The scent1 of the new-mown hay was in the atmosphere around Prior’s Ash. A backward spring it had been until the middle of April, and wiseacres said the crops would be late. But then the weather had suddenly burst into the warmth of summer, vegetation came on all the more rapidly for its previous tardiness2, and the crops turned out to be early, instead of late.
Never a more lovely day gladdened the world than that particular day in June. Maria Godolphin, holding Miss Meta by the hand, walked along under the shady field-hedge, all glorious with its clusters of wild roses. The field was covered with hay, now being piled into cocks by the haymakers, and Meta darted3 ever and anon from her mother’s side, to afford the valuable aid of her tiny hands. Meta would have enjoyed a roll on the hay with the most intense delight; but unfortunately Meta was in the full grandeur4 of visiting attire5; not in simple haymaking undress. Had you asked Meta, she would have told you she had on her “best things.” Things too good to be allowed to come to grief in the hay. Maria soothed6 the disappointment by a promise for the morrow. Meta should come in her brown holland dress with Margery, and roll about as much as she pleased. Children are easily satisfied, and Meta paced on soberly under the promise, only giving covetous7 glances at the hay. With all her impulsive8 gaiety, her laughter and defiance9 of Margery, she was by nature a most gentle child, easily led.
Maria was on her way to call at Lady Godolphin’s Folly10; and thence at Ashlydyat. Maria was not given to making morning calls: she deemed it a very unsatisfactory waste of time. Very pleasant no doubt for gossips, but a hindrance11 to the serious business of life. She made them now and then; just enough to save her credit, and that was all. Mrs. Pain had honoured Maria with about fifteen visits, and Maria was now going to return them all in one. No one could say Charlotte went in for ceremony; she would run in and out of people’s houses, as the whim12 took her, every day in the week sometimes, and of Maria’s amidst the rest. Of late, she had called more frequently on Maria than usual: and Maria, her conscience weighty with the obligation, at last set out to return it.
But she had not dressed for it—as some people would consider dress; Charlotte herself, for instance; Charlotte would arrive, splendid as the sun; not a colour of the rainbow came amiss to her; a green dress one day, a violet another, a crimson13 a third, and so on. Dresses with[259] flounces and furbelows; jackets interlaced with gold and silver; brimless hats surmounted14 by upright plumes15. All that Charlotte wore was good, as far as cost went: as far as taste went, opinions differed. Maria had inherited the taste of her mother: she could not have been fine had you bribed16 her with gold. She wore to-day a pale dress of watered silk; a beautiful Cashmere shawl of thin texture17, and a white bonnet18, all plain and quiet, as befitted a lady. The charming day had induced her to walk; and the faint perfume of the hay, wafting19 through Prior’s Ash, had caused her to choose the field way. The longest way, but infinitely20 the pleasantest.
It took her past those tenements21 familiarly called the Pollard cottages: in one of which lived troublesome Mrs. Bond. All the inmates22 of these cottages were well known to Maria: had been known to her from childhood: the Rector of All Souls’ was wont23 to say that he had more trouble with the Pollard cottages than with all the rest of his parish. For one thing, sickness was often prevalent in them; sometimes death; and sickness and death give trouble and anxiety to a conscientious24 pastor25.
“Not to-day, Meta. I am going straight on to Mrs. Pain’s.”
Meta, who was troubled with no qualms27 on the score of ceremony herself, perceiving one of the doors open, darted suddenly into it. Meta was rather in the habit of darting28 into any open door that it took her fancy so to do. Maria walked on a few steps, and then turned and waited: but the little truant29 did not appear to be in a hurry to come out, and she went back and followed her in.
A lady in a rusty30 black stuff gown covered with snuff, her cap awry32 and her face somewhat flushed, was seated in state before a round deal table, doing nothing; except contemplating33 certain articles that were on the table, with a remarkably34 gratified expression of countenance35. The lady was Mrs. Bond: and this, as Maria was soon to hear, had been a decidedly red-letter day with her. On the table—and it was this which appeared to be fascinating the attention of Meta—was a large wicker cage containing a parrot; a small parrot with a plumage as fine as Mrs. Charlotte Pain’s, an angry-looking tuft on its head, not at all unlike her hat’s tuft of feathers. Mrs. Bond’s attention appeared not to be so much absorbed by the parrot and cage, as by a green medicine-bottle, containing some clear-looking liquid, and a tea-cup without a handle. These latter articles were standing36 immediately before her.
Two or three years ago, Mrs. Bond’s eldest37 daughter, Peggy, a damsel who had not borne the brightest of characters for steadiness, had been taken out to Australia by a family to whom she engaged herself as nurse-girl. After sundry38 vicissitudes39 in that country—which she duly chronicled home to her mother, and that lady was wont to relate in convivial40 moments, over tea or any other social beverage—Peggy had come to an anchor by marrying. She wrote word that her husband was an industrious41 young carpenter, who was making his fortune, and they were quite at ease in the world. As a proof of the latter statement, she had sent over a parrot to her mother as a keepsake, and a[260] trifle of money; which would be safely delivered by a friend, who was going the home voyage.
The friend was faithful. He had arrived on his mission that very morning at Mrs. Bond’s, delivering the parrot uninjured and in rude health—if its capacity for screaming might be taken as an indication. The money turned out to be eleven pounds: a ten-pound note, and a sovereign in gold. Peggy probably knew enough of her mother to be certain that the first outlay42 made would be for “something comforting,” and this may have induced her to add a sovereign, in some faint hope that the note would be preserved intact. Mrs. Bond had the sense to discern Peggy’s motive43, and openly spoke44 of it to Maria. She was in an open mood. In point of fact she had gone right off to Prior’s Ash and changed the sovereign, bringing home that green bottle full of—comfort. It was three parts empty now, and Mrs. Bond, in consequence, had become rather red in the face, and was slipping some of her long words.
“But you will not think of changing the note, will you?” returned Maria, in answer to what Mrs. Bond disclosed. “How useful it would be to you in the winter for clothing and fire—if you would only keep it until then!”
“So it ’ould,” responded Mrs. Bond.
She dived into her pocket, and brought forth45 the note and a handful of silver, all lying loose, amidst a miscellaneous collection. “Don’t it look pretty?” cried she.
“Very,” said Maria, not certain whether she alluded46 to the parrot or the money, for Mrs. Bond’s eyes were not remarkably direct in their glances just then. “Too pretty to spend,” she added, in reference to the note. “You had better give it to papa, Mrs. Bond, and let him take care of it for you.”
Mrs. Bond shook her head at this proposition. “Once the parson gets hold on any little bit of our money to keep, he ain’t free to give it up again,” she objected. “‘Keep it for this,’ says he, or ‘keep it for that;’ and it ends in its being laid out as he likes, not as us do.”
“As you please, of course,” rejoined Maria. “I only thought it a pity you should not derive47 some real benefit from this money. If you keep it yourself you may be induced to change it, and then it would dwindle48 away in trifles, and do you no good.”
“That it ’ould!” acknowledged Mrs. Bond. “I’ve a’most a mind to let it be took care on, after all. If ’twas anybody but the Rector!”
“Shall I keep it for you?” asked Maria.
“Well now, ’ould you, ma’am?”
“Yes, I will. If you please.”
Mrs. Bond detached the note from the silver and other articles which she had brought up indiscriminately from her pocket. They lay in her capacious lap, and appeared to afford food for gratification to Meta, who had come round from the parrot to look at them. A brass49 thimble, a damp blue-bag, some halfpence, a recipe for toothache, a piece of ginger50, and the end of a tallow candle, being amongst the items.
“You’ll promise to let me have it back if I asks for it?” cried she, clutching the note, and waiting for Maria’s promise before she would surrender it.
[261]“Certainly I will. Whenever you wish for it, you shall have it. Only,” Maria added, smiling, “if you ask for it too soon, I shall beg you still to let me keep it. Don’t you remember how badly off you were last winter? Just think what a ten-pound note would have done for you then, Mrs. Bond!”
“Lawks, ay! It would a got me through the cold beautiful.”
“And I hope you will let this get you through next year’s cold,” returned Maria, putting the note into her purse.
“Ay, sure! But now, ain’t it kind o’ Peggy?”
“Yes. It is delightful51 to hear that she is so well settled at last.”
“I’ve been drinking her health, and better luck still,” said Mrs. Bond, taking the cork52 out of the bottle, and pouring out half its remaining contents. “’Ould ye just take a drain, ma’am?”
“No, thank you,” replied Maria. “I don’t like the smell of it.”
“No!” returned Mrs. Bond, who, truth to say, but for the “drains” she had taken herself, and which had tended slightly to muddle53 her perceptions, would never have thought of proffering54 the invitation. “Not like the smell! It were tenpence the half-pint.”
Maria took the child’s hand. Meta gave it reluctantly: the new parrot possessed55 great attractions for her. “I’ll come again and see it to-morrow,” said she to Mrs. Bond. “I’ll come with Margery. I am coming to play in the hayfield.”
“Ay,” returned Mrs. Bond. “Ain’t it pretty! It’s the best Old Tom.”
She was evidently getting a little confused in her intellects. Had Maria been a strong-minded district visitor, given to reforming the evils of the parish, she might have read Mrs. Bond a lecture on sobriety, and walked off with the bottle. Mrs. Bond and such medicine-bottles had however been too long and too well acquainted with each other, to admit any hope of their effectually parting now: and the last thing Maria caught, as she glanced back, was a vision of that lady’s head thrown back, the inverted56 tea-cup to her lips.
“The note would have been changed before the week was out!” was Maria’s mental comment.
Without further adventure, she reached Lady Godolphin’s Folly. Charlotte had visitors. A country squire’s wife with her two daughters had come for a few days from their sober residence at a few miles’ distance to the attractions of the Folly. Charlotte could make it attractive when she liked; and invitations to it were in demand—which has been previously57 remarked. If people did think Mrs. Pain somewhat “fast” in her manners, she was no faster than some others.
Charlotte was in one of her pleasantest moods, and Maria had rarely seen her looking so well. She wore a morning-dress of pink muslin, made simply, and confined at the waist by a band. Her hair was dressed simply also, brought rather low on her face, and rolled: even Margery could not have found fault with her looks this morning.
Or with her manner, either. She regaled Meta with strawberries; and when they were finished, caught her up in her arms and carried her out by the glass door.
“Do not keep her long, Mrs. Pain,” said Maria. “I must be going.”
“Where is your hurry?” asked Charlotte.
[262]“I am going on to Ashlydyat.”
Charlotte departed with Meta, and Maria continued with the ladies, Charlotte’s guests. They had been talking a few minutes, when loud screams of terror from Meta alarmed their ears. Maria hastened out in the direction of the sound, her cheeks and lips alike blanched58.
She came upon them—Charlotte and the child—in that secluded59, lovely spot amidst the grove60 of trees, where Charlotte Pain—and you saw her—had held an interview with her future husband, Rodolf, on George Godolphin’s wedding-day. Charlotte had now carried the child there, and set her on the mossy turf, and called her dogs around. She had done it thinking to give pleasure to the child. But Meta was of a timid nature; she was not used to dogs; and upon one of them springing on her with a bark, “all for play,” as Charlotte said, her fear broke forth in terrified cries. When Maria reached them, Charlotte had caught up Meta in her arms, and was kicking the dogs off.
Meta sprang from Charlotte’s arms to her mother’s, with a great cry. Maria, not so strongly-framed as Charlotte, could not hold this child of between five and six at her ease, but was fain to stagger with her to a bench. Meta lay in her lap, clinging to her and sobbing61 convulsively.
“My darling, what is it?” whispered Maria. “What has hurt you?”
“Would you be so kind as send the dogs away, Mrs. Pain?” asked Maria. “I think she is frightened at them.”
“I know she is, foolish little thing!” answered Charlotte, going off with the dogs. Apparently63 she disposed of them somewhere, for she returned the next minute without them. Maria was in the same place, holding her child to her heart.
“Mrs. George Godolphin, don’t you think you will have to answer sometime for the manner in which you are rearing that child?” began she, gravely.
“In what way?” returned Maria.
“You are bringing her up to be as timid as yourself.”
“Am I particularly timid?”
“You! Why, you know you are. You don’t ride: you wouldn’t drive for the world; you are afraid of dogs.”
“I could manage to ride a quiet pony,” said Maria. “As to dogs, I confess that I am a little afraid of them, if they are rough.”
“If a dog only barks, you call it ‘rough,’” retorted Charlotte. “I should just put that child down again, and call the dogs round her, and let her battle it out with them. They would not hurt her; there’s no fear of that; and it would teach her to overcome fear.”
“Oh, Mrs. Pain!” Maria involuntarily strained her child closer to her, and Meta, who had heard the words, pushed her little hot face of distress64 nearer to its shelter. “It might throw her into such a state of terror, that she would never forget it. She would be frightened at dogs for her life. That is not the way to treat children, indeed, Mrs. Pain!”
Meta could not be coaxed65 down again. Maria was not strong[263] enough to carry her to the house, so Charlotte took her up in her arms. But the child would not release her hand from her mother’s, and Maria had to walk along, holding it.
“You pretty little timid goose!” cried Charlotte, kissing her. “Whatever would you do if you were to lose your mamma?”
“It would be a calamity66, would it not, Meta?” said Maria, speaking half-jokingly; and Charlotte answered in the same light spirit.
“A calamity in one sense, of course. But she might get a chance then of having a little of the rust31 rubbed out of her. Meta, we must have some more strawberries after this.”
But Meta could not be seduced67 to strawberries. Maria said farewell, and led her away, bending her steps to Ashlydyat. The child was frightened still. Janet gravely assured her that the dogs would not come to Ashlydyat, and Meta allowed herself to be taken possession of by Cecil, introducing the subject of Mrs. Bond’s beautiful parrot and its large cage as she was going away.
“We have heard about the parrot,” remarked Bessy to Maria. “Susan Satcherly hobbled up here this morning, and mentioned its arrival. Susan hopes it won’t scream all night as well as all day: she hears it next door as plainly as though the parrot were present there. A ten-pound note has come also, she says. Which I am almost sorry for,” added Bessy: “though I suppose Mrs. Bond would think me terribly ill-natured if she heard me say so. She will change that note to-day, and never rest until the last shilling of it has been spent.”
“No, she will not,” returned Maria, laughing, holding out the note in triumph. “She has given it to me to keep for her.”
“Never!” exclaimed Bessy in surprise. “You must have exercised some sleight-of-hand, Maria, to get that!”
Maria laughed. “She was in an unusually tractable68 humour, Bessy. The fact is, a sovereign had arrived as well as the bank-note: and that she had changed.”
Bessy nodded her head. She knew Mrs. Bond of old. “I understand,” said she. “Was she very bad, Maria?”
“No; not then. But I can’t say what she may be before the day is over. She brought a handful of silver out of her pocket.”
“Now, mind, Maria—don’t give her up that note, let her ask for it ever so,” advised Bessy. “Keep it until winter.”
“If she will allow me,” replied Maria. “But she only resigned it on condition that I would return it to her if she asked for it. I promised that I would do so.”
“I should not: promise or no promise,” returned Bessy. “Keeping it would be for her good, you know, Maria.”
Maria shook her head. She could not be strong-minded, as Bessy was, acting69 for people’s good against their will; and she could not go from her promise. She returned the note to her purse, knowing that Mrs. Bond would have it, if she chose to demand it.
Maria was easily persuaded to remain for the day at Ashlydyat. She sat at the window in the height of enjoyment70. It was enjoyment to Maria Godolphin: sitting there in perfect stillness on a calm summer’s day. The lovely flowers of Ashlydyat’s garden, its velvet71 lawns, were stretched out before her: the white walls of Lady Godolphin’s Folly[264] rose in the distance; and Maria sat in an easy-chair in luxurious72 idleness, her fair white hands lying in her lap. Meta was away somewhere, fascinating the household, and all was rest. Rest from exertion73, rest from care. The time came when Maria looked back on that day and believed it must have been paradise.
Janet sent a note to the Bank, to desire George to come up to dinner with Thomas. When Thomas arrived, however, he was alone. George was out, therefore the note had not been given to him. They supposed he would be up in the evening, and dined without him.
But the evening passed on, and he did not come. Thomas’s private opinion was that George must have remained to search for the missing deeds. Thomas could not be easy under such a misfortune—as it might in truth be called. The sum was by far too weighty to be lost with equanimity74. And that was not all: there was the unpleasant uncertainty75 with regard to the disappearance76. Thomas mentioned the matter in confidence amongst them. At least, to Maria and Janet; the other two had gone out with Meta. Janet observed that he appeared absorbed in thought, as if uneasy at something; and he readily acknowledged that he had been rendered uneasy by a circumstance which had occurred during the day: the missing of some deeds that they had believed to be in safe custody77.
“What if you cannot find them, Thomas?” asked Janet.
“Then we must make good the loss.”
“Is it a heavy amount?”
“Yes.”
Janet looked startled. Thomas’s grave manner did not tend to reassure78 her. She gave utterance79 to some half-spoken words.
“It is a heavy amount as a loss,” explained Thomas. “In fact, it is a large sum in itself. It would cost us over sixteen thousand pounds to make it good.”
Janet lifted her hands in dismay. “And all from the loss of a single packet of deeds?”
“Even so.”
“But how can they have been lost?”
“There it is,” said Thomas Godolphin. “If we could tell as much as that, it would be some satisfaction. We cannot imagine how or when they were lost. George missed them a month ago; but——”
“A month ago! Did George miss them a month ago?”
It was Maria who interrupted, eagerness in her voice and manner. It had occurred to her that the fact might account for a certain restlessness, an anxiety in George’s manner, which she had not failed to remark of late. The next words of Thomas Godolphin served to dissipate the illusion.
“George looked for the deeds a month ago. Not finding them in the box, he concluded that I had moved them. Therefore we cannot be said to have known of the loss until to-day.”
“George ought to have asked you,” said Janet.
“Yes, he ought,” acquiesced80 Thomas. But it was all he said.
“It is just like careless George!” exclaimed Janet. “Should the time ever come that he is sole head of the Bank, I do not know how it will get on! To whom did the deeds belong, Thomas?”
[265]“To Lord Averil.”
“You are sure you had them?” asked cautious Janet.
A half smile crossed Thomas Godolphin’s lips. “Quite sure, Janet. You understand,” he added, looking at them both, “we do not care that this should be spoken of. You are safe, I know, Janet; and Maria would most likely hear it from George.”
Maria had been buried in a reverie. “I cannot conceive how it is possible for anything to have been lost from the strong-room,” she said, lifting her head. “All about us are trustworthy. And, were they not, there would be no possibility of their getting to the safes in the strong-room.”
“You are right, Maria,” said Thomas. “I have thought of it until I am bewildered.”
Maria seemed to be getting bewildered also. She was thinking of it in its every aspect and bearing. Many little past incidents, proving that her husband was ill at ease, had something on his mind, rushed into her memory. She had not thought much of them before: but they grew strangely vivid now. To miss deeds of this value would amply account for it.
“Thomas,” said she, speaking out her thoughts, “do you not think George must have feared there was something wrong, when he missed them at first? I do.”
“No. Why do you think it?”
“Because——” Maria stopped. It suddenly occurred to her that it might not be quite right to comment upon her husband’s manner, what it had, or what it had not been; that he might not like her to do so, although it was only to his brother and sister. So she turned it off: speaking any indifferent words that came uppermost.
“It is curious, missing a packet of deeds of that value from its place, that he should not have feared it might be missing altogether.”
“The very fact of his not asking me about it, Maria, proves that no suspicion of wrong crossed his mind,” was the comment of Thomas Godolphin. “He supposed I had placed it elsewhere.”
“That’s just like George!” repeated Janet. “Taking things on trust, as he takes people! A child might deceive him.”
“I hope we shall find them yet,” said Thomas Godolphin.
“Does Lord Averil——”
What Janet might be about to inquire was never known. The words were stopped by a strange noise, an appalling81 noise, apparently at the very door of the room they were in. A loud, prolonged, discordant82 noise, unlike anything they had ever heard. Some might have compared it to the shrieks83 of a strong giant in his agony; some to the hoarse84 screams of a bird of prey85. But it was unlike either: it was unlike anything earthly.
With one bound, they flew to the hall, on to which the room opened, Maria, white with terror. The servants came rushing from their apartments, and stood in consternation86.
What was the noise? What had caused it? The questions were pouring forth from all. The hall was perfectly87 empty, except for its startled gazers; doors and windows had been closed. Thomas walked to the entrance and looked beyond, beyond the porch, but nothing[266] was there. The space was empty; the evening was calm and still. At a distance, borne on the evening air, could be heard the merry laughter of Meta, playing with Bessy and Cecil. Thomas came in and closed the door again.
“I cannot think what it could have been!” he observed, speaking generally.
The servants were ready with answering remarks. One had thought this; one had thought that; another something else. Maria had seized upon Janet: glad, perhaps, that it was too dark for her white face to be discerned. It was the sound which had so terrified her: no association in her mind was connected with it; and it was the sound which had terrified the servants. They had never heard a sound like unto it in all their lives.
But, in truth, he so spoke only in the absence of any other possible assumption, and against his own belief. No bird of prey, known to ornithology89, could have made that noise, even had it been within the hall to do it. A dozen birds of prey could not have made it. Thomas, like the rest, felt bewildered.
The servants began to move away. Nothing more than usual was to be seen in the darkened hall nothing to be heard. As the last one disappeared, Thomas turned to the drawing-room door, and held it open for his sister and Maria.
At that very moment when they had gone in, and Thomas was following, the noise came again. Loud, prolonged, shrill90, unearthly! What was it? Were the rafters of the house loosening? the walls rending91 asunder92? Were the skies opening for the crack of doom93? They gathered in the hall again: master, ladies, servants; and stood there, motionless, appalled94, bewildered, their faces whiter than before.
Its echoes died away in shrieks. Human cries this time, and not unfamiliar95. One of the women-servants, excited beyond repression96, had fallen into hysterics.
But whence had proceeded that noise? Where had been its centre? Without the house, or within the house?—in its walls, its passages, its hall?—where? Its sound had been everywhere. In short, what had caused it? what had it been?
They could not tell. It was a problem beyond human philosophy to solve. They could not tell then; they could not tell afterwards. It has been no ideal scene that I have described, as living witnesses could testify. Witnesses who can no more account for those unearthly sounds now, than they could account for them then.
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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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tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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6
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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covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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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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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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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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bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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wafting
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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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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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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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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39
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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50
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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proffering
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的现在分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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80
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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82
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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83
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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85
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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86
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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87
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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88
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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89
ornithology
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| n.鸟类学 | |
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90
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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92
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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93
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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95
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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