heart is set on good, it will never be,” said Walter with a sigh, “in my time. I will struggle and yield, and yield and struggle again, like those that have gone before me, and then, like them, pass away, and leave it to somebody else who will be hunted out from the corners of the earth as I was. And so, for all I can tell, it will go on for ever.”
Here he made a pause, and another tide of feeling stole over him. “If I were a better man,” he said with a changed look, “I think I know where—the other—might be found.”
Miss Milnathort’s soft, aged40, childish countenance cleared, the wistful look vanished from her eyes, her smile came back. She raised herself up among her pillows as if she would have sat upright.
“Oh, my young lord! and does she love you like that?” she cried.
Walter felt the blood rush to his face; he put up his hands as if to stop the injurious thought. “Love me!” he said.
To do him justice, the idea was altogether new to him. He had thought of Oona often, and wondered what was the meaning of that softness in her eyes as she looked after him; but his thoughts had never ventured so far as this. He grew red, and then he grew pale.
“It is a profanity,” he said. “How could she think of me at all? I was a stranger, and she was sorry for me. She gave me her hand, and strength came out of it. But if such a woman as that—stood by a true man—Pah! I am not a true man; I am a wretched duffer, and good for nothing. And Oona thinks as much of me, as little of me as—as little as—she thinks of any pitiful, unworthy thing.”
He got up from his chair as he spoke, and began to pace about the room in an agitation53 which made his blood swell54 in his veins55. He was already in so excitable a state that this new touch seemed to spread a sort of conflagration56 everywhere; his imagination, his heart, all the wishes and hopes—that “indistinguishable throng” that lie dormant57 so often, waiting a chance touch to bring them to life—all blazed into consciousness in a moment. He who had flirted58 to desperation with Julia Herbert, who had been on the point of asking Katie Williamson to marry him, was it possible all the time that Oona, and she only, had been the one woman in the world for him? He remembered how she had come before his thoughts at those moments when he had almost abandoned himself to the current which was carrying his heedless steps away. When he had thought of her standing upon the bank on her isle59, looking after him with indefinable mystery and wistful softness in her eyes, all the other objects of his various pursuits had filled him with disgust. He said to himself, in the excitement of the moment, that it was this which had again and again stopped him and made his pleasures, his follies60, revolting to him. This was the origin of his restlessness, his sometimes savage61 temper, his fierce impatience62 with himself and everybody around him. In fact, this was far from the reality of the case; but in a flood of new sensation that poured over him, it bore a flattering resemblance to truth, which dignified63 the caprice of his existence, and made him feel himself better than he had thought. If love had, indeed, done all this for him, struggling against every vulgar influence, must it not, then, be capable of much more—indeed, of all?
Meanwhile Miss Milnathort lay back upon her pillows, excited, yet pleased and soothed64, and believing too that here was all she had wished for, the true love and the helping65 woman who might yet save Erradeen.
“Oona!” she said to herself, “it’s a well-omened name.”
This strange scene of sentiment, rising into passion, was changed by the sudden entry of Mr. Milnathort, whose brow was by no means so cloudless or his heart so soft as his sister’s. He came in, severe in the consciousness of business neglected, and all the affairs of life arrested by the boyish folly, idleness, and perhaps vice66 of this young man, with endless arrears67 of censure68 to bestow69 upon him, and of demands to place before him.
“I am glad to see you, my Lord Erradeen,” he said briefly70. “I have bidden them put forward the dinner, that we may have a long evening; and your things are in your room, and your man waiting. Alison, you forget when you keep Lord Erradeen talking, that he has come off a journey and must be tired.”
Walter had not intended to spend the night in Moray Place, and indeed had given orders to his servant to take rooms in one of the hotels, and convey his luggage thither71; but he forgot all this now, and took his way instinctively72 up another flight of those tall stairs to the room which he had occupied before. It brought him to himself, however, with the most curious shock of surprise and consternation73, when he recognised not the servant whom he had brought with him, but old Symington, as precise and serious as ever, and looking as if there had been no break in his punctilious74 service. He was arranging his master’s clothes just as he had done on the winter evening when Lord Erradeen had first been taken possession of by this zealous75 retainer of the family. Walter was so startled, bewildered, and almost overawed by this sudden apparition76, that he said with a gasp—
“You here, Symington!” and made no further objection to his presence.
“It is just me, my lord,” Symington said. “I was waiting at the station, though your lordship might not observe me. I just went with your lad to the hotel, and put him in good hands.”
“And may I ask why you did that without consulting me; and what you are doing here?” Walter cried, with a gleam of rising spirit.
Symington looked at him with a sort of respectful contempt.
“And does your lordship think,” he said, “that it would be befitting to take a young lad, ignorant of the family, up yonder?” With a slight pause of indignant yet gentle reproach, after these words, he added—“Will your lordship wear a white tie or a black?” with all the gravity that became the question.
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augurs
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| n.（古罗马的）占兆官( augur的名词复数 )；占卜师，预言者v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的第三人称单数 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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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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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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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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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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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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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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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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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse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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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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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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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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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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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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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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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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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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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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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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