Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised well, and the outline of the castle mound1 grew clearer each moment that Margaret watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted the rubble2 gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself together and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the mists between its banks and its overhanging alders3, and only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper reaches.
Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant4, but the prospect6 from it would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have to stop in it, and of the conversion7 of Henry himself to a rural life. Society, too, promised favourably8. The rector of the parish had dined with them last night, and she found that he was a friend of her father's, and so knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder9 sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he would whip up the county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the county families when they did call, she was content.
Charles and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-dresses. She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical10, while the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the garden. Then came a difficulty about a spring-board, and soon three people were running backwards11 and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat them, even on their own ground?
She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day--no worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning, dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation12. Charles looked round, and though completely attired13 in indigo14 blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more.
"Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became unintelligible15.
"What's that?"
It sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack back--"
"I can't hear."
"--On the bed--tissue-paper--"
Gathering16 that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie's room. All was hilarity17 here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked.
Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment.
Evie gasped18: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!" Then Margaret went down to breakfast.
Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke19 little, and was, in Margaret's eyes, the only member of their party who dodged20 emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment's awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the side-board!" It wasn't genuine tact21, but it was tact, of a sort--the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close.
After breakfast she claimed a few words with him. It was always best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he was going on to shoot grouse22 tomorrow, and she was returning to Helen in town.
"Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do you want?"
"Nothing."
"I was afraid something had gone wrong."
"No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk."
Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning23 to help him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would set his soul in order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude24 the tenderness that kills the Monk25 and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities, as today, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight27, she could pardon him, she could respond.
"If there is this nasty curve," she suggested, "couldn't we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very well go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages."
"One can't have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells wouldn't like it; they were awfully28 particular at Charles's wedding. My--she--one of our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was just round the corner, and I shouldn't have minded; but the Colonel made a great point of it."
"You men shouldn't be so chivalrous," said Margaret thoughtfully.
"Why not?"
She knew why not, but said that she did not know.
He then announced that, unless she had anything special to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and they went off together in search of Burton. Though clumsy and a little inconvenient29, Oniton was a genuine country house. They clattered30 down flagged passages, looking into room after room, and scaring unknown maids from the performance of obscure duties. The wedding-breakfast must be in readiness when they came back from church, and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so many agitated31 and serious people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that they were paid to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial32 glory. A little boy blocked their way with pig-tails. His mind could not grasp their greatness, and he said: "By your leave; let me pass, please." Henry asked him where Burton was. But the servants were so new that they did not know one another's names. In the still-room sat the band, who had stipulated33 for champagne34 as part of their fee, and who were already drinking beer. Scents35 of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled37 with cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it happened at Wickham Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down the cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. "We shall never get through it!" she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn38 into brotherhood39, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had again jumped out of the car while it was moving.
Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an establishment. She must remain herself, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was determined40 to create new sanctities among these hills.
After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it. Everything went like one o'clock. Mr. Cahill materialized out of space, and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie's train, or cried. In a few minutes--the clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time on other business.
There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair--not as big as Margaret's would be. She noted41 the dishes and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only someone had been upset! But this wedding had gone off so particularly well--"quite like a Durbar" in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly42 agreed with her.
So the wasted day lumbered43 forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kowtowing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening: only the Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of the motor, I'm thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale."
"I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrod's or Whiteley's, or even to go to some hotel."
"You desire a hotel?"
"Yes, because--well, I mustn't interfere44 with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home."
"My old home's falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn't it a perfect evening--"
"The Alexandrina isn't bad--"
"The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey.
"It's off Curzon Street."
"Is it? Let's be married from off Curzon Street."
Then she turned westward45, to gaze at the swirling46 gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles's bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she could not recognize the faces of people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them.
"Who are those people?" she asked.
"They're callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It's too late for callers."
"Perhaps they're town people who want to see the wedding presents."
"I'm not at home yet to townees."
"Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will."
He thanked her.
Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the group was Helen--Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery days.
"What is it?" she called. "Oh, what's wrong? Is Tibby ill?"
Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward furiously.
"They're starving!" she shouted. "I found them starving!"
"Who? Why have you come?"
"The Basts."
"Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you done now?"
"He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he's done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you'll tell me it's the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the train."
"Helen, are you mad?"
"Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I'm mad. But I've brought them. I'll stand injustice47 no longer. I'll show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury, this talk of impersonal48 forces, this cant5 about God doing what we're too slack to do ourselves."
"Have you actually brought two starving people from London to Shropshire, Helen?"
Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated49. "There was a restaurant car on the train," she said.
"Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you know it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won't have such theatrical50 nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie's wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you've a perverted51 notion of philanthropy. Look"--she indicated the house--"servants, people out of the windows. They think it's some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, 'Oh no, it's only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason.'"
"Kindly52 take back that word 'hangers-on,'" said Helen, ominously53 calm.
"Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath54 was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you've brought them here, or why you're here yourself.
"It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox."
Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry.
"He's going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him."
"Yes, tomorrow."
"I knew it was our last chance."
"How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?"
"There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen.
Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially55 stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed56 the furniture, provided them with a dinner and breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn't go. But she, half mesmerized57, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely58, and reappeared amid torrents59 of expensive scent36. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers.
"I'm sure I don't want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret's question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"
"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening's work that was on Chelsea Embankment."
Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.
"I don't understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn't you?"
"That's right."
"And went into a bank instead?"
"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he's penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame."
"I hate all this," Leonard muttered.
"I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it's no good mincing60 matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake."
"I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen.
"I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It's too late to get to town, but you'll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you'll be my guests there."
"That isn't what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You're very kind, and no doubt it's a false position, but you make me miserable61. I seem no good at all."
"It's work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can't you see?"
Then he said: "Jacky, let's go. We're more bother than we're worth. We're costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There's nothing we're good enough to do."
"We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You're only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night's rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it."
But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove62, and I've got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that's all. Poetry's nothing, Miss Schlegel. One's thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you'll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it's all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It's no good. It's the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor."
He ceased.
"Won't you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don't know what to do. It isn't my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don't know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast."
They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing63. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact: their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together and had a few more words with Helen.
She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he's worth helping64. I agree that we are directly responsible."
"No, indirectly65. Via Mr. Wilcox."
"Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I'll do nothing. No doubt you're right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing66 things about Henry. Only, I won't have it. So choose.
Helen looked at the sunset.
"If you promise to take them quietly to the George, I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can't give him, but possibly Henry can."
"It's his duty to," grumbled67 Helen.
"Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours: all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better."
"Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly. "
"Take them off to the George, then, and I'll try. Poor creatures! but they look tried." As they parted, she added: "I haven't nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can't get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan't have happy lives."
She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile.
"You'll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It's all right now, but it was my sister."
"Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought she despised weddings."
"Don't get up. She has not come to the wedding. I've bundled her off to the George."
Inherently hospitable68, he protested.
"No; she has two of her proteges with her, and must keep with them."
"Let 'em all come."
"My dear Henry, did you see them?"
"I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly.
"The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon69 bunch?"
"What! are they out beanfeasting?"
"No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them."
She was ashamed of her own diplomacy70. In dealing71 with a Wilcox, how tempting72 it was to lapse73 from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present."
"Shall I?"
"If it isn't a long story."
"Oh, not five minutes; but there's a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office."
"What are his qualifications?"
"I don't know. He's a clerk."
"How old?"
"Twenty-five, perhaps."
"What's his name?"
"Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting.
"Where was he before?"
"Dempster's Bank."
"Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing.
"They reduced their staff."
"All right; I'll see him."
It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning74 suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can't influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced75, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem.
"I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don't know whether he's qualified76."
"I'll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn't be taken as a precedent77."
"No, of course--of course--"
"I can't fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer."
"I can promise you he's the last. He--he's rather a special case."
"Proteges always are."
She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf78 between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare79 seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air.
"Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells will just be starting."
On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics80 of salvation81. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish82 with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted83, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo Saxon and the Kelt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended84 the mound on her lover's arm, she felt that she was having her share.
To her annoyance85, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive86 of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt87 again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice88 in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody.
"She's overtired," Margaret whispered.
"She's something else," said Henry. "This won't do. I can't have her in my garden in this state."
"Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now.
Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball.
"Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply.
Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!"
"Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologized Margaret. "Il est tout89 a fait different."
"Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly.
Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I can't congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked.
"Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?"
"Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts.
Jacky pointed26 with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."
"Henry, I am awfully sorry."
"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalized than the facts demanded.
"To have brought this down on you."
"Pray don't apologize."
The voice continued.
"Why does she call you 'Hen'?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?"
"Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn't seen Hen? He's serving you like me, my dear. These boys! You wait--Still we love 'em."
"Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked.
Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don't know what it is all about," she said. "Let's come in."
But he thought she was acting90. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling91. "Don't you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan."
"This is Helen's plan, not mine."
"I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man's past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement."
Still she could not understand. She knew of life's seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied.
"So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself from saying more.
"So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the hall.
"We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene.
"No, let me do that," said Henry, following.
"Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!"
The Colonel said gallantly92: "I don't expect there's much to forgive.
He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval93. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch--line. Still chattering94, still thanking their host and patronizing their future hostess, the guests were home away.
Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?"
"You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied.
"When, please?"
"Why?"
"When, please?"
"Ten years ago."
She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy: it was Mrs. Wilcox's.
收听单词发音 |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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bidder
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| n.(拍卖时的)出价人，报价人，投标人 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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15
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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19
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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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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33
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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34
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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41
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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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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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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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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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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bestially
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| adv.野兽地，残忍地 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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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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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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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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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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67
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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68
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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69
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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70
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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72
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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73
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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74
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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75
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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77
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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78
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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79
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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80
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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81
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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82
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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83
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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84
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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85
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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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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87
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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88
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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89
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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90
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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91
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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92
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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93
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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94
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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