"No deed of good, no deed of ill can die;
—ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD.
In the middle of May Miss Arabella's wedding gown was completed, and presented a blue cascade6 of frills and flounces that delighted the owner's beauty-loving soul. Just once had she tried it on, and then only in sections, for Mrs. Munn said it was dreadful bad luck to wear your wedding gown before the day. So at one time Miss Arabella had put on the billowy skirt with her lilac waist; and at another the blue silk blouse with her old gingham skirt, and even then she had been seized with such a fit of trembling that Elsie Cameron had to hold her up.
The dressmaking had been carried on in a large empty room above the doctor's surgery, and when it was finished Miss Arabella left the gown there. She dared not take it home, for fear Susan would discover it. So Mrs. Munn wrapped it carefully in a sheet and hung it behind the door. There were bunches of dried sage8 and mint and lavender hanging along the low rafters above it, and just to move the wedding dress gave one a whiff as sweet as a breath from all the spices of Araby.
Often, when Dr. Allen drove away, Miss Arabella would run over to Mrs. Munn's, and up the back stairs, for a look at the gown, just to convince herself that it had not been merely a beautiful dream. It was something tangible9, the outward and visible sign that her happiness was real. For hours afterward10 she would go about her work in a kind of blissful daze11, until Susan declared it was a caution how Arabella forgot things, and she wondered what on earth was the matter with her. She looked well enough, but sometimes her appetite was bad, and she, Susan, had a good mind to take her over to Dr. Allen, and see if he couldn't cure her up in a day, the way he did last fall.
Arabella had another mysterious source of forgetfulness. When Susan's watchfulness12 kept her from visiting Mrs. Munn's lumber13 room, she would slip away into her spare bedroom, shut the door, and taking out two letters from her top drawer, would sit down and read them again and again. The last letter was always convincing; it breathed Martin's strong, joyous14 spirit from every line, and drove away all fears. It had come promptly15 in answer to hers, and had been sent under cover to Mrs. Munn, for fear Ella Anne's curiosity might again be aroused.
Martin evidently retained his old rollicking spirits, for he fell in most cordially with the plan for eloping. It suited him down to the ground, he declared. He would come to Lakeview on the last night of May, and early in the morning of the first of June he would drive out in the finest livery rig the place possessed16, and away they would fly, without a howd'ye-do to any one. But they must come back for a little visit after their honeymoon17, for there was a certain old friend of his in Elmbrook he must see. He was not going to tell even her about him, because it was to be a big surprise. He felt like going out and shooting up the town when he thought about it all.
Miss Arabella had taken the letter to Elsie soon after its arrival, and had read parts of it aloud. Whom did Elsie suppose he meant by an old friend in the village? She couldn't remember that he had known any one here very well, except William. Martin and William had taken to each other from the first. Yes, likely he meant William.
Elsie was fashioning a white lace ruffle18 for the collar of the blue silk gown, and bent19 her shining head lower over her work. Here was another proof of Martin's whole-souled generosity20. There was not a hint of blame for his ungrateful friend.
"D'ye know, Elsie," said Miss Arabella hesitatingly, "it jist makes me feel bad to see you sewing anything for that dress, because—because—it was to have been yours, you know."
"But, indeed, Arabella, you know I'd far rather see you wear it. When should I ever put on such a grand dress as that, with all the work I have to do?"
"Oh, but I Intended it for your wedding dress! You mind, I told you?"
"Wedding dress!" Elsie laughed. "Why, Arabella, it might have been worn into rag-carpet strips before I'd need it!"
"But I thought—it seemed to me, he—he always acts as if he liked you so awful, Elsie."
"He? Who? Do you mean Lauchie McKitterick or Sawed-Off Wilmott, or Sandy McQuarry, or whom do you mean, Arabella Winters?"
"Oh, dear me, Elsie!" Miss Arabella gave a half-distressed22 little laugh. "You know they wouldn't, one o' them, dast look at you. You know right well I mean the doctor."
The girl bent lower over her work, and a flush crept over her face. She shook her head decidedly. "Oh, no! no! Arabella. You are all wrong. Dr. Allen has no more idea of caring for me in that way than I of caring for him. Come, let me see if these wrist-bands are large enough."
Miss Arabella felt the gentle rebuke23, and sighed. It was really too bad, because they were both so good-looking, and so well suited, and so young. And the faded little lilac lady thought regretfully of her lost youth.
The second letter allayed24 any lingering fears Elsie had felt regarding the elopement. According to Dr. Allen, she might safely trust Arabella to Martin Heaslip, and his own words went to prove the same. So if they wanted to run away, let them; they would run back in a few days, anyway, and then what would happen? Would the young man have the grace to be ashamed of himself? Martin, she was sure, would never blame him; his letter had breathed nothing but heartiest25 good-will. But Martin's generosity only made the other's ingratitude26 the blacker.
Meanwhile, the first of June was fast approaching, and as yet no one had a suspicion of the treasure hidden away in Mrs. Munn's lumber room. Even that lady's talent for keeping a secret might have been rather severely27 taxed had it not been that those around her were absorbed in other interests. There were Davy and his bosom28 comrade, the eldest29 orphan30. They certainly would have divined that something unusual was transpiring31 in the old storeroom; but just now they had no time for such trivial things. For the race between Sawed-Off Wilmott and young Lochinvar, begun on the last show day, and continued hotly all winter, was fast reaching a culminating point. The boys were vastly interested in it, and since the long evenings had passed Tim had discarded books and fallen back into his old evil ways. So between them and Ella Anne, life was made a thorny32 path for the rival lovers.
Then the shrewd Mrs. Munn had noticed that lately the doctor seemed to be absent-minded. Indeed, he was very much worried over a problem of his own that had nothing to do with his patients. The question was, what had he done to offend Miss Cameron? Why she should have suddenly changed from warm friendship to cold avoidance of him he could not understand. Whenever he called, she was out, or overwhelmingly busy, or just about to fulfil another engagement, until he understood, and ceased calling. Her conduct hurt him more than he could have thought possible. He had long known and admired her profoundly. He cared much for her good opinion; but that her disapproval33 could wound him was something he had not suspected. He had supposed that Rosalie had made anything like that quite impossible for him forever.
So, in the midst of these abstractions, Miss Arabella's wedding gown hung, all unnoticed, in the fragrance34 of lavender and mint, until at last the end of May arrived, the eve of the day set for the elopement.
Dr. Allen had been driving Speed all day, and his other horse was out in the pasture-field; so, early in the evening, he walked down toward the Drowned Lands to see a patient, taking the pathway through the ravine. He had not been down there since the winter road had broken up, and he found Treasure Valley all a wonder of purple and gold—where the violets carpeted the banks and the marigolds choked the stream. Down in the fragrant35 stillness the sounds of the village grew faint and far away. Here was only the murmur36 of the water over the white stones, or the even-song of the vesper sparrows in the sumachs along the banks. As Gilbert came down to the water's edge he spied another figure approaching from the opposite bank, a slim figure in a white gown, with a crown of hair that rivaled the golden blossoms in the stream. He hesitated a moment, then crossed over to her.
"May I help you across?" he asked with a stiff formality he would not have used a few weeks previous.
The minds of both recurred37 to their first meeting in this very spot, a little more than a year before.
"I hope you will not object to my company for that length of time," he added, finding it impossible to keep something of his grievance38 out of his voice.
There was that look of distress21 in her eyes that filled him with compunction. When they reached the other side he stood and looked down at her with the old feeling that, somehow, he was all in the wrong, and she entirely40 right.
A deeper rose color came to her cheeks. This was just the question she was dreading42. "I—I—nothing," she stammered incoherently.
"Then won't you tell me why you treat me so?" His indignation had vanished; his tone was very humble43. "I cannot help seeing that you have changed, and I have done nothing, I could do nothing, wittingly, to hurt you."
"You have not done anything to offend me," she said in a low tone, with a slight accent on the pronoun.
"Then what has changed you? We are not good friends any more?" His voice was inquiring.
She would have given much to contradict him, but her nature was essentially44 honest, and she breathed the low answer, "No."
"I feared it, I knew it; but don't you think you might, at least, tell me the reason?" He was surprised at his own meekness45.
The girl looked down into the murmuring, brown Water. Something arose in her throat and threatened to choke her. If he would only not be so humble. If he were haughty46 and indignant, her task would be much easier. And then, might she not be wrong? Oh, if he would only tell her she was mistaken! She struggled for some words by which she might avoid telling him the truth, but she was a country-bred girl, all unused to the small equivocations of social usage, and the uncompromising integrity of her nature forbade trifling47.
"Dr. Allen," she faltered48 at last, "I—perhaps I have judged you harshly. Please do not ask me the reason. I would rather not talk about it."
"I may have accused you wrongly," she said, the necessity of the case driving her again to speech, "but I—we all"—she plucked a feathery spray of the long-stemmed water-grass and examined it minutely—"everybody thought you so good and kind—and I learned something—accidentally—that disappointed me."
She glanced up with a mute appeal; but his looks were uncompromising. "Well?" he asked quietly.
She looked up and down the shadowy ravine as if seeking help. Why not tell him? There could be no harm to Arabella. He would know soon, anyway, and she need not mention the wedding, and perhaps he might vindicate53 himself. So, with her eyes on the golden-brown pool at her feet, she told him the story, simply and sorrowfully, and as gently as possible, of Miss Arabella's years of patient waiting, of the blue silk gown laid away so long, of all Martin had suffered from poverty and sickness, unhelped when he needed help so badly; and then of the sequel of the story which he himself had told.
She looked at him when she had ended, and Gilbert could not help seeing that the telling of it had hurt her almost as much as it had hurt him. And how it had stung him! Martin starving in a mining camp while he spent his money on roses and theater tickets for Rosalie Lane! Martin, sick, poor, and struggling to make a home for the woman he loved, while he—the man he had made—spent all upon his own pleasures and ambitions! He was aghast at the far-reaching power of his fault. He had selfishly neglected a man away off in the Klondyke, and had hurt a frail54 little woman at his door, whom every instinct of his manhood called upon him to protect.
His sorrowful-eyed accuser was looking at him, in the eager hope that he might deny the charge. But he did not attempt the smallest palliation. He scorned to make the paltry55 plea that, at the eleventh hour, he had paid the debt of so many years' standing56. As if he could ever pay Martin!
"I must, at least, thank you for your candor," he said at last, a little unsteadily.
Her eyes grew dark with disappointment. Her suspicions had been only too well founded, then! She spoke57 no word of blame, there was no righteous indignation in her face, only a cutting disappointment; and there Gilbert felt the greater sting. He had not offended her personally, it seemed; he had merely fallen wofully short of her standard. There was no more to be said. He bade her a courteous58 good-evening, and she turned slowly and passed up the hill, while he followed the path down the stream. One of old Hughie Cameron's philosophic59 remarks, which he had heard one evening on the milk-stand, was sounding in his ears: "The Almighty60 would be laying his bounds about every one of us—the bounds of His righteous laws. We may be dodging61 them on one side, oh, yes; but they will be catching62 us up on the other."
The girl climbed slowly up the bank. Her head was bent, and could Gilbert have seen her face he would not have been quite so sure that his shortcoming was to her such an entirely impersonal63 affair. With her usual self-effacement, she made a brave attempt to put aside her grief. She had promised to spend this last evening with Arabella, and she must be cheerful and comforting. As she neared Mrs. Munn's house, Davy and Tim were sitting on the sidewalk before the gate, talking so volubly that they did not notice her approach.
"Yessir," Mr. Munn was saying, in a voice muffled64 by a mouthful of chewing-gum, "they're goin' to do that thing—what d'ye call it when two folks that's sparkin' run away?"
"Elope," said the orphan, from the depths of a profound experience of the world.
"Yes, elope. Don't you ever tell, Tim; but I bet that's what Jeannie an' me'll do some day; only I wish she wasn't such an awful girl to laugh!" He sighed deeply, and the orphan grunted65 disgustedly.
"Aw, g'wan, ye silly duck! Say! le's set up all night an' watch. They'll be goin' 'fore7 daylight, I bet——"
Elsie Cameron's light footfall sounded on the sidewalk, and the two suddenly fell silent. Their shoulders sagged66, and they sat gazing vacantly across the street, as though life were a deadly bore.
The girl regarded the two curved, inscrutable backs in dismay. How on earth had those two scamps penetrated67 Arabella's secret?
"Oh, boys!" she cried, coming up to them in hurried distress. "Hush68! How did you find out? Promise me you won't tell."
The two stood up and looked at her sheepishly. "We ain't tattlers," said the eldest orphan haughtily69. "How'd you find out?" he added indignantly.
"Are you sure you've neither of you told anybody?" she asked, fixing her searching eyes upon each in turn.
"Sure! Cross my heart!" declared Tim; and Davy nodded agreement.
The wire door of the doctor's house swung open creakingly, and Mrs. Munn came slowly down the garden path. "Listen," whispered the girl hurriedly, "I'll give you each a quarter to-morrow night if you'll promise faithfully you won't tell, and that you'll do everything you can—everything, mind—to help. Now, you will, won't you, boys?"
It was impossible to resist such an appeal to their chivalry70. Tim became a man on the spot. "Don't you worry," he declared with a grand air. "We'll look after things. Me an' Dave here'll not squeak71, you bet."
Mrs. Munn opened the gate. "I'm goin' along with you to Arabella's for a minit," she said. "Davy, don't you go away from the house while I'm out, mind ye."
"How long'll ye be?" Inquired her son, in a tone that showed he was prepared to argue the question.
"Jist a minit. If anybody comes for the doctor, jist say he's gone away."
"I know he walked down the holler to see John Cross's kids."
"Hish!" she cried, looking about in alarm, as though the doctor had gone off on a murderous expedition. "You can jist say he won't be home till it's late. I guess there'll be no harm in them knowin' that. Now mind."
The two boys watched the retreating figures until they disappeared into Miss Arabella's gateway73. Instantly Tim's languid air changed to keen alertness.
"Say!" he exclaimed, "Ella Anne must 'a' told her! Lookee here! We've gotter help them to 'lope now, or there's no quarter. What'll we do?"
Davy humped his shoulders rebelliously74. "I ain't stuck on helpin' that MacDonald coon to 'lope with nobody," he grumbled75. "Don't you mind the time he took after us?"
The orphan chuckled76. "Cracky! he did lambaste you, though, didn't he? Sawed-Off told the doc on us, though, the time we took the wheel off his buggy. We've promised, anyhow," he continued righteously.
"Yes, an' I'd have to help Elsie anyhow," added Davy, with an air of crushing responsibility. "Ye see, she's a sort o' a sister, ye know, Tim, 'count o' Jean."
Tim made a horrible grimace77. "Well, come on! Let's think o' somethin' good an' awful to do to Sawed-Off!" he cried, anxious to change the subject.
All winter the double wooing of Miss Long had caused great excitement in the village. Folks declared it was scandalous the way Ella Anne carried on with those two fellows of hers, never giving either one more chance than the other, and it would be a caution if she wasn't left again, the way she was when young McQuarry married the squaw.
Ella Anne's conduct caused consternation78 in the Long family, too. The young lady was suspected of favoring young MacDonald, while her parents strongly encouraged Mr. Wilmott. Sawed-Off was decidedly "well fixed," with his cattle and his cheese factory, while the young fellow from the Highlands was a gay lad, with never an acre to his name, and no match for a girl who had had a year's music lessons, not to speak of all the other attainments79 of Miss Long.
So far, Davy and Tim had been quite impartial80, and had strewn both suitors' paths with such difficulties that the younger man had finally laid violent hands upon them; and Sawed-Off had complained to the respective authorities set over each. The latter treatment had not troubled the mischief-makers much. Mrs. Munn declared that talking always did harm, and talking to boys was worse than useless. Jake and Hannah bewailed their eldest's sudden fall from grace, and wondered if his growing intimacy81 with John McIntyre was having an evil effect upon the child. And there it ended. The boys still continued their attentions to the rival lovers, and so closely had they watched the proceedings82 that on the last night of May they were in possession of a secret plot for the morrow, which the lovers fondly believed to be their own.
Hidden behind the Longs' cedar83 hedge one night, the eldest orphan had overheard some whispers between Ella Anne and the young Lochinvar. They were going to run away, Tim had gathered—have a regular elopement, like Evelina and Daring Dick, in the book he and Davy had just read. "The night before the mill starts," young MacDonald had whispered, "everybody'll be too busy to notice." Well, the mill started to-morrow! And besides that, Davy, who had been on the lookout84 while his fellow conspirator85 lay beneath the hedge, had spied Sawed-Off Wilmott come crawling from behind the lilac bushes at the Longs' gate, and go sneaking86 down the road. So the boys were anticipating high times. Sawed-Off would certainly be along to prevent the elopement, and they had determined49 to be on the watch, and miss none of the sport. And here, like two chivalrous88 knights89, at the request of a distressed damsel, they had pledged themselves to help the lovers! Elsie was evidently in the plot with Ella Anne, and evidently neither girl guessed at Sawed-Off's perfidy90. Tim jumped up in excitement and began to swagger up and down, his hands in his pockets. It was as good as Daring Dick's dilemmas91, this situation. Elsie would certainly admire him, and consider him the cleverest young man in the village. They must perform some glorious deed that very night.
"What'll we do?" asked Davy. He was a ready helper when Tim was on the warpath, but the orphan's more fertile brain always supplied the material for their misdeeds.
Tim's eyes grew luminous92. "Say! he's scared stiff about the banshee that yells down in the Drowned Lands. He'll be comin' up that way soon's it gets dark. If he seen a ghost there, he'd cut an' run, an' never come back."
Davy's languor93 dropped from him like a garment. "Come on!" he whispered, his eyes shining. "You scoot home an' git that last year's punkin skin, an' I'll sneak87 some white duds out o' maw's bureau. Golly! Ella Anne an' her feller'll be back from their weddin' tower 'fore Sawed-Off quits runnin'!"
Meanwhile, in a little house farther up the street, the three people concerned in another runaway94 match were sitting in the twilight95. No one would have guessed that the forlorn, drooping96 little figure by the window was the bride of the morrow, and the idea of an elopement was as far removed from her as from a Jenny Wren97. For, as the crucial moment approached, poor Miss Arabella's small courage had dwindled98 away. To get married would have been a tremendous undertaking99 in itself, but to elope! For the first time, she realized the magnitude of the enterprise. To get away from Susan's rule back into the joy of girlhood dreams, had seemed, at first sight, like escaping from prison; but now Susan and her laws seemed her only support, and Martin seemed strange and far away.
"I don't know what makes me feel so queer," she faltered, "but ever since that dress was finished I feel jist as if I'd been finished, too."
"Oh, you're jist nervous, Arabella," said Mrs. Munn, while Elsie patted her hand soothingly100. "It ain't no use talkin' about it now, anyhow. It jist makes you feel worse. I tell you," she said, suddenly rising, "let's go over to my place, an' I'll get you a drink o' my last year's alderberry wine. The doctor's away, an' nobody'll see."
Elsie acquiesced101, glad to second anything that would distract Arabella's mind from her fears. She would go in with them for a few minutes, and then slip away before Dr. Allen came back.
"No sign o' Davy," sighed Mrs. Munn, as they entered the dark and deserted102 house. "Well, I s'pose it's no use talkin' to boys, talkin' only makes things worse. Come in, an' I'll get a light."
She groped her way through the parlor103, and lit the lamp that stood on a yellow crocheted104 mat in the middle of the table. "Now, we'll go an' have a drink o' that alderberry," she said cheerfully.
Miss Arabella touched Elsie's arm timidly, "Couldn't we have jist one more look at the dress, first?" she whispered. "I feel as if the sight of it would do me more good than a dose o' medicine. I know I'm an awful goose, Harriet," she faltered.
Mrs. Munn smiled indulgently. "Come along," she said, "we'll go right up now, an' you can slip it home in the dark, an' it'll be ready for to-morrow."
She led the way upstairs, and along the creaking floor to the back hall. As she opened the door of the lumber room a little breeze, bearing the scent105 of lavender and mint, met them, and made the lamp flare106.
"Goodness me!" said Mrs. Munn in surprise, "how on earth did that window come to be opened?"
Miss Arabella uttered a cry. She clutched Elsie's arm and pointed52 to the wall. Mrs. Munn set the lamp down upon the bare pine table and stared. There was the hook where the dress had so lately hung, in its winding-sheet; there on the floor were great muddy tracks across to it from the doorway107, and where—oh, where—— The three women turned and looked at each other in speechless dismay. The room was empty; the wedding gown had eloped!
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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loom
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lasting
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tapestry
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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fore
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sage
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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afterward
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daze
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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lumber
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joyous
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promptly
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possessed
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honeymoon
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ruffle
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bent
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generosity
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distress
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distressed
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rebuke
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allayed
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heartiest
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ingratitude
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severely
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bosom
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eldest
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orphan
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transpiring
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thorny
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disapproval
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fragrance
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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36
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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37
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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38
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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39
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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41
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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42
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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43
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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44
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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45
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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46
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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47
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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48
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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49
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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50
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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51
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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52
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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53
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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54
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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55
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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56
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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57
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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58
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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59
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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60
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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61
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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62
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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63
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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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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65
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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67
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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68
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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70
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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71
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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72
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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73
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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75
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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76
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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78
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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79
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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80
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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81
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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82
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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83
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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84
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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85
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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86
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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87
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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88
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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89
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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90
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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91
dilemmas
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| n.左右为难( dilemma的名词复数 )；窘境，困境 | |
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92
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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93
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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94
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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95
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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96
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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97
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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98
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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100
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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101
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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103
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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104
crocheted
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| v.用钩针编织( crochet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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106
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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107
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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