A low voice answered "Fanny!" It issued from the alcove, and thither5 Fanny hastened, a note in her hand, which she delivered to fingers that hardly seemed to have nerve to hold it. Miss Helstone did not ask whence it came, and she did not look at it; she let it drop amongst the folds of her work.
The girl was no enchantress, and knew no magic spell; yet what she said took almost magical effect on her young mistress. She lifted her head with the quick motion of revived sensation; she shot, not a languid, but a lifelike, questioning glance at Fanny.
"Harry Scott! who sent him?"
"He came from the Hollow."
The dropped note was snatched up eagerly, the seal was broken—it was read in two seconds. An affectionate billet from Hortense, informing her young cousin that she was returned from Wormwood Wells; that she was alone to-day, as Robert was gone to Whinbury market; that nothing would give her greater pleasure than to have Caroline's company to tea, and the good lady added, she was quite sure such a change would be most acceptable and beneficial to347 Caroline, who must be sadly at a loss both for safe guidance and improving society since the misunderstanding between Robert and Mr. Helstone had occasioned a separation from her "meilleure amie, Hortense Gérard Moore." In a postscript7 she was urged to put on her bonnet8 and run down directly.
Caroline did not need the injunction. Glad was she to lay by the brown holland child's slip she was trimming with braid for the Jew's basket, to hasten upstairs, cover her curls with her straw bonnet, and throw round her shoulders the black silk scarf, whose simple drapery suited as well her shape as its dark hue9 set off the purity of her dress and the fairness of her face; glad was she to escape for a few hours the solitude10, the sadness, the nightmare of her life; glad to run down the green lane sloping to the Hollow, to scent11 the fragrance12 of hedge flowers sweeter than the perfume of moss-rose or lily. True, she knew Robert was not at the cottage; but it was delight to go where he had lately been. So long, so totally separated from him, merely to see his home, to enter the room where he had that morning sat, felt like a reunion. As such it revived her; and then Illusion was again following her in Peri mask. The soft agitation14 of wings caressed15 her cheek, and the air, breathing from the blue summer sky, bore a voice which whispered, "Robert may come home while you are in his house, and then, at least, you may look in his face—at least you may give him your hand; perhaps, for a minute, you may sit beside him."
Miss Moore probably caught from the window the gleam and flutter of Caroline's white attire18 through the branchy garden shrubs19, for she advanced from the cottage porch to meet her. Straight, unbending, phlegmatic20 as usual, she came on. No haste or ecstasy21 was ever permitted to disorder22 the dignity of her movements; but she smiled, well pleased to mark the delight of her pupil, to feel her kiss and the gentle, genial23 strain of her embrace. She led her tenderly in, half deceived and wholly flattered. Half deceived! had it not been so she would in all probability have put her to the wicket, and shut her out. Had she known clearly to whose account the chief share of this childlike joy was to be placed, Hortense would most likely have felt both shocked and incensed24. Sisters do not like348 young ladies to fall in love with their brothers. It seems, if not presumptuous25, silly, weak, a delusion26, an absurd mistake. They do not love these gentlemen—whatever sisterly affection they may cherish towards them—and that others should, repels29 them with a sense of crude romance. The first movement, in short, excited by such discovery (as with many parents on finding their children to be in love) is one of mixed impatience30 and contempt. Reason—if they be rational people—corrects the false feeling in time; but if they be irrational31, it is never corrected, and the daughter or sister-in-law is disliked to the end.
"You would expect to find me alone, from what I said in my note," observed Miss Moore, as she conducted Caroline towards the parlour; "but it was written this morning: since dinner, company has come in."
And opening the door she made visible an ample spread of crimson32 skirts overflowing33 the elbow-chair at the fireside, and above them, presiding with dignity, a cap more awful than a crown. That cap had never come to the cottage under a bonnet; no, it had been brought in a vast bag, or rather a middle-sized balloon of black silk, held wide with whalebone. The screed34, or frill of the cap, stood a quarter of a yard broad round the face of the wearer. The ribbon, flourishing in puffs35 and bows about the head, was of the sort called love-ribbon. There was a good deal of it, I may say, a very great deal. Mrs. Yorke wore the cap—it became her; she wore the gown also—it suited her no less.
That great lady was come in a friendly way to take tea with Miss Moore. It was almost as great and as rare a favour as if the queen were to go uninvited to share pot-luck with one of her subjects. A higher mark of distinction she could not show—she who in general scorned visiting and tea-drinking, and held cheap and stigmatized36 as "gossips" every maid and matron of the vicinage.
There was no mistake, however; Miss Moore was a favourite with her. She had evinced the fact more than once—evinced it by stopping to speak to her in the churchyard on Sundays; by inviting37 her, almost hospitably38, to come to Briarmains; evinced it to-day by the grand condescension39 of a personal visit. Her reasons for the preference, as assigned by herself, were that Miss Moore was a woman of steady deportment, without the least levity40 of conversation or carriage; also that, being a foreigner, she must feel the want of a friend to countenance41 her. She349 might have added that her plain aspect, homely42, precise dress, and phlegmatic, unattractive manner were to her so many additional recommendations. It is certain, at least, that ladies remarkable43 for the opposite qualities of beauty, lively bearing, and elegant taste in attire were not often favoured with her approbation44. Whatever gentlemen are apt to admire in women, Mrs. Yorke condemned45; and what they overlook or despise, she patronized.
Caroline advanced to the mighty46 matron with some sense of diffidence. She knew little of Mrs. Yorke, and, as a parson's niece, was doubtful what sort of a reception she might get. She got a very cool one, and was glad to hide her discomfiture47 by turning away to take off her bonnet. Nor, upon sitting down, was she displeased48 to be immediately accosted49 by a little personage in a blue frock and sash, who started up like some fairy from the side of the great dame's chair, where she had been sitting on a footstool, screened from view by the folds of the wide red gown, and running to Miss Helstone, unceremoniously threw her arms round her neck and demanded a kiss.
"My mother is not civil to you," said the petitioner50, as she received and repaid a smiling salute51, "and Rose there takes no notice of you; it is their way. If, instead of you, a white angel, with a crown of stars, had come into the room, mother would nod stiffly, and Rose never lift her head at all; but I will be your friend—I have always liked you."
"But, mother, you are so frozen!" expostulated Jessie. "Miss Helstone has never done you any harm; why can't you be kind to her? You sit so stiff, and look so cold, and speak so dry—what for? That's just the fashion in which you treat Miss Shirley Keeldar and every other young lady who comes to our house. And Rose there is such an aut—aut—I have forgotten the word, but it means a machine in the shape of a human being. However, between you, you will drive every soul away from Briarmains; Martin often says so."
"I am an automaton53? Good! Let me alone, then," said Rose, speaking from a corner where she was sitting on the carpet at the foot of a bookcase, with a volume spread open on her knee.—"Miss Helstone, how do you do?" she added, directing a brief glance to the person addressed,350 and then again casting down her gray, remarkable eyes on the book and returning to the study of its pages.
Caroline stole a quiet gaze towards her, dwelling54 on her young, absorbed countenance, and observing a certain unconscious movement of the mouth as she read—a movement full of character. Caroline had tact55, and she had fine instinct. She felt that Rose Yorke was a peculiar56 child—one of the unique; she knew how to treat her. Approaching quietly, she knelt on the carpet at her side, and looked over her little shoulder at her book. It was a romance of Mrs. Radcliffe's—"The Italian."
Caroline read on with her, making no remark. Presently Rose showed her the attention of asking, ere she turned the leaf, "Are you ready?"
Caroline only nodded.
"Do you like it?" inquired Rose ere long.
"Long since, when I read it as a child, I was wonderfully taken with it."
"Why?"
"It seemed to open with such promise—such foreboding of a most strange tale to be unfolded."
"And in reading it you feel as if you were far away from England—really in Italy—under another sort of sky—that blue sky of the south which travellers describe."
"You are sensible of that, Rose?"
"It makes me long to travel, Miss Helstone."
"When you are a woman, perhaps, you may be able to gratify your wish."
"I mean to make a way to do so, if one is not made for me. I cannot live always in Briarfield. The whole world is not very large compared with creation. I must see the outside of our own round planet, at least."
"How much of its outside?"
"First this hemisphere where we live; then the other. I am resolved that my life shall be a life. Not a black trance like the toad's, buried in marble; nor a long, slow death like yours in Briarfield rectory."
"Like mine! what can you mean, child?"
"Might you not as well be tediously dying as for ever shut up in that glebe-house—a place that, when I pass it, always reminds me of a windowed grave? I never see any movement about the door. I never hear a sound from the wall. I believe smoke never issues from the chimneys. What do you do there?"
351"I sew, I read, I learn lessons."
"Are you happy?"
"Should I be happy wandering alone in strange countries as you wish to do?"
"Much happier, even if you did nothing but wander. Remember, however, that I shall have an object in view; but if you only went on and on, like some enchanted57 lady in a fairy tale, you might be happier than now. In a day's wandering you would pass many a hill, wood, and watercourse, each perpetually altering in aspect as the sun shone out or was overcast58; as the weather was wet or fair, dark or bright. Nothing changes in Briarfield rectory. The plaster of the parlour ceilings, the paper on the walls, the curtains, carpets, chairs, are still the same."
"Is change necessary to happiness?"
"Yes."
"Is it synonymous with it?"
"I don't know; but I feel monotony and death to be almost the same."
"Isn't she mad?" she asked.
"But, Rose," pursued Caroline, "I fear a wanderer's life, for me at least, would end like that tale you are reading—in disappointment, vanity, and vexation of spirit."
"Does 'The Italian' so end?"
"I thought so when I read it."
"Better to try all things and find all empty than to try nothing and leave your life a blank. To do this is to commit the sin of him who buried his talent in a napkin—despicable sluggard60!"
"Rose," observed Mrs. Yorke, "solid satisfaction is only to be realized by doing one's duty."
"Right, mother! And if my Master has given me ten talents, my duty is to trade with them, and make them ten talents more. Not in the dust of household drawers shall the coin be interred61. I will not deposit it in a broken-spouted teapot, and shut it up in a china closet among tea-things. I will not commit it to your work-table to be smothered62 in piles of woollen hose. I will not prison it in the linen63 press to find shrouds64 among the sheets. And least of all, mother" (she got up from the floor)—"least of all will I hide it in a tureen of cold potatoes, to be ranged with bread, butter, pastry65, and ham on the shelves of the larder66."
352She stopped, then went on, "Mother, the Lord who gave each of us our talents will come home some day, and will demand from all an account. The teapot, the old stocking-foot, the linen rag, the willow-pattern tureen will yield up their barren deposit in many a house. Suffer your daughters, at least, to put their money to the exchangers, that they may be enabled at the Master's coming to pay Him His own with usury67."
"Rose, did you bring your sampler with you, as I told you?"
"Yes, mother."
"Sit down, and do a line of marking."
Rose sat down promptly68, and wrought69 according to orders. After a busy pause of ten minutes, her mother asked, "Do you think yourself oppressed now—a victim?"
"No, mother."
"Yet, as far as I understood your tirade70, it was a protest against all womanly and domestic employment."
"You misunderstood it, mother. I should be sorry not to learn to sew. You do right to teach me, and to make me work."
"Even to the mending of your brothers' stockings and the making of sheets?"
"Yes."
"Am I to do nothing but that? I will do that, and then I will do more. Now, mother, I have said my say. I am twelve years old at present, and not till I am sixteen will I speak again about talents. For four years I bind74 myself an industrious75 apprentice76 to all you can teach me."
"You see what my daughters are, Miss Helstone," observed Mrs. Yorke; "how precociously77 wise in their own conceits78! 'I would rather this, I prefer that'—such is Jessie's cuckoo song; while Rose utters the bolder cry, 'I will, and I will not!'"
"I render a reason, mother; besides, if my cry is bold, it is only heard once in a twelvemonth. About each birthday the spirit moves me to deliver one oracle79 respecting my own instruction and management. I utter it and leave it; it is for you, mother, to listen or not."
"I would advise all young ladies," pursued Mrs. Yorke, "to study the characters of such children as they chance to meet with before they marry and have any of their own353 to consider well how they would like the responsibility of guiding the careless, the labour of persuading the stubborn, the constant burden and task of training the best."
"But with love it need not be so very difficult," interposed Caroline. "Mothers love their children most dearly—almost better than they love themselves."
"Fine talk! very sentimental80! There is the rough, practical part of life yet to come for you, young miss."
"But, Mrs. Yorke, if I take a little baby into my arms—any poor woman's infant, for instance—I feel that I love that helpless thing quite peculiarly, though I am not its mother. I could do almost anything for it willingly, if it were delivered over entirely to my care—if it were quite dependent on me."
"You feel! Yes, yes! I dare say, now. You are led a great deal by your feelings, and you think yourself a very sensitive personage, no doubt. Are you aware that, with all these romantic ideas, you have managed to train your features into an habitually81 lackadaisical82 expression, better suited to a novel-heroine than to a woman who is to make her way in the real world by dint83 of common sense?"
"No; I am not at all aware of that, Mrs. Yorke."
"Look in the glass just behind you. Compare the face you see there with that of any early-rising, hard-working milkmaid."
"My face is a pale one, but it is not sentimental; and most milkmaids, however red and robust84 they may be, are more stupid and less practically fitted to make their way in the world than I am. I think more, and more correctly, than milkmaids in general do; consequently, where they would often, for want of reflection, act weakly, I, by dint of reflection, should act judiciously85."
"Oh no! you would be influenced by your feelings; you would be guided by impulse."
"Of course I should often be influenced by my feelings. They were given me to that end. Whom my feelings teach me to love I must and shall love; and I hope, if ever I have a husband and children, my feelings will induce me to love them. I hope, in that case, all my impulses will be strong in compelling me to love."
Caroline had a pleasure in saying this with emphasis; she had a pleasure in daring to say it in Mrs. Yorke's presence. She did not care what unjust sarcasm86 might be hurled87 at her in reply. She flushed, not with anger but354 excitement, when the ungenial matron answered coolly, "Don't waste your dramatic effects. That was well said—it was quite fine; but it is lost on two women—an old wife and an old maid. There should have been a disengaged gentleman present.—Is Mr. Robert nowhere hid behind the curtains, do you think, Miss Moore?"
Hortense, who during the chief part of the conversation had been in the kitchen superintending the preparations for tea, did not yet quite comprehend the drift of the discourse88. She answered, with a puzzled air, that Robert was at Whinbury. Mrs. Yorke laughed her own peculiar short laugh.
"Straightforward89 Miss Moore!" said she patronizingly. "It is like you to understand my question so literally90 and answer it so simply. Your mind comprehends nothing of intrigue91. Strange things might go on around you without your being the wiser; you are not of the class the world calls sharp-witted."
These equivocal compliments did not seem to please Hortense. She drew herself up, puckered92 her black eyebrows93, but still looked puzzled.
"I have ever been noted94 for sagacity and discernment from childhood," she returned; for, indeed, on the possession of these qualities she peculiarly piqued95 herself.
"You never plotted to win a husband, I'll be bound," pursued Mrs. Yorke; "and you have not the benefit of previous experience to aid you in discovering when others plot."
Caroline felt this kind language where the benevolent96 speaker intended she should feel it—in her very heart. She could not even parry the shafts97; she was defenceless for the present. To answer would have been to avow98 that the cap fitted. Mrs. Yorke, looking at her as she sat with troubled, downcast eyes, and cheek burning painfully, and figure expressing in its bent99 attitude and unconscious tremor100 all the humiliation101 and chagrin102 she experienced, felt the sufferer was fair game. The strange woman had a natural antipathy103 to a shrinking, sensitive character—a nervous temperament104; nor was a pretty, delicate, and youthful face a passport to her affections. It was seldom she met with all these obnoxious105 qualities combined in one individual; still more seldom she found that individual at her mercy, under circumstances in which she could crush her well. She happened this afternoon to be specially106 bilious107 and morose—as much disposed to gore108 as any vicious "mother355 of the herd109." Lowering her large head she made a new charge.
"Your cousin Hortense is an excellent sister, Miss Helstone. Such ladies as come to try their life's luck here at Hollow's Cottage may, by a very little clever female artifice110, cajole the mistress of the house, and have the game all in their own hands. You are fond of your cousin's society, I dare say, miss?"
"Of which cousin's?"
"Oh, of the lady's, of course."
"Hortense is, and always has been, most kind to me."
"Mrs. Yorke," said Caroline, lifting her eyes slowly, their blue orbs112 at the same time clearing from trouble, and shining steady and full, while the glow of shame left her cheek, and its hue turned pale and settled—"Mrs. Yorke, may I ask what you mean?"
"To give you a lesson on the cultivation113 of rectitude, to disgust you with craft and false sentiment."
"Do I need this lesson?"
"Most young ladies of the present day need it. You are quite a modern young lady—morbid, delicate, professing114 to like retirement115; which implies, I suppose, that you find little worthy116 of your sympathies in the ordinary world. The ordinary world—every-day honest folks—are better than you think them, much better than any bookish, romancing chit of a girl can be who hardly ever puts her nose over her uncle the parson's garden wall."
"Consequently of whom you know nothing. Excuse me—indeed, it does not matter whether you excuse me or not—you have attacked me without provocation117; I shall defend myself without apology. Of my relations with my two cousins you are ignorant. In a fit of ill-humour you have attempted to poison them by gratuitous119 insinuations, which are far more crafty120 and false than anything with which you can justly charge me. That I happen to be pale, and sometimes to look diffident, is no business of yours; that I am fond of books, and indisposed for common gossip, is still less your business; that I am a 'romancing chit of a girl' is a mere13 conjecture121 on your part. I never romanced to you nor to anybody you know. That I am the parson's niece is not a crime, though you may be narrow-minded enough to think it so. You dislike me. You have356 no just reason for disliking me; therefore keep the expression of your aversion to yourself. If at any time in future you evince it annoyingly, I shall answer even less scrupulously122 than I have done now."
She ceased, and sat in white and still excitement. She had spoken in the clearest of tones, neither fast nor loud; but her silver accents thrilled the ear. The speed of the current in her veins123 was just then as swift as it was viewless.
Mrs. Yorke was not irritated at the reproof124, worded with a severity so simple, dictated125 by a pride so quiet. Turning coolly to Miss Moore, she said, nodding her cap approvingly, "She has spirit in her, after all.—Always speak as honestly as you have done just now," she continued, "and you'll do."
"I repel28 a recommendation so offensive," was the answer, delivered in the same pure key, with the same clear look. "I reject counsel poisoned by insinuation. It is my right to speak as I think proper; nothing binds127 me to converse128 as you dictate126. So far from always speaking as I have done just now, I shall never address any one in a tone so stern or in language so harsh, unless in answer to unprovoked insult."
"Mother, you have found your match," pronounced little Jessie, whom the scene appeared greatly to edify129. Rose had heard the whole with an unmoved face. She now said, "No; Miss Helstone is not my mother's match, for she allows herself to be vexed130. My mother would wear her out in a few weeks. Shirley Keeldar manages better.—Mother, you have never hurt Miss Keeldar's feelings yet. She wears armour131 under her silk dress that you cannot penetrate132."
Mrs. Yorke often complained that her children were mutinous133. It was strange that with all her strictness, with all her "strong-mindedness," she could gain no command over them. A look from their father had more influence with them than a lecture from her.
Miss Moore—to whom the position of witness to an altercation134 in which she took no part was highly displeasing135, as being an unimportant secondary post—now rallying her dignity, prepared to utter a discourse which was to prove both parties in the wrong, and to make it clear to each disputant that she had reason to be ashamed of herself, and ought to submit humbly136 to the superior sense of the individual then addressing her. Fortunately for her audience,357 she had not harangued137 above ten minutes when Sarah's entrance with the tea-tray called her attention, first to the fact of that damsel having a gilt138 comb in her hair and a red necklace round her throat, and secondly139, and subsequently to a pointed140 remonstrance141, to the duty of making tea. After the meal Rose restored her to good-humour by bringing her guitar and asking for a song, and afterwards engaging her in an intelligent and sharp cross-examination about guitar-playing and music in general.
Jessie, meantime, directed her assiduities to Caroline. Sitting on a stool at her feet, she talked to her, first about religion and then about politics. Jessie was accustomed at home to drink in a great deal of what her father said on these subjects, and afterwards in company to retail142, with more wit and fluency143 than consistency144 or discretion145, his opinions, antipathies146, and preferences. She rated Caroline soundly for being a member of the Established Church, and for having an uncle a clergyman. She informed her that she lived on the country, and ought to work for her living honestly, instead of passing a useless life, and eating the bread of idleness in the shape of tithes147. Thence Jessie passed to a review of the ministry148 at that time in office, and a consideration of its deserts. She made familiar mention of the names of Lord Castlereagh and Mr. Perceval. Each of these personages she adorned149 with a character that might have separately suited Moloch and Belial. She denounced the war as wholesale150 murder, and Lord Wellington as a "hired butcher."
Her auditress listened with exceeding edification. Jessie had something of the genius of humour in her nature. It was inexpressibly comic to hear her repeating her sire's denunciations in his nervous northern Doric; as hearty151 a little Jacobin as ever pent a free mutinous spirit in a muslin frock and sash. Not malignant152 by nature, her language was not so bitter as it was racy, and the expressive153 little face gave a piquancy154 to every phrase which held a beholder's interest captive.
Caroline chid155 her when she abused Lord Wellington; but she listened delighted to a subsequent tirade against the Prince Regent. Jessie quickly read, in the sparkle of her hearer's eye and the laughter hovering156 round her lips, that at last she had hit on a topic that pleased. Many a time had she heard the fat "Adonis of fifty" discussed at her father's breakfast-table, and she now gave Mr. Yorke's358 comments on the theme—genuine as uttered by his Yorkshire lips.
But, Jessie, I will write about you no more. This is an autumn evening, wet and wild. There is only one cloud in the sky, but it curtains it from pole to pole. The wind cannot rest; it hurries sobbing157 over hills of sullen158 outline, colourless with twilight159 and mist. Rain has beat all day on that church tower. It rises dark from the stony160 enclosure of its graveyard161. The nettles162, the long grass, and the tombs all drip with wet. This evening reminds me too forcibly of another evening some years ago—a howling, rainy autumn evening too—when certain who had that day performed a pilgrimage to a grave new-made in a heretic cemetery163 sat near a wood fire on the hearth164 of a foreign dwelling. They were merry and social, but they each knew that a gap, never to be filled, had been made in their circle. They knew they had lost something whose absence could never be quite atoned165 for so long as they lived; and they knew that heavy falling rain was soaking into the wet earth which covered their lost darling, and that the sad, sighing gale166 was mourning above her buried head. The fire warmed them; life and friendship yet blessed them; but Jessie lay cold, coffined167, solitary—only the sod screening her from the storm.
Mrs. Yorke folded up her knitting, cut short the music lesson and the lecture on politics, and concluded her visit to the cottage, at an hour early enough to ensure her return to Briarmains before the blush of sunset should quite have faded in heaven, or the path up the fields have become thoroughly168 moist with evening dew.
The lady and her daughters being gone, Caroline felt that she also ought to resume her scarf, kiss her cousin's cheek, and trip away homeward. If she lingered much later dusk would draw on, and Fanny would be put to the trouble of coming to fetch her. It was both baking and ironing day at the rectory, she remembered—Fanny would be busy. Still, she could not quit her seat at the little parlour window. From no point of view could the west look so lovely as from that lattice with the garland of jessamine round it, whose white stars and green leaves seemed now but gray pencil outlines—graceful in form, but colourless in tint—against the gold incarnadined of a summer evening—against359 the fire-tinged blue of an August sky at eight o'clock p.m.
Caroline looked at the wicket-gate, beside which holly-oaks spired169 up tall. She looked at the close hedge of privet and laurel fencing in the garden; her eyes longed to see something more than the shrubs before they turned from that limited prospect170. They longed to see a human figure, of a certain mould and height, pass the hedge and enter the gate. A human figure she at last saw—nay, two. Frederick Murgatroyd went by, carrying a pail of water; Joe Scott followed, dangling171 on his forefinger172 the keys of the mill. They were going to lock up mill and stables for the night, and then betake themselves home.
"So must I," thought Caroline, as she half rose and sighed.
"This is all folly—heart-breaking folly," she added. "In the first place, though I should stay till dark there will be no arrival; because I feel in my heart, Fate has written it down in to-day's page of her eternal book, that I am not to have the pleasure I long for. In the second place, if he stepped in this moment, my presence here would be a chagrin to him, and the consciousness that it must be so would turn half my blood to ice. His hand would, perhaps, be loose and chill if I put mine into it; his eye would be clouded if I sought its beam. I should look up for that kindling173, something I have seen in past days, when my face, or my language, or my disposition174 had at some happy moment pleased him; I should discover only darkness. I had better go home."
She took her bonnet from the table where it lay, and was just fastening the ribbon, when Hortense, directing her attention to a splendid bouquet175 of flowers in a glass on the same table, mentioned that Miss Keeldar had sent them that morning from Fieldhead; and went on to comment on the guests that lady was at present entertaining, on the bustling176 life she had lately been leading; adding divers177 conjectures178 that she did not very well like it, and much wonderment that a person who was so fond of her own way as the heiress did not find some means of sooner getting rid of this cortége of relatives.
"But they say she actually will not let Mr. Sympson and his family go," she added. "They wanted much to return to the south last week, to be ready for the reception of the only son, who is expected home from a tour. She360 insists that her cousin Henry shall come and join his friends here in Yorkshire. I dare say she partly does it to oblige Robert and myself."
"How to oblige Robert and you?" inquired Caroline.
"Why, my child, you are dull. Don't you know—you must often have heard——"
"Please, ma'am," said Sarah, opening the door, "the preserves that you told me to boil in treacle179—the congfiters, as you call them—is all burnt to the pan."
"Les confitures! Elles sont brûlées? Ah, quelle négligence coupable! Coquine de cuisinière, fille insupportable!"
And mademoiselle, hastily taking from a drawer a large linen apron180, and tying it over her black apron, rushed éperdue into the kitchen, whence, to speak truth, exhaled181 an odour of calcined sweets rather strong than savoury.
The mistress and maid had been in full feud182 the whole day, on the subject of preserving certain black cherries, hard as marbles, sour as sloes. Sarah held that sugar was the only orthodox condiment183 to be used in that process; mademoiselle maintained—and proved it by the practice and experience of her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother—that treacle, "mélasse," was infinitely184 preferable. She had committed an imprudence in leaving Sarah in charge of the preserving-pan, for her want of sympathy in the nature of its contents had induced a degree of carelessness in watching their confection, whereof the result was—dark and cindery185 ruin. Hubbub186 followed; high upbraiding187, and sobs188 rather loud than deep or real.
Caroline, once more turning to the little mirror, was shading her ringlets from her cheek to smooth them under her cottage bonnet, certain that it would not only be useless but unpleasant to stay longer, when, on the sudden opening of the back-door, there fell an abrupt189 calm in the kitchen. The tongues were checked, pulled up as with bit and bridle190. "Was it—was it—Robert?" He often—almost always—entered by the kitchen way on his return from market. No; it was only Joe Scott, who, having hemmed191 significantly thrice—every hem27 being meant as a lofty rebuke192 to the squabbling womankind—said, "Now, I thowt I heerd a crack?"
None answered.
"And," he continued pragmatically, "as t' maister's comed, and as he'll enter through this hoyle, I considered it desirable to step in and let ye know. A household o'361 women is nivver fit to be comed on wi'out warning. Here he is.—Walk forrard, sir. They war playing up queerly, but I think I've quietened 'em."
"What d'ye mean by being all i' darkness? Sarah, thou quean, canst t' not light a candle? It war sundown an hour syne194. He'll brak his shins agean some o' yer pots, and tables, and stuff.—Tak tent o' this baking-bowl, sir; they've set it i' yer way, fair as if they did it i' malice195."
To Joe's observations succeeded a confused sort of pause, which Caroline, though she was listening with both her ears, could not understand. It was very brief. A cry broke it—a sound of surprise, followed by the sound of a kiss; ejaculations, but half articulate, succeeded.
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Est-ce que je m'y attendais?" were the words chiefly to be distinguished196.
"Et tu te portes toujours bien, bonne sœur?" inquired another voice—Robert's, certainly.
Caroline was puzzled. Obeying an impulse the wisdom of which she had not time to question, she escaped from the little parlour, by way of leaving the coast clear, and running upstairs took up a position at the head of the banisters, whence she could make further observations ere presenting herself. It was considerably197 past sunset now; dusk filled the passage, yet not such deep dusk but that she could presently see Robert and Hortense traverse it.
"Caroline! Caroline!" called Hortense, a moment afterwards, "venez voir mon frère!"
"Strange," commented Miss Helstone, "passing strange! What does this unwonted excitement about such an every-day occurrence as a return from market portend198? She has not lost her senses, has she? Surely the burnt treacle has not crazed her?"
She descended199 in a subdued200 flutter. Yet more was she fluttered when Hortense seized her hand at the parlour door, and leading her to Robert, who stood in bodily presence, tall and dark against the one window, presented her with a mixture of agitation and formality, as though they had been utter strangers, and this was their first mutual201 introduction.
Increasing puzzle! He bowed rather awkwardly, and turning from her with a stranger's embarrassment202, he met the doubtful light from the window. It fell on his face, and the enigma203 of the dream (a dream it seemed) was at its height. She saw a visage like and unlike—Robert, and no Robert.
"What is the matter?" said Caroline. "Is my sight wrong? Is it my cousin?"
"Certainly it is your cousin," asserted Hortense.
Then who was this now coming through the passage—now entering the room? Caroline, looking round, met a new Robert—the real Robert, as she felt at once.
"Well," said he, smiling at her questioning, astonished face, "which is which?"
"Ah, this is you!" was the answer.
He laughed. "I believe it is me. And do you know who he is? You never saw him before, but you have heard of him."
She had gathered her senses now.
"It can be only one person—your brother, since it is so like you; my other cousin, Louis."
"Clever little Œdipus! you would have baffled the Sphinx! But now, see us together.—Change places; change again, to confuse her, Louis.—Which is the old love now, Lina?"
"As if it were possible to make a mistake when you speak! You should have told Hortense to ask. But you are not so much alike. It is only your height, your figure, and complexion204 that are so similar."
"And I am Robert, am I not?" asked the newcomer, making a first effort to overcome what seemed his natural shyness.
Caroline shook her head gently. A soft, expressive ray from her eye beamed on the real Robert. It said much.
She was not permitted to quit her cousins soon. Robert himself was peremptory205 in obliging her to remain. Glad, simple, and affable in her demeanour (glad for this night, at least), in light, bright spirits for the time, she was too pleasant an addition to the cottage circle to be willingly parted with by any of them. Louis seemed naturally rather a grave, still, retiring man; but the Caroline of this evening, which was not (as you know, reader) the Caroline of every day, thawed206 his reserve, and cheered his gravity soon. He sat near her and talked to her. She already knew his vocation118 was that of tuition. She learned now he had for some years been the tutor of Mr. Sympson's son; that he had been travelling with him, and had accompanied363 him to the north. She inquired if he liked his post, but got a look in reply which did not invite or license207 further question. The look woke Caroline's ready sympathy. She thought it a very sad expression to pass over so sensible a face as Louis's; for he had a sensible face, though not handsome, she considered, when seen near Robert's. She turned to make the comparison. Robert was leaning against the wall, a little behind her, turning over the leaves of a book of engravings, and probably listening, at the same time, to the dialogue between her and Louis.
"How could I think them alike?" she asked herself. "I see now it is Hortense Louis resembles, not Robert."
And this was in part true. He had the shorter nose and longer upper lip of his sister rather than the fine traits of his brother. He had her mould of mouth and chin—all less decisive, accurate, and clear than those of the young mill-owner. His air, though deliberate and reflective, could scarcely be called prompt and acute. You felt, in sitting near and looking up at him, that a slower and probably a more benignant nature than that of the elder Moore shed calm on your impressions.
Robert—perhaps aware that Caroline's glance had wandered towards and dwelt upon him, though he had neither met nor answered it—put down the book of engravings, and approaching, took a seat at her side. She resumed her conversation with Louis, but while she talked to him her thoughts were elsewhere. Her heart beat on the side from which her face was half averted208. She acknowledged a steady, manly71, kindly209 air in Louis; but she bent before the secret power of Robert. To be so near him—though he was silent, though he did not touch so much as her scarf-fringe or the white hem of her dress—affected her like a spell. Had she been obliged to speak to him only, it would have quelled210, but, at liberty to address another, it excited her. Her discourse flowed freely; it was gay, playful, eloquent211. The indulgent look and placid212 manner of her auditor213 encouraged her to ease; the sober pleasure expressed by his smile drew out all that was brilliant in her nature. She felt that this evening she appeared to advantage, and as Robert was a spectator, the consciousness contented214 her. Had he been called away, collapse215 would at once have succeeded stimulus216.
Hortense, who for some time had been on the move ordering supper, and was now clearing the little table of some books, etc., to make room for the tray, called Robert's attention to the glass of flowers, the carmine218 and snow and gold of whose petals219 looked radiant indeed by candlelight.
"They came from Fieldhead," she said, "intended as a gift to you, no doubt. We know who is the favourite there; not I, I'm sure."
It was a wonder to hear Hortense jest—a sign that her spirits were at high-water mark indeed.
"We are to understand, then, that Robert is the favourite?" observed Louis.
"Mon cher," replied Hortense, "Robert—c'est tout220 ce qu'il y a de plus précieux au monde; à côté de lui le reste du genre221 humain n'est que du rebut222.—N'ai-je pas raison, mon enfant?" she added, appealing to Caroline.
Caroline was obliged to reply, "Yes," and her beacon223 was quenched224. Her star withdrew as she spoke.
"Et toi, Robert?" inquired Louis.
"When you shall have an opportunity, ask herself," was the quiet answer. Whether he reddened or paled Caroline did not examine. She discovered that it was late, and she must go home. Home she would go; not even Robert could detain her now.
该作者的其它作品
《Jane Eyre简爱》
该作者的其它作品
《Jane Eyre简爱》
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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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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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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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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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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screed
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| n.长篇大论 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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stigmatized
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| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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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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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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50
petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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51
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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52
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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53
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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56
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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57
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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59
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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sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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61
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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63
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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68
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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74
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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precociously
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| Precociously | |
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conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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87
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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88
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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91
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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92
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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94
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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95
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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96
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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97
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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98
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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99
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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100
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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101
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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102
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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103
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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104
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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105
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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106
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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107
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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108
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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109
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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110
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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111
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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112
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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113
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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114
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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115
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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116
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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117
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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118
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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119
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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120
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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121
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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122
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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123
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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124
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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125
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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126
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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127
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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128
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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129
edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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130
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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131
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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132
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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133
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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134
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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135
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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136
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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137
harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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139
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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140
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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141
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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142
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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143
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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144
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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145
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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146
antipathies
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|
| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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147
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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148
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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149
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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150
wholesale
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|
| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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151
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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152
malignant
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|
| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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153
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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154
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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155
chid
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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157
sobbing
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|
| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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158
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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159
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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160
stony
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|
| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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161
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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162
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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163
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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164
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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165
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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166
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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167
coffined
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| vt.收殓（coffin的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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168
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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169
spired
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| v.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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171
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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172
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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173
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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174
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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175
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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176
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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177
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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178
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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179
treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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180
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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181
exhaled
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|
| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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182
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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183
condiment
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| n.调味品 | |
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184
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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185
cindery
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| adj.灰烬的，煤渣的 | |
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186
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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187
upbraiding
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|
| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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188
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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189
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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190
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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191
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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192
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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193
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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194
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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195
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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196
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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197
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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198
portend
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| v.预兆，预示；给…以警告 | |
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199
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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200
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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201
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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202
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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203
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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204
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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205
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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206
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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207
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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208
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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209
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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210
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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212
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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213
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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214
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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215
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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216
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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217
enjoyment
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|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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218
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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219
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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220
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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221
genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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222
rebut
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| v.辩驳，驳回 | |
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223
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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224
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
参考例句： |
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