Two hours later Maurice Clissold was at the gate of Penwyn Manor1. The girl Elspeth admitted him. She had bound up her coarse black hair, which had been rough and wild as a mustang’s mane when he last saw her, and wore a neat stuff gown and a clean white muslin cap, instead of the picturesque2 half gipsy costume she had worn on that former occasion. This at least was a concession3 to Mrs. Penwyn’s tastes, and argued that even Elspeth’s impish nature had been at last brought under Madge’s softening4 influence.
‘Anything amiss with your grandmother?’ asked Maurice, surprised at not seeing that specimen5 of the Meg Merrilies tribe.
‘Yes, sir, she’s very ill.’
‘What is the matter with her?’
‘Bilious fever,’ answered the girl, curtly6; and Maurice passed on. He had no leisure now to concern himself about Rebecca Mason, though he had in no wise forgotten those curious facts which made her presence at Penwyn Manor a mystery.
There were more dead leaves drifting about than on his last visit, and the advance of Autumn had made itself obvious in decay, which all the industry of gardeners could not conceal7. The pine groves8 were strewn with fallen cones9. The chestnuts10 were dropping their prickly green balls, the chrysanthemums11 and China asters had a ragged12 look, the glory of the geranium tribe was over, and even those combinations of colour which modern gardeners contrive13 from flowerless plants seemed to lose all glow and brightness under the dull grey sky. To Maurice’s mind, knowing that he was a messenger of trouble, the Manor House had a gloomy look.
He asked to see the Squire14, and was ushered15 at once into the library, a room which Churchill had built. It was lighted from the top by a large ground-glass dome16, and was lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases of ebonized wood, relieved with narrow lines of gold. In each of the four angles stood a pedestal of dark green serpentine17, surmounted18 by a marble bust—Dante, Shakespeare, Voltaire, Goethe, the four great representatives of European literature. A noble room, filled with the noblest books. Such a room as a man, having made for himself, would love as if it were a sentient19 thing. These books, looking down upon him on every side, were as the souls of the mighty20 dead. Here, shut in from the outer world, he could never be companionless.
Churchill was seated at a table reading. He started up at Maurice’s entrance, and received him courteously21, cordially even, so far as words may express cordiality, but with a sudden troubled look which did not escape Maurice, transient as it was.
‘Glad to see you here again, Clissold; but why didn’t you go straight to the ladies? You’ll find them in the hall. Most of our friends have left us, so you’ll be quite an acquisition this dull weather.’
‘You are very good, but I regret to say that the business which brings me here to-day denies me the right to approach Mrs. Penwyn. I come as a harbinger of trouble.’
Churchill’s face whitened to the lips, and his thin nervous hand fastened with a tight grip upon the edge of the table against which he stood, as if he could scarcely have held himself erect22 without that support.
‘How frightened he looks!’ thought Maurice. ‘A man of his type oughtn’t to be wanting in moral courage.’
‘And pray what is the nature of your evil tidings?’ Churchill asked, recovering self-control. His resolute23 nature speedily asserted itself. A faint tinge24 of colour came back to his sunken cheeks; his eyes lost their look of sudden horror, and assumed a hard, defiant25 expression.
‘This property—the Penwyn estate—is very dear to you, I think?’ interrogated26 Maurice.
‘It is as dear to me as a man’s birthright should naturally be to him; and it has been the happy home of my married life.’ This with a touch of tenderness. In no moment of his existence, however troubled, could he speak of Madge without tenderness.
‘Yet Penwyn can be hardly called your birthright, since you inherit it by an accident,’ said Maurice, nervously27, anxious to take the edge off his unpleasant communication.
‘What is the drift of these remarks, Mr. Clissold? They seem to me entirely28 purposeless, and pardon me if I add, somewhat impertinent.’
‘Mr. Penwyn, I am here to inform you that there is a member of your family in existence who possesses a prior claim to this estate.’
‘You are dreaming, sir, or you are deceived by some impostor. I and my child are the sole representatives of the Penwyn family.’
‘There are secrets in every family, Mr. Penwyn. There has been a secret in your family, religiously kept for more than twenty years, but lately brought to light; in some part by my agency.’
‘What, sir, you have come into this house as a spy, while you have been secretly assailing29 my position as inheritor of my cousin’s estate?’
‘I have not entered your house since I made the discovery I speak of.’
‘Your discovery has come about with marvellous rapidity, then, for it is not long since you were my guest.’
‘My discovery has been arrived at quickly.’
‘Pray acquaint me with the nature of this mare’s-nest.’
‘I have to inform you that your uncle, George Penwyn, before leaving England for the last time, privately30 married the daughter of his father’s tenant31, Michael Trevanard, of Borcel End.’
Churchill Penwyn laughed contemptuously.
‘I congratulate you upon having hit upon about the most improbable story I ever heard of!’ he said. ‘My uncle, George Penwyn, married to old Trevanard’s daughter! and nobody upon earth aware of the fact till you, a stranger, unearthed32 it? A likely story, Mr. Clissold!’
‘Likely or unlikely, it is true, and I have sufficient evidence to prove it, or I should not have broached33 the subject to you. I have in my possession a certified34 copy of the entry in the marriage register at St. John’s Church, Didmouth, Devonshire; and five letters in your uncle’s hand, acknowledging Muriel Trevanard as his wife; also a sealed letter from the same, committing her to the care of the late Mr. Tomlin, solicitor35, of Seacomb, in the event of her needing that gentleman’s protection during her husband’s absence. Nor do I rely upon documentary evidence alone. The vicar of Didmouth, who married your uncle to Miss Trevanard, is still alive; and the principal witness of the marriage, Muriel’s friend and confidante, is ready to support the claim of Muriel’s daughter should you force her to appeal to the law, instead of seeing, as I hope you will see, the advisability of an equitable36 compromise. Miss Penwyn has no desire to exact her legal rights. She has empowered me to suggest a fair and honourable37 alternative.’
Maurice proceeded to give a brief outline of Justina’s case, and to suggest his own idea of an equitable settlement.
Churchill sat with folded arms, and gloomy face bent38 downward listening. This story of Maurice Clissold’s seemed to him, so far, hardly worth serious thought. It was so wildly improbable, so like the dream of a fevered brain, that any claimant should come forward to dispute his hold of wealth and station. Yet he told himself that Clissold was no fool, and would hardly talk of documentary evidence which he was unprepared to produce. On the other hand, this Clissold might be a villain39, and the whole business a conspiracy40.
‘Let me see your copy of the register, sir,’ Churchill said, authoritatively41.
Maurice took a paper from his breast-pocket, and laid it on Mr. Penwyn’s desk. Yes. It was formal enough.
‘George Penwyn, bachelor, gentleman, of Penwyn Manor, to Muriel Trevanard, spinster, daughter of Michael Trevanard, farmer, of Borcel End. The witnesses, Maria Barlow, spinster, school-mistress, of Seacomb; and James Pope, clerk, Didmouth.’ If this were a genuine copy of an existing entry there would be no doubt as to the fact of George Penwyn’s marriage.
Both gentlemen were too much engrossed42 at this moment—Churchill pondering the significance of the document in his hand, Maurice watching his countenance43 as he meditated—to be aware of the opening of a door near the fireplace, a door which fitted into the bookcase, and was masked with dummy44 books. This door was gently opened, a woman’s face looked in for an instant, and was quickly withdrawn45. But the door, although apparently47 closed, was not shut again.
‘And you pretend that there was issue to this marriage?’ said Churchill.
‘The lady whose claim I am here to assert is the daughter of Mr. George Penwyn, by that marriage.’
‘And pray where has this young lady been hiding herself all her life, and how is it that she has suffered her rights to be in abeyance48 all this time?’
‘She was brought up in ignorance of her parentage.’
‘Oh! I understand,’ cried Churchill, scornfully. ‘Some Miss Jones, or Smith, who has taken it into her wise young head—inspired doubtless by some astute49 friend—that she may as well prove herself a Penwyn, if she can. And you come to me with this liberal offer of a compromise to take half my estate in the most off-hand way. Upon my word, Mr. Clissold, you and this scheme of yours are a little too absurd. I can’t even allow myself to be angry with you. That would be taking the thing too seriously.’
‘Remember, Mr. Penwyn, if I leave this house without arriving at some kind of understanding with you I shall place the matter in the hands of my solicitors51 without delay, and the law must take its course. However protracted52 or costly53 the process by which Miss Penwyn may obtain her rights, I have no doubt as to the ultimate issue. She would have been contented54 with half your fortune. The law, if it give her anything will give her all.’
‘So be it. I will fight her to the bitter end. First and foremost, this marriage, supposing this document to be genuine,’ bringing down his clenched55 fist upon the paper, and with an evil upward look at Maurice, ‘is no marriage!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A marriage with a person of unsound mind is no marriage. It is void in law. There is Blackstone to refer to if you doubt me,’ pointing to a set of volumes in dark brown Russia. ‘Now, Muriel, the daughter of Michael Trevanard, has been deranged56 for the last twenty years. It is a notorious fact to everybody in the neighbourhood.’
‘When that marriage took place, and for a year after the marriage, Muriel was as sane57 as you or I. Her brain was turned by the shock she experienced upon being informed suddenly of her husband’s awful death. I can bring forward sufficient witnesses to prove the state of her mind up to that time. And again you are to remember that the same authority you have just quoted tells you that no marriage is voidable after the death of either of the contracting parties.’
‘And you are prepared to prove that this young woman—this waif and stray, brought up without the knowledge of her name or parentage—is the legitimate58 daughter of my uncle, George Penwyn, and Muriel, his wife. Go your ways, Mr. Clissold, and make the best use of your evidence, documentary or otherwise. I will stand by my rights against you, and would stand by them against a stronger cause than yours.’
He touched a spring bell, which stood on his desk,—a summons answered with extreme promptitude.
‘The door,’ said the Squire, resuming his book, without so much as a parting glance at his visitor.
Maurice was conducted to the porch, and left the house without having seen Mrs. Penwyn or her sister. He was bitterly disappointed by the result of his morning’s work, which had proved compromise impossible, and left no course open to him save the letter of the law.
Scarcely had the library door closed on Maurice Clissold, when the other door, which had been left ajar during the latter part of the interview, was quietly opened, and Madge Penwyn stole to her husband’s side, knelt down by him, and wound her arms round his neck. He had been sitting with his face buried in his hands, trying to think out his position, when he found her arms about him, his head drawn46 gently against her shoulder.
‘Dearest! I have heard all,’ she said, quietly.
‘You heard! Madge?’ he exclaimed, with a startled look. ‘Well, my love, it matters very little. It is all the merest folly59. There is no possibility of what this man threatens.’
‘Churchill—husband—my beloved,’ she began with deepest feeling. ‘You do not mean to oppose this claim?’
‘To the death.’
‘What? Surely you will accept the truth—if it is the truth—and surrender fortune and estate. Oh! welcome change of fortune, love, that brings some measure of atonement. I have never told you how hateful, how horrible all our wealth and luxury has been to me since I have known——’
‘Hush, Madge! You know so much that you should know enough to be wise. Do you think I am going to surrender these things? Do you think I am the kind of man to sit down tamely and let a rogue61 hatch a conspiracy to rob me of wealth and status? They have cost me too dear.’
‘They have cost you so dear that you can never have joy or peace with them, Churchill. God shows us this way of getting rid of our burden. If you have any hope of mercy, any desire to be forgiven, resign this fortune. It is the price of iniquity62. You can know no true repentance63 while you retain it. If I had seen any way of your surrendering this estate before now without exciting suspicion of the dreadful truth, I should have urged the sacrifice upon you. I urge it now, with all the strength of my love.’
‘It is useless, Madge. I could not go back to poverty, laborious64 days and nights, the struggle for daily bread. I could not lead that kind of life again.’
‘Not with me, Churchill? We could go away, to the other end of the world. To Australia, where life is simpler and easier than in England. We could know peace again; for you might dare to hope, if your sacrifice were freely made, that God had accepted it as an atonement.’
‘Can I atone60 to the dead? Will James Penwyn, in his untimely grave, be any better off because some impostor riots in the wealth that ought to have been his? A left-handed atonement that!’
‘But if you find that this girl is no impostor?’
‘The lawyers will have to decide that. If she can establish her right, you and I, and our boy, will have to say good-bye to Penwyn.’
‘Happy loss if it lighten the burden of your sin. Do you think that I shall be sorry to leave this place, Churchill? I have never known peace here since——’
She threw herself upon his breast with a shuddering65 sigh.
‘Madge, my dearest, my angel of love and compassion66, be content to abide67 the issue of events. Leave all to me.’
‘No, Churchill,’ she answered, raising her head, and looking at him with grave and earnest eyes, ‘I am not content. You know that since that bitter day I have left you in peace. I have not wearied you with my tears. I have suffered in secret, and have made it the chief duty of my life to lighten your burden, so far as in me lay. But I can be content no longer. The wealth that has weighed upon my soul can now be given up, with honour. The world can find no subject for slander68 in your quiet surrender of an estate for which a new claimant has arisen. And we can begin life afresh together, love, your soul purified by sacrifice, your conscience lightened, your peace made with God. We can begin life anew in some distant land, humbly69, toilfully; so far away from all past cares, that your wrong-doing may seem no more than the memory of an evil dream, and all the future open for manifold good deeds that shall weigh against that one dreadful sin.’
She seemed like an angel pleading with him for the salvation70 of his soul, yet he resisted her.
‘It is useless, Madge. You do not know what you are talking about. I could not live a life of obscurity. It would be moral suicide.’
‘Will you choose between me and fortune, Churchill?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That unless you give up this estate you must give up me. I will live here no longer, share your ill-gotten wealth no longer!’
‘Think of your boy.’
‘I do think of him. God forbid that my son should ever inherit Penwyn. There is the curse of blood upon every rood of land. Let it pass into other hands—guiltless hands!’
‘Give me time to think, Madge; you bewilder me by this sudden attack.’
‘Think as long as you like, dearest; only decide rightly at last.’ And with one long kiss upon his pale forehead, she left him.
Once alone, he set himself to think out his position—to face this new aspect of things.
Could this alleged71 heiress—impostor or not—rob him of his estate? Was it possible for George Penwyn’s marriage, and the identity of George Penwyn’s child, to be proved in a court of law; proved so indisputably as to dislodge him from his position as possessor of the estate?
‘No,’ he told himself, ‘the strength will be all on my side. The law does not encourage claimants of this stamp. If it did, no man’s estate would be secure, no real property would be worth ten years purchase.’
He had taken a high tone with Maurice Clissold; had affected72 to regard the whole matter as an absurdity73, but now, face to face with the facts that had been put before him, he felt that the question was serious, and that he could not be too prompt in action.
He looked at a railway time-table, and found that he would have just time enough to catch the next up train from Seacomb, a slowish train, not reaching London till late in the evening.
‘I will go up to town and see Pergament,’ he said to himself, as he touched the bell.
‘Tell them to bring round the dog-cart at once. I shall want Hunter.’
‘Any particular horse, sir?’
‘Yes, Wallace.’
Wallace was the fastest horse in the stable—always excepting the Squire’s favourite, Tarpan, which had never been degraded by harness.
While the dog-cart was being got ready, Churchill wrote to his wife,
‘My Dearest,
‘I am going to London to inquire into this business. Be calm, be brave, as befits my noble wife.
‘Your own till death,
‘C. P.’
This brief note addressed and sealed, the Squire went upstairs to his dressing-room, crammed74 a few things into his travelling bag, and went down to the porch with the bag in his hand, just as the dog-cart drove up. Wallace, a big, deep-chested bay, in admirable condition, fresh and eager for the start; the groom75 breathless, having dressed himself against time.
Churchill took the reins76, and the light vehicle was soon spinning along that well-made road with which the Squire of Penwyn had improved his property. Less than an hour, and Mr. Penwyn was seated in a railway carriage on his way to London.
He was at Mr. Pergament’s office early next morning; indeed, more than half an hour before the arrival of that gentleman, who came in at ten o’clock, fresh and sleek77 of aspect, with a late tea-rosebud in the buttonhole of his glossy78 blue coat.
Great was the solicitor’s astonishment79 at beholding80 Churchill.
‘My dear Mr. Penwyn, this is a surprise. One does not expect to see a man of your standing50 in town in the dead season. Indeed, even I, a humble81 working bee in the great hive, have been thinking of getting as far as Aix-les-Bains, or Spa. But you are not looking well. You look careworn—fagged.’
‘I have reason to look so,’ answered Churchill; and then explained the motive82 of his journey.
He told Mr. Pergament all that Clissold had told him, without reserve, with a wonderful precision and clearness. The lawyer listened intently, and with gravest concern.
But before he said a word in reply, Mr. Pergament unlocked a tin case inscribed83 ‘Penwyn,’ took out a document, and read it from the first line to the last.
‘What is that?’ asked Churchill.
‘A copy of your grandfather’s will. I want to be quite sure how you stand as regards this claimant.’
‘Well?’
‘I am sorry to say that the will is dead against you. If this person can be proved to be the daughter of George Penwyn, she would take the estate, under your grandfather’s will. There is no doubt of that.’
‘But how is she to prove her identity with the child said to be born at Borcel End, and whose birth was made such a secret?’
‘Difficult, perhaps; but if she has been in the charge of the same people all her life, and those people are credible84 witnesses——’
‘Credible witnesses!’ cried Churchill, contemptuously. ‘The man who has brought up this girl belongs to the dregs of society, and if, by a little hard swearing he can foist85 this stray adoption86 of his upon society as the rightful owner of the Penwyn estate, do you suppose he will shrink from a little more or less perjury87? Credible witnesses! No man’s property in the land is secure if claimants such as this can arise “to push us from our stools.”’
‘This Mr. Clissold is a gentleman, and a man of good family, is he not?’
‘He belongs to decent people, I believe, but that is no reason why he should not be an adventurer. There are plenty of well-born adventurers in the world.’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ replied Mr. Pergament, blandly88. In his private capacity, as a Christian89 and a gentleman, he was benevolently90 sympathetic; but the idea of a contested estate was not altogether unpleasing to his professional mind.
‘Who are Mr. Clissold’s lawyers?’
‘Messrs. Willgross and Harding.’
‘A highly respectable firm—old established—in every way reputable. I do not think they would take up a speculative91 case.’
‘I do not feel sure that they will take up this case, though Mr. Clissold appeared to think so,’ answered Churchill. ‘However, your business is to be prepared. Remember, I shall fight this to the bitter end. Let them prove the marriage if they can. It will be for our side to deny that there was ever any issue of that marriage.’
‘Humph,’ mused92 the lawyer. ‘There, assuredly, lies the weakness of their case. Child’s birth not registered, child brought up by strolling player. Yes, we will fight, Mr. Penwyn. Pray keep your mind easy. I will get counsel’s opinion without delay if you desire it, and I suppose in a case so nearly affecting your interests you would prefer an unprejudiced opinion to being your own adviser93. The best men shall be secured for our side.’
‘Which do you call the best men?’
Mr. Pergament named three of the most illustrious lights of the equity94 bar.
‘Very good men in their way, no doubt,’ said Churchill, ‘but I would rather have Shinebarr, Shandrish, and—say, McStinger.’
Mr. Pergament looked horrified95.
‘My dear sir, clever men, but unscrupulous, notoriously unscrupulous.’
‘My dear Pergament, when a gang of swindlers hatch a conspiracy to deprive me of house and home, I don’t want my rights defended by scrupulous96 men.’
‘But, really, Shandrish, a man I never gave a brief to in my life,’ remonstrated97 the solicitor.
‘What does that signify? It is my battle we have to fight, and you must let me choose my weapons.’
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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picturesque
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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softening
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specimen
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curtly
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conceal
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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ragged
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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squire
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dome
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serpentine
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surmounted
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sentient
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mighty
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courteously
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erect
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resolute
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tinge
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defiant
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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nervously
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entirely
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assailing
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| v.攻击( assail的现在分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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privately
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tenant
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unearthed
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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certified
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solicitor
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equitable
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honourable
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bent
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villain
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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41
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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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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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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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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51
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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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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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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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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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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foist
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| vt.把…强塞给，骗卖给 | |
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86
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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95
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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96
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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