“Not the question!” reiterated1 Lady Godolphin. “I say that it is the question. The question is, whether Sir George is better and safer here than he would be at Prior’s Ash. And of course he is so.”
“I think not,” replied Thomas Godolphin quietly. “He would be equally well at Prior’s Ash: equally safe, as I believe and trust. And the anxiety to be there, which has taken hold of his mind, has grown too strong to be repressed. To detain him here, against his wish, would make him ill, Lady Godolphin. Not returning home.”
“Prior’s Ash is an unhealthy place just now.”
“Its unhealthiness has passed away. The last to be attacked was—was Ethel. And you are aware that time, since then, may be counted by weeks.”
“Sir George is partially2 childish,” pursued Lady Godolphin. “You may see for yourself that he is so. It would be most unreasonable3, it would be ridiculous to take notice of his whims4. Look at his starting out of the house to-night, with nothing on, and roaming a mile or two away in the dark! Is that a proof of sanity5?”
“It is a proof how fixedly6 his mind is bent8 upon returning home,” replied Thomas Godolphin. “He was endeavouring, as I have already informed you, Lady Godolphin, to make his way to the station.”
“I shall have him watched in future,” said she.
“Lady Godolphin,” he resumed, speaking in the calmly quiet tone which characterized him, unmistakably firm now, in spite of its courteousness10: “I am here by the desire of my father to accompany him back to Prior’s Ash. I may almost say, to convey him back: for I fear he can no longer boast much power of his own, in any way. The[106] last words I said to him, before entering, were, that he should start, if it pleased him, with to-morrow’s dawn. I must keep my promise.”
“Do you defy me, Thomas Godolphin?”
“I have no wish to do so. I have no wish to abate11 a particle of the respect and consideration due to you as my father’s wife. At the same time, my duty to him is paramount12: I hold it more sacred, Lady Godolphin, than any earthly thing. He has charged me, by my duty, to take him back to Ashlyd—to Prior’s Ash: and I shall do so.”
“You would take him back, I suppose, if Prior’s Ash were full of snakes and scorpions13?” returned my lady, somewhat losing her temper.
“It is full of neither. Nothing is there, so far as I am aware, that can harm Sir George. Can you urge a single good reason why he should not return to it, Lady Godolphin!”
The delicate bloom on my lady’s cheeks was surely heightened—or did Thomas Godolphin fancy it? “But, what if I say he shall not return?” she asked, her voice slightly raised.
“I think you will not say it, Lady Godolphin,” he replied. “It is Sir George’s wish to go to Prior’s Ash, and it is my province to see that wish carried out—as he has requested me. Much as I desire to respect your feelings and any plans you may have formed, they cannot weigh with me in this case. There is no necessity whatever for your returning home, Lady Godolphin, unless you choose to do so: but Sir George will leave for it to-morrow.”
“And you boast that you do not defy me!” cried Lady Godolphin, with a short laugh. “I would use force to keep him in this house, rather than he should go out of it against my will.”
“Force?” repeated Thomas Godolphin, looking at her for an explanation. “What sort of force?”
“Physical force,” she answered, assuming a degree of fair suavity14. “I would command the servants to bar his exit.”
A faint smile crossed Thomas Godolphin’s lips. “Do not attempt that, Lady Godolphin,” he replied in the respectful manner of one who tenders earnest advice. “I should be sorry indeed to publicly oppose my authority to yours. You know the servants have, most of them, grown old in our service: and that may plead their excuse: but there is not one of them who would not be obedient to the lifting of my finger, in the cause of their master.”
Lady Godolphin was foiled. Lady Godolphin had long been aware that she should be foiled, if it ever came to an encounter—strength against strength—between herself and Thomas Godolphin. Easy George she could manage, the Miss Godolphins she could put down, Sir George was, now, as a reed in her hands. But Thomas?—he was different. None of them had been so uniformly respectful and courteous9 to her as Thomas. And yet she had known that he, of all the rest, would not bend to her authority, were any cause to arise why he should not do so.
She sat biting—as far as she dared—her rose-tinted lips; she lifted one hand and toyed with her perfumed ringlets; she opened a fan which lay at her side, and gently fanned herself; she glanced at the still countenance15 of Thomas Godolphin: and she knew that she must give up the game. To give it up with a good grace was essential to[107] her future ruling: and she was now making up her mind to do this. It would never do, either, for her to stand in the hall on the morrow, call the servants around her, and say, “It is my pleasure that Sir George does not leave this place for Prior’s Ash. Keep him in; hold him in; lock the door; use any necessary means,” while Thomas Godolphin was at hand, to lift—as he had phrased it—his finger, and say, “It is my pleasure that my father does go to Prior’s Ash. Stand back while he passes.” Lady Godolphin was no simpleton, and she could hazard a shrewd guess as to which of the two would be obeyed. So she sat, bringing her mind to make a virtue16 of necessity, and throw up the plea. In point of fact, she had no cause of objection to Sir George’s returning to Prior’s Ash, except that she did not care to return to it herself. For two reasons: one, that she liked Broomhead best: the other, that she could not yet subdue17 her fears of the fever. She bent her head, as if examining the chaste18 devices on her fan, and spoke19 indifferently.
“You must be aware that my wish to keep Sir George here arises solely20 from the state of Prior’s Ash. It always has been our custom to spend Christmas there, amongst you all, and I should have had no other thought for this Christmas, but for the illness which arose. Will you guarantee that it is safe for him?”
“Nay, Lady Godolphin. To ‘guarantee’ an assurance of the sort would be impossible at the best of times. I believe that any fears you may entertain now of the fever will prove only a bugbear.”
“Yes,” he sadly answered.
He drew his chair from the table, where he had been taking some refreshment22 after his journey, and at that moment the hall clock struck two.
“I am keeping you up very late, Lady Godolphin.”
“It is a pleasant change,” she answered. “The life here, with Sir George in his delicate state, is so excessively monotonous23, that a few nights of sitting up and days of bed, might prove an agreeable variety. Did I understand you rightly—that you intend to start in the morning?”
“If Sir George shall then wish to do so as anxiously as he appeared to wish it to-night. Otherwise, I shall not object to delay it until the following one. I cannot remain longer: business demands my presence at home. And,” he added, lowering his voice, “I fear that speed is necessary for my father’s sake. If he does not go pretty soon, he may not be able to go at all. It is more than likely that we shall start to-morrow.”
“You cannot expect me to be ready in that space of time.”
“Certainly not. Just as you please, Lady Godolphin.”
Thomas Godolphin was shown to his room. Margery waylaid24 him in the corridor and entered it with him. “Did you get my epistle, Mr. Thomas?”
“It was that which brought me here now, Margery. Otherwise, I should not have come until the end of the week.”
“Then you would have come too late, sir. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I[108] mean what I say,” added the woman, dropping her voice to solemnity. “By dreams and signs and tokens, which I have had——”
“Stay, Margery. You know that I am never very tolerant of your dreams and signs. Let them rest.”
“It’s true you are not,” answered Margery, without the least appearance of discomfiture25; “and many’s the argument I would have liked to hold with you over it. But you’d never let me. When you were a young man, you’d laugh and joke it down—just as Mr. George might now, were I so foolish as to waste words upon him—and since you grew older and steadier you have just put me off as you are doing at this moment. Mr. Thomas, gifts are different in different people. They are not sent upon all alike: and the Scripture26 says so. One will see what another can’t. One will play beautiful music, while another can’t tell one tune27 from another. One man has a head for steam-engines and telegraphs, and will put ’em together as if he had a workshop inside him; and another, his own cousin maybe, can hardly tell an engine when he sees it, and couldn’t work one out if he lived to be a hundred years old. And so with other things.”
“Well?” responded Thomas Godolphin: for Margery paused, as if waiting for an answer.
“And do you suppose, Mr. Thomas, that it’s not the same with signs and warnings? It is not given to all to see or understand them. It is not given, as I take it, for many to see or understand them. But it is given to a few. And those few can no more be talked out of knowing that it’s truth, than they can be talked out of their own life, or of the skies above ’em. And, Mr. Thomas, it’s not only that those who have not the gift can’t see or believe for themselves, but they can’t be brought to believe that others may do so: and so they laugh at and ridicule28 it. Many a time, sir, you have laughed at me.”
“You see so many, you know, Margery,” said Thomas Godolphin, with a slight smile.
Margery looked at him. “Sometimes I have thought, sir, that you are not quite as unbelieving as you seem. But I know it does not do for a gentleman, high and educated and looked up to in his town, to say he puts faith in such. So I’ll not trouble you, Mr. Thomas, with the tokens I have had. I’ll not tell you that only last night that ever was, I heard the footsteps of——”
“But you are telling me, Margery.”
“That’s just how you take me up, Mr. Thomas! Well, sir, I say I’ll not bring forward these things, but I’ll speak of what you may think a surer sign—and that’s Sir George’s state of health.”
“Ay! I can follow you there.”
He let her talk on. And she did so, until he was obliged to give her a gentle hint that he should be glad to be alone and get to bed.
The house was awakened29 before it was yet dawn. Sir George had rung for his servant, had rung for Margery, had rung for the coachman to say the carriage was wanted—in short, had rung for so many, that the whole household was aroused. My lady appeared, in fur slippers30 and a warm dressing31-gown, to know what the commotion32 could mean. His son Thomas was there, the knight33 answered. He was sure he had not dreamt it, but that Thomas had come the previous night; he met[109] him at the stile; and Thomas had promised that they should go to Ashlydyat in the early morning.
It appeared he was sane34 enough to remember that. My lady retired35, grumbling36; and Margery went and called Thomas.
When Thomas reached the room, Sir George was almost in the last stage of dressing. His own trembling, eager fingers had done as much towards it as his servant. He lifted his face with its ashy hue37 and its strange yearning38. “Thomas, my son, I must hasten back to Ashlydyat. You said I should go there to die.”
“Do you wish to start immediately, father?”
“You said I should do so!” he wailed39 in a tone imploringly40 earnest. “You said I should start with this morning’s dawn.”
“Yes, yes,” acquiesced41 Thomas. And he forthwith busied himself to advance the preparations.
The best hour that they could leave the station was a little before nine. No train, except one much earlier, stopped at it before. This gave time to get off comfortably: though Sir George, in his impatience43, could with difficulty be induced to sit down to breakfast. My lady came in when they were at the table.
“This is really the most extraordinary proceeding44!” she exclaimed, speaking chiefly to Thomas Godolphin. “Were such a thing related to me as taking place in another house I should decline to give credence45 to it. Are the hours of the day so few that you must choose the gloom of a winter’s morning for commencing a journey?”
Thomas glanced at Sir George, as if to draw her attention to him. “My father’s anxiety will not allow him to wait, Lady Godolphin. I think it well that we should catch the first train.”
“I wash my hands of the journey altogether,” said Lady Godolphin. “If Sir George does not reach the other end of it alive, you will have the goodness to remember that I am not to blame. Far better that he were safely kept in his room wrapped up in his dressing-gown in front of a good fire.”
“In that case, my lady, I would not answer for it that he reached the end of the day alive,” interposed Margery, who was in and out of the room busier than any of them. “Whether Sir George stays, or whether he goes, he’ll not last many days,” she added in a lower tone, so that it might not reach her master’s ear.
“If I must have gone, I would have started at a Christian46 hour, Sir George,” resumed his wife. “Getting us all out of bed as if we were so many milkmaids?”
Sir George looked round, timidity in his voice and manner. Did he fear that she would detain him even now? “You can come on afterwards, you know, Lady Godolphin; we need not hurry you. Oh, I must, I must be at Ashlydyat!”
Thomas Godolphin came to the rescue. “We shall be in the carriage in five minutes, my dear father, if you will only take your breakfast.”
And in a little more than five minutes they were seated in it, on their way to the station, Sir George’s own man and Margery attending them. Margery would have deemed it just as possible to cut herself in twain, as to be separated from her master in his present state.
[110]They did not get him that night to Prior’s Ash. Thomas feared the long journey for him without a break, so they halted for the night about midway. Singularly to state, Sir George did not utter an impatient word at the delay: from the moment of leaving Broomhead he had become perfectly47 calm. Whether the fact of his being indisputably on the road had soothed48 his mind to tranquillity49, or whether the strangely eager desire to be home had now left it, certain it was, that he had never mentioned Ashlydyat throughout the day. Of one thing there could be no doubt—that he was fast sinking. Sinking both in mind and body. Margery grew terrified. “Pray Heaven we may get him home!” she aspirated. “Mr. Thomas, as sure as that we are here, he would have been dead before this, had he stopped at Broomhead!”
In the twilight50 of the second evening, Sir George was at length once more at Prior’s Ash. Thomas had telegraphed their arrival, and Janet was at the station with the carriage. But, with the first few words, Janet perceived that he was perfectly childish. Not only childish, but alarmingly changed. Janet grew pale as she turned to Margery.
“Since when?” she murmured.
“Since many days, off and on; but worse since we left Broomhead yesterday morning. He has been sinking hour by hour. Miss Janet, it’s death.”
They got him to the Folly51. And, in half an hour, the whole of his family were gathered round his death-bed. His partner, Mr. Crosse; the surgeon; and the Rector of All Souls’ were also there.
He was rambling52 for the most part in a disconnected manner: but he recognized them all individually, and occasionally gave utterance53 to rational remarks, as he might have done had he been in full possession of his senses. He fancied himself at Ashlydyat.
“I could not have died away from it, you know, Crosse,” he suddenly cried to that gentleman. “Thomas was for bringing me back to the Folly, but I told him I must go to Ashlydyat. If I did let it to strangers, they could not keep me out of it, when I wanted to go there to die. A Godolphin must not die away from Ashlydyat. Where’s Cecil?” he added, after a pause.
Poor Cecil, the tears streaming down her cheeks, was close to him; in view then. “I am here, papa.”
The knight laid his hand upon her arm—or rather, essayed to do so, but it fell again. His thoughts seemed to pass to another subject.
“Crosse, I have been telling Thomas that I should not allow more than three per cent. on those deposits. Have you seen Mainwaring lately?”
Mr. Snow stepped forward and administered something in a wine-glass. There appeared to be a difficulty in swallowing, and only part of it was taken. “He grows more restless,” said the surgeon in an undertone.
Sir George’s eyes, as he was slightly raised to take the medicine, had fallen upon some object at the other end of the room, and continued to be strained on it. “Who has changed the position of the cabinet?” he exclaimed, in a stronger tone than he had yet spoken.
It caused them all to turn and look at the spot. A fine old ebony cabinet, inlaid with silver, stood opposite the bed: had stood there ever[111] since they removed to Lady Godolphin’s Folly; transplanted thither54 from Ashlydyat. In the latter house, it had stood on the right of Sir George’s bed: and his memory had evidently gone back to that. There could not be a better proof that he was fancying himself at Ashlydyat, lying in his own chamber55.
“Janet! why have you placed the cabinet there?”
Janet Godolphin bent her head soothingly56 over him. “My dear father, it shall be moved, if you wish it.”
The knight looked at her, inquiringly for a moment, perhaps not recognizing her. Then he feebly essayed to look beyond her, as if her head interposed between his own view and something behind. “Hush, my dear, I am speaking to your mother. I want to know why she changed the place of the cabinet.”
“We thought you’d like it there, Sir George; that you could see it better there,” interposed Margery, who knew better than most of them how to deal with the sick. “I’ll have it put back before to-morrow morning.”
This satisfied him, and he lay still for a few minutes. They thought, he would sleep. Presently his eyes opened again, and they rested on George.
“George, where’s Charlotte?”
“Who, sir?” demanded George, somewhat taken aback at the question. “Do you mean Charlotte Pain? She is at—she is not here.”
“Are you married yet?”
“Oh no,” said George hastily, while several pairs of wondering eyes were directed towards him, and those of the Reverend Mr. Hastings were of the number. “Time enough for that, father.”
“George!” next came the words, in a hollow whisper this time, “don’t let her die, as Ethel did.”
“Not if I can help it,” replied George, speaking without any serious meaning, except that of humouring his father.
“And don’t let Verrall go off the bargain with the money. He is keen that way; but he has no right to touch Charlotte’s. If he does—Bessy, is Jekyl dead?”
“Oh no, papa,” said Bessy, suppressing her tears as she caressed57 her father’s hand: it was in stooping to do this, that the knight had observed her. “Jekyl is well and hearty58 yet, and he asked after you to-day. He heard you were coming home.”
“Ay! All well and hearty, but me. But it is the will of God to take me, and He knows what’s best. Where’s Thomas?”
“I am here, father,” replied Thomas Godolphin, leaning, forward so that his father could see him.
Sir George tried to put up his hand with a beckoning59 gesture. Thomas understood it: he bent his face close to that pale one, and clasped the nearly inanimate hand in his, listening reverently60 to the whisper that was breathed so solemnly.
“Thomas, I charge you, never quit Ashlydyat.”
“I will not,” replied Thomas Godolphin.
“If you bring one home to it, and she would urge you to quit it, urge you until you have no will of your own left, do not yield to it. Do[112] not listen to her. Break with her, let her go forth42 alone, rather than quit Ashlydyat.”
“Father, I will never, of my own free will, leave Ashlydyat. I promise you that, so far as I can hold control over human events, I will live and die in it.”
Certainly Sir George understood the promise and its meaning. There could be no mistaking that he did so, by the smile of content which from that moment overspread his countenance, lighting61 up with satisfaction even his dying eye. He lay for a considerable time still, and then suddenly called for Margery.
“You’ll tell your mistress that we can’t root up those bushes,” he said, as she approached. “It’s of no use trying. As fast as they are up from one place they grow in another. They’ll not hurt. Tell her I say so.”
“I’d get some quicklime, Sir George, and see what that would do,” was Margery’s response, and the words brought up a smile from one or two of her listeners, solemn moment though it was. Margery’s maxim62 was, never to contradict the dying, but to humour their hallucinations. “Obstinate things, those gorses!” she continued. “But, never you trouble about my mistress, sir: she don’t mind them.”
The children, standing63 round his bed, knew quite well that he was alluding64 to their mother, his first wife. Indeed, Lady Godolphin appeared to have passed entirely65 from his mind.
Again he lapsed66 into silence, and remained to all appearance in a stupor67, his eyes closed, his breathing ominously68 slow. Mr. Crosse took his departure, but the Rector and surgeon stayed on yet. The latter saw that the final moment was at hand, and he whispered to Miss Godolphin that she and her sisters might be better from the room. “At any rate,” he added, for he saw the dissenting69, displeased70 look which overspread her face, “it might be as well to spare the sight to Cecil.”
With an impulse of strength surprising to see, Sir George suddenly rose up in bed, his eyes fixed7 with a yearning gaze at the opposite end of the room. Not at the cabinet this time, but at some spot, far, far up, beyond the ceiling, as it appeared. His voice, startling in its clearness, rang through the air, and his arms were outstretched as if he were about to fly.
“Janet!—Janet!—Janet! Oh, my dear Janet, I am coming!”
He fell back and died. Did anything really appear to him, not visible to the mortal eyes around? Were his senses, in that moment of the soul’s departure, opened to a glimpse of the world he was about to enter? It cannot be known. Had it been fiction it would not have been written here.
A little later, the bell of All Souls’ Church, booming out over the town on the night air, told that Sir George Godolphin had passed away.
It was somewhat remarkable72 that another funeral, at which Thomas Godolphin was again chief mourner, should follow so closely upon Ethel’s. A different sort of ceremony, this: a rare pageant73. A pageant[113] which was made up of plumes74 and trappings and decorated horses, and carriages and mutes and batons75, and a line of attendants, and all the other insignia of the illustrious dead. Ethel could be interred76 simply and quietly, but Sir George must be attended to the grave as the Godolphin of Ashlydyat. I don’t suppose poor Sir George rested any the better for it.
Sir George made an equitable77 will, but it proved a vexatious one to his widow. Thomas had Ashlydyat: George, a fair sum of money; the Miss Godolphins, each her portion; and there were certain bequests79 to servants. But little was left to Lady Godolphin: indeed, the amount of the bequest78 was more in accordance with what might be willed to a friend, than to a wife. But, it was not in that that the grievance80 lay. Lady Godolphin had the Folly, she had Broomhead, and she had an ample income of her own. She was not a particularly covetous81 woman, and she had never expected or wished that Sir George should greatly take from his family, to add to it. No, it was not that: but the contents of a certain little codicil82 which was appended to the will. This codicil set forth that every article of furniture or property, which had been removed to the Folly from Ashlydyat, whatever might be its nature, and down to the minutest item, should be returned to Ashlydyat, and become the property of Thomas Godolphin.
It would pretty nearly strip the Folly, and my lady was very wrathful. Not for the value of the things: she sustained no injury there: for the codicil directed that a specified83 sum of money (their full value) should be handed over to Lady Godolphin to replace them with new at the Folly. But it struck upon her in the light of a slight, and she chose to resent it as one. It was specially84 enjoined85 that the things should be placed at Ashlydyat in the old spots where they had formerly86 stood.
But, be wrathful as she might, grumble87 as she would, there could be no rebellion to it in action. And Lady Godolphin had to bow to it.
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1
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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courteousness
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| Courteousness | |
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abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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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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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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acidity
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| n.酸度，酸性 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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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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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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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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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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batons
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| n.（警察武器）警棍( baton的名词复数 )；（乐队指挥用的）指挥棒；接力棒 | |
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interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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87
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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