Barely had Maria departed and closed the Rectory gate behind her, when she encountered a stylish1 vehicle dashing along at an alarming pace, with a couple of frantic2 dogs behind it. It was that “turn-out” you have heard of, belonging to Mrs. Charlotte Pain. Mrs. Charlotte Pain was in it, resplendent as the sun, dazzling the admiring eyes of Prior’s Ash in a gown of pink moiré antique, and a head-gear which appeared to be composed of pink and white feathers and a glittering silver aigrette, its form altogether not unlike a French gendarme3’s hat, if you have the pleasure of being familiar with that awe-imparting article. At the sight of Maria she pulled the horses up with a jerk: on which ensued some skirmishing and scattering4 abroad of dust, the animals, both horses and dogs, not approving of so summary a check; but Charlotte was resolute5, and her whip effective. She then flung the reins6 to the groom7 who sat beside her, jumped down, and held out her hand to Maria.
[368]Maria accepted it. The revelation gratuitously8 bestowed9 on her by Margery was beating its words upon her memory; and her brow, face and neck had flushed to a glowing crimson10. Some might have flung the offered hand aside, and picked up their skirts with a jerk, and sailed away with an air; but Maria was a gentlewoman.
“How well you look!” exclaimed Charlotte, regarding her in some surprise. “Perhaps you are warm? I say, Mrs. George”—dropping her voice to a whisper—“whither do you think I am bound?”
“I cannot tell.”
“To see Lord Averil. He is back again, and stopping at old Max’s. I am going to badger11 him out of a promise not to hurt George Godolphin—about those rubbishing bonds, you know. I won’t leave him until I get it.”
“Yes,” said Maria.
“I will have it. Or—war to the knife, my lord! I should like to see him, or anybody else, attempt to refuse me anything I stood out for,” she added, with a triumphant12 glance, meant for the absent viscount. “Poor George has nobody here to fight his battles for him, and he can’t return to enter on them in person; so it’s well that some friend should do it. They are saying in the town this morning, that Averil has returned for the purpose of prosecuting13: I mean to cut his prosecuting claws off.”
“It is a mistake,” said Maria. “Lord Averil has no intention of prosecuting.”
“How do you know?” bluntly asked Charlotte.
“I have just seen him.”
“You don’t mean to say you have been over to old Max’s?” exclaimed Charlotte, opening her brilliant black eyes very widely.
“Yes, I have.”
“You quiet slyboots! You have never walked there and back?”
“I don’t feel very tired. I have been resting with mamma for half an hour.”
“And he’s safe—Averil?” eagerly continued Charlotte.
“Quite safe. Remember his long friendship with Thomas Godolphin.”
“Oh, my dear, men forget friendship when their pockets are in question,” was the light remark of Charlotte. “You are sure, though, Averil’s not deceiving you? I don’t much think he is one to do a dirty trick of that sort, but I have lived long enough to learn that you must prove a man before you trust him.”
“Lord Averil is not deceiving me,” quietly answered Maria. “He has given me a message for my husband.”
“Then there’s no necessity for my going to him,” said Charlotte. “Let me drive you home, Mrs. George Godolphin. I am sure you are fatigued15. I never saw any one change countenance16 as you do. A few minutes ago you looked vulgarly hot, and now you are pale enough for the grave. Step in. James, you must change to the back seat.”
Step into that formidably high thing, and sit by Mrs. Charlotte Pain’s side, and dash through Prior’s Ash! Maria wondered whether the gossips of Prior’s Ash—who, as it seemed, had made so free with[369] gay George’s name—or Margery, would stare the most. She declined the invitation.
“You are afraid,” cried Charlotte. “Well, it’s a great misfortune, these timid temperaments17: but I suppose they can’t be cured. Kate Verrall’s another coward: but she’s not as bad as you. Toss me my parasol, James.”
James handed his mistress a charming toy of pink moiré antique silk and point lace, mounted on a handle of carved ivory. Charlotte put it up before her face, and turned to accompany Maria.
Maria put her parasol up before her face, thankful that it might serve to shield it, if only partially18, from the curious eyes of Prior’s Ash. Remembering the compliments that Prior’s Ash had been kind enough to pass on her “blind simplicity,” she would not exactly have chosen her present companion to walk through the streets with. Dame20 Bond, with her unsteady steps and her snuffy black gown, would have been preferable of the two.
“But,” thought Maria in her generosity21, striving to thrust that other unpleasant feeling down deep into her heart, and to lose sight of it, “it is really kind of Mrs. Pain to be seen thus publicly with me. Other ladies would be ashamed of me now, I suppose.”
They stepped on. Maria with her parasol so close to her face that there was danger of her running against people; Charlotte turning herself from side to side, flirting22 the costly23 little pink toy as one flirts24 a fan, bowing and scraping to all she met. The dogs snarled25 and barked behind her; the carriage pranced26 and curvetted by their side; the unhappy James, his hands full with the horses, which refused to recognize any mastership except that of Mrs. Charlotte Pain. Altogether, it was a more conspicuous27 progress than Maria would have chosen. Thus they arrived at the Bank, and Maria held out her hand to Charlotte. She could not be otherwise than courteous28, no matter to whom.
“I am coming in,” said Charlotte bluntly. “Take care what you are about with the horses, James.”
Maria led the way to the dining-room. All was as it used to be in that charming room; furniture, pictures, elegant trifles for show or for use; all was the same: except—that those things belonged now not to Maria and her husband, but were noted29 down as the property of others. Soon, soon to be put up for sale! Charlotte’s rich moiré antique came to an anchor on a sofa, and she untied30 the string of the gendarme hat, and pushed it back on her head.
“I am going to leave Prior’s Ash.”
“To leave Prior’s Ash!” repeated Maria. “When?”
“But—Lady Godolphin cannot come back to it without giving you due notice to quit?” debated Maria.
“It’s all arranged,” said Charlotte, opening her mouth with a loud yawn. “Lady Godolphin wrote to Verrall, and the arrangements have been agreed upon amicably32. Lady Godolphin foregoes a certain portion of rent, and we go out immediately. I am very glad, do you know. I had made my mind up not to stay. As to the Verralls, it[370] may be said that they virtually took leave of the Folly long ago. Uncommonly33 glad I shall be to leave it,” repeated Charlotte with emphasis.
“Why?”
“Who’d care to stay at Prior’s Ash, after all this bother? You and George will be leaving it for London, you know—and I hope it won’t be long first. You must make me useful up there, Mrs. George. I’ll——”
“Who told you we were going to leave for London?” interrupted Maria in astonishment34.
“Nobody told me. But of course you will. Do you suppose George Godolphin will care to stop amongst this set? Not he. He’d see Prior’s Ash go promenading35 first. What tie has he here, now Ashlydyat’s gone? Verrall talks of buying a hunting-box in Leicestershire.”
“Does he?” replied Maria mechanically, her thoughts buried elsewhere.
“Buying or hiring one. I should hire; and then there’s no bother if you want to make a flitting. But Verrall is one who takes nobody’s counsel but his own. What a worry it will be!” added Charlotte, after a pause.
Maria raised her eyes. She did not understand the remark.
“Packing up the things at the Folly,” exclaimed Charlotte. “We begin to-morrow morning. I must be at the head of it, for it’s of no use trusting that sort of work entirely36 to servants. Bon jour, petite coquette! Et les poupées?”
The diversion was caused by the flying entrance of Miss Meta. The young lady was not yet particularly well up in the Gallic language, and only half understood. She went straight up to Mrs. Pain, threw her soft sweet eyes right into that lady’s flashing black ones, rested her pretty arms upon the moiré antique, and spoke37 out with her accustomed boldness.
“Where are the dogs now?”
“Chained down in the pit-hole,” responded Mrs. Pain.
“Margery says there is no pit-hole, and the dogs were not chained down,” asserted Meta.
“Margery’s nothing but an old woman. Don’t you believe her. If she tells stories again, we’ll chain her down with the dogs.”
“Two of the dogs are outside,” said Meta.
“Not the same dogs, child,” returned Mrs. Pain with cool equanimity38. “They are street dogs, those are.”
“They are with the carriage,” persisted Meta. “They are barking round it.”
“Are they barking? They can see Margery’s face at the nursery window, and are frightened at it. Dogs always bark at ugly old women’s faces. You tell Margery so.”
“Margery’s not ugly.”
“You innocent little simpleton! She’s ugly enough to frighten the crows.”
How long the colloquy39 might have continued it is hard to say: certainly Meta would not be the one to give in: but it was interrupted[371] by Margery herself. A note had just been delivered at the house for Mrs. George Godolphin, and Margery, who probably was glad of an excuse for entering, brought it in. She never looked at all towards Mrs. Pain; she came straight up to her mistress, apparently40 ignoring Charlotte’s presence, but you should have seen the expression of her face. The coronet on the seal imparted a suspicion to Maria that it came from Lord Averil, and her heart sank within her. Could he be withdrawing his promise of clemency41?
“A servant on horseback, ma’am.”
Charlotte had started up, catching43 at her feathers, for Pierce was at the dining-room door now, saying that the horses were alarmingly restive44. “Good afternoon, Mrs. George Godolphin,” she called out unceremoniously, as she hastened away. “I’ll come and spend a quiet hour with you before I leave for town. Adieu, petite diablesse! I’d have you up to-morrow for a farewell visit, but that I’m afraid you might get nailed down with the furniture in some of the packing-cases.”
Away she went. Meta was hastening after her, but was caught up by Margery with an angry sob—as if she had been saving her from some imminent45 danger. Maria opened the letter with trembling fingers.
“My dear Mrs. Godolphin,
“It has occurred to me since I parted from you, that you may wish to have the subject of our conversation confirmed in writing. I hereby assure you that I shall take no legal proceedings46 whatever against your husband on account of my lost bonds, and you may tell him from me that he need not, on that score, remain away from Prior’s Ash.
“Believe me, ever sincerely yours,
“Averil.”
“How kind he is!” came involuntarily from Maria’s lips.
The words were drowned in a noise outside. Charlotte had contrived47 to ascend48 to her seat in spite of the prancing49 horses. She stood up in the high carriage, as George Godolphin had once done at the same door, and by dint50 of strength and skill, subdued them to control. Turning their fiery51 heads, scattering the assembled multitude right and left, nodding pleasantly to the applause vouchsafed52 her, Mrs. Charlotte Pain and the turn-out disappeared with a clatter53, amidst the rolling of wheels, the barking of dogs, and the intense admiration54 of the gaping55 populace.
On this same evening, Miss Godolphin sat at a window facing the west in their home at Ashlydyat. Soon to be their home no more. Her cheek rested pensively56 on her fingers, as she thought—oh, with what bitterness!—of the grievous past. She had been universally ridiculed57 for giving heed58 to the superstitious59 traditions attaching to the house, and yet how strangely they appeared to be working themselves out. It had begun—Janet seemed to think the ruin had begun—with the departure of her father, Sir George, from Ashlydyat: and the tradition[372] went that when the head of the Godolphins should voluntarily abandon Ashlydyat, the ruin would follow.
Had Sir George’s departure brought on the ruin—been the first link in the chain that led to it? Janet was debating the question in her mind. That she was prone60 to indulging superstitious fancies to a degree many would pronounce ridiculously absurd cannot be denied: but in striving to solve that particular problem she was relinquishing61 the by-paths of the supernatural for the broad road of common sense. From the facts that were being brought to light by the bankruptcy62, turning up by degrees one after another, it was easy to see that George Godolphin had been seduced63 into a hornet’s nest, and so been eased of his money. Whether the process had been summary or slow—whether he had walked into it head foremost in blind simplicity—or whether he had only succumbed64 to it under the most refined Machiavellian65 craft, it was of no consequence to inquire. It is of no consequence to us. He had fallen into the hands of a company of swindlers, who ensnared their victims and transacted66 their business under the semblance67 of bill-discounting: and they had brought George to what he was.
Head and chief of this apparently reputable firm was Verrall: and Verrall, there was not a doubt, had been chief agent in George Godolphin’s undoing68. But for Sir George Godolphin’s quitting Ashlydyat and putting it up in the market to let, Verrall might never have come near Prior’s Ash; never have met Mr. George Godolphin. In that case the chances are that Mr. George would have been a flourishing banker still. Gay he would have been; needlessly extravagant70; scattering his wild oats by the bushel—but not a man come to ruin and to beggary.
Janet Godolphin was right: it was the quitting Ashlydyat by her father, and the consequent tenancy of Mr. Verrall, which had been the first link in the chain, terminating in George’s disgrace, in their ruin.
She sat there, losing herself in regret after regret. “If my father had not left it!—if he had never married Mrs. Campbell!—if my own dear mother had not died!”—she lost herself, I say, in these regrets, bitter as they were vain.
How many of these useless regrets might embitter71 the lives of us all! How many do embitter them! If I had only done so-and-so!—if I had only taken the left turning when I took the right!—if I had only known what that man was from the first, and shunned72 his acquaintance!—if I had only chosen that path in life instead of this one!—if I had, in short, only done precisely73 the opposite to what I did do! Vain, vain repinings!—vain, useless, profitless repinings! The only plan is to keep them as far as possible from our hearts. If we could foresee the end of a thing from its beginning,—if we could buy a stock of experience at the outset of life,—if we could, in point of fact, become endowed with the light of Divine wisdom, what different men and women the world would contain!
But we cannot. We cannot undo69 the past. It is ours with all its folly, its short-sightedness, perhaps its guilt74. Though we stretch out our yearning75 and pitiful hands to Heaven in their movement of agony—though we wail76 aloud our bitter cry, Lord, pardon me—heal me—help me!—though we beat on our remorseful77 bosom78 and lacerate its flesh in[373] bitter repentance79, we cannot undo the past. We cannot undo it. The past remains80 to us unaltered; and must remain so for ever.
Janet left the room. Thomas, who had been seated opposite to her, was buried in thought, when Bexley appeared, showing in Lord Averil.
He hastened forward to prevent Thomas Godolphin’s rising. Laying one hand upon his shoulder and the other on his hands, he pressed him down and would not let him rise.
“How am I to thank you?” were the first words spoken by Thomas—in reference to the clemency shown to his brother, as promised that day to Maria.
“Hush!” said Lord Averil. “My dear friend, you are allowing these things to affect you more than they ought. I see the greatest change in you, even in this short time.”
The rays of the declining sun were falling on the face of Thomas Godolphin, lighting81 up its fading vitality82. The cheeks were thinner, the weak hair seemed scantier83, the truthful84 grey eyes had acquired an habitual85 expression of pain. Lord Averil leaned over him and noted it all.
“Sit down,” said Thomas, drawing a chair nearer to him.
Lord Averil accepted the invitation, but did not release the hand. “I understand you have been doubting me,” he said. “You might have known me better. We have been friends a long time.”
Thomas Godolphin only answered by a pressure of the hand he held. Old and familiar friends though they were, understanding each other’s hearts almost, as these close friends should do, it was yet a most painful point to Thomas Godolphin. On the one side there was his brother’s crime: on the other there was the loss of that large sum to Lord Averil. Thomas had to do perpetual battle with pain now: but there were moments when the conflict was nearer and sharper than at others. This was one of them.
They subsided87 into conversation: its theme, as was natural, the bankruptcy and its attendant details. Lord Averil found that Thomas was blaming himself.
“Why should you?” he asked impulsively88. “Is it not enough that the world should do so, without yourself indorsing it?”
A faint smile crossed Thomas Godolphin’s face at the thoughtless admission spoken so openly: but he knew, none better, how great a share of blame was dealt out to him. “It is due,” he observed to Lord Averil. “I ought not to have reposed89 trust so implicit19 in George. Things could not have come to this pass if I had not done so.”
“If we cannot place implicit trust in a brother, in whom can we place it?”
“True. But in my position as trustee to others, I ought not to have trusted that things were going on right. I ought to have known that they were so.”
They went on to the future. Thomas spoke of the selling up of all things, of their turning out of Ashlydyat. “Is that decree irrevocable?” Lord Averil interrupted. “Must Ashlydyat be sold?”
Thomas was surprised at the question. It was so superfluous90 a one. “It will be sold very shortly,” he said, “to the highest bidder91. Any[374] stranger who bids most will get Ashlydyat. I hope,” he added, with a half start, as if the possibility occurred to him then for the first time, “that the man Verrall will not become a bidder for it—and get it! Lady Godolphin turns him out of the Folly.”
“Never fear,” said Lord Averil. “He will only be too glad to relieve Prior’s Ash of his presence. Thomas, can nothing be done to the man? Your brother may have been a willing tool in his hands, but broad whispers are going about that it is Verrall who has reaped the harvest. Can no legal cognizance be taken of it?”
Thomas shook his head. “We may suspect a great deal—in fact, it is more than suspicion—but we can prove nothing. The man will rise triumphantly92 from it all, and carry his head higher than ever. I hope, I say, that he will not think of Ashlydyat. They were in it once, you know.”
“Why could not Ashlydyat be disposed of privately93?—by valuation? It might be, if the assignees approved.”
“Yes, I suppose it might be.”
“I wish you would sell it to me,” breathed Lord Averil.
“To you!” repeated Thomas Godolphin. “Ay, indeed. Were you to have Ashlydyat I should the less keenly regret its passing from the Godolphins.”
Lord Averil paused. He appeared to want to say something, but to hesitate in doubt.
“Would it please you that one of the Godolphins should still inhabit it?” he asked at length.
“I do not understand you?” replied Thomas. “There is no chance—I had almost said no possibility—of a Godolphin henceforward inhabiting Ashlydyat.”
“I hope and trust there is,” said Lord Averil with emotion. “If Ashlydyat is ever to be mine, I shall not care for it unless a Godolphin shares it with me. I speak of your sister Cecilia.”
Thomas sat in calmness, waiting for more. Nothing could stir him greatly now. Lord Averil gave him the outline of the past. Of his love for Cecilia, and her rejection94 of him.
“There has been something,” he continued, “in her manner of late, which has renewed hope within me—otherwise I should not say this to you now. Quite of late; since her rejection of me; I have observed that—that—— I cannot describe it, Thomas,” he broke off. “But I have determined95 to risk my fate once more. And you—loving Cecil as I do—you thought I could prosecute96 George!”
“But I did not know that you loved Cecil.”
“I suppose not. It has seemed to me, though, that my love must have been patent to the world. You would give her to me, would you not?”
“Ay; thankfully,” was the warm answer. “The thought of leaving Cecil unprotected has been one of my cares. Janet and Bessy are older and more experienced. Let me give you one consolation97, Averil: if Cecilia has rejected you, she has rejected others. Janet has fancied she had some secret attachment98. Can it have been to yourself?”
“If so, why should she have rejected me?”
“In truth I do not know. Cecil has seemed grievously unhappy[375] since these troubles arose: almost as one who has no further hope in life. George’s peril99 has told upon her.”
“His peril?”
“From you.”
Lord Averil bit his lip. “Cecil, above all others—unless it were yourself—might have known that he was safe.”
A silence ensued. Lord Averil resumed: “There is one upon whom I fear these troubles are telling all too greatly, Thomas. And that is your brother’s wife.”
“May God comfort her!” was the involuntary answer that broke from the lips of Thomas Godolphin.
“Had I been ever so harshly inclined, I think the sight of her to-day would have disarmed100 me. No, no: had I never owned friendship for you; had I never loved Cecil, there is certainly enough evil, cruel, unavoidable evil, which must fall with this calamity101, without my adding to it.”
“When I brought word home this afternoon that you were well disposed towards George—that he had nothing to fear from you, Cecil burst into tears.”
A glow arose to Lord Averil’s face. He looked out on the setting sun in silence. “Has your brother been sent for?” he presently asked.
“Maria and I have both written for him now. I should think he will come. What is it, Bexley?”
“A message from Mrs. Pain, sir, about some of the fixtures102 at Lady Godolphin’s Folly. Mrs. Pain wants to know if you have a list of them. She forgets which belong to the house, and which don’t.”
Thomas Godolphin said a word of apology to Lord Averil, and left the room. In the hall he met Cecil crossing to it. She went in, quite unconscious who was its inmate103. He rose up to welcome her.
A momentary104 hesitation105 in her steps: a doubt whether she should not run away again, and then she recalled her senses and went forward.
She recalled what he had done that day for her brother; she went forward to thank him. But ere the thanks had well begun, they came to an end, for Cecil had burst into tears.
How it went on, and what was exactly said or done, neither of them could remember afterwards. A very few minutes, and Cecil’s head was resting upon his shoulder, all the mistakes of the past cleared up between them.
She might not have confessed to him how long she had loved him—ever since that long past time when they were together at Mrs. Averil’s—but for her dread106 lest he should fear that she was only accepting him now out of gratitude—gratitude for his noble behaviour to her erring107 brother. And so she told him the truth: that she had loved him, and only him, all through.
Cecil looked down. Perhaps some might also have been spared to her. “It is not right that you should marry me now,” she said.
“Why?”
[376]“On account of this dreadful disgrace. George must have forgotten how it would fall upon——”
“Hush, Cecil! The disgrace, as I look upon it—as I believe all just people must look upon it—is confined to himself. It is indeed. Not an iota109 of the respect due to Thomas by the world, of the consideration due to the Miss Godolphins, will be lessened110. Rely upon it I am right.”
“But Thomas is being reflected upon daily: personally abused.”
“By a few inconsiderate creditors111, smarting just now under their loss. That will all pass away. If you could read my heart and see how happy you have made me, you would know how little cause you have to talk of ‘disgrace,’ Cecil.”
She was happy also, as she rested there against him; too happy.
“Would you like to live at Ashlydyat, Cecil? Thomas would rather we had it than it should lapse112 to strangers. I should wish to buy it.”
“Oh yes—if it could be.”
“I dare say it can be. Of course it can. Ashlydyat must be sold, and I shall be as welcome a purchaser as any other would be. If it must be put up to auction113, I can be its highest bidder; but I dare say they will be glad to avoid the expense of an auction, and let me purchase it privately. I might purchase the furniture also, Cecil; all the old relics114 that Sir George set so much store by—that Janet does still.”
“If it could be!” she murmured.
“Indeed I think it may be. They will be glad to value it as it stands. And Cecil, we will drive away all the ghostly superstitions115, and that ominous116 Shadow——”
Cecil lifted her face, an eager light upon it. “Janet says that the curse has been worked out with the ruin of the Godolphins. She thinks that the dark Shadow will never come any more.”
“So much the better. We will have the Dark Plain dug up and made into a children’s playground, and a summer-house for them shall be erected117 on the very spot which the Shadow has made its own. There may be children here some time, Cecil.”
“If you liked—if you liked, Cecil, we might ask Janet and Bessy to retain their home here,” resumed Lord Averil, in thoughtful consideration. “Ashlydyat is large enough for all.”
“Their home is decided119 upon,” said Cecil, shaking her head. “Bessy has promised to make hers at Lady Godolphin’s Folly. Lady Godolphin exacted her promise to that effect, before she decided to return to it. I was to have gone to it also. Janet goes to Scotland. I am quite sure that this place has become too painful for Janet to remain in. She has an annuity120, as perhaps you know; it was money left her by mamma’s sister; so that she is independent, and can live where she pleases; but I am sure she will go to Scotland, as soon as—as soon as——”
“I understand you, Cecil. As soon as Thomas shall have passed away.”
The tears were glistening121 in her eyes. “Do you not see a great change in him?”
[377]“A very great one. Cecil, I should like him to give you to me. Will you waive122 ceremony, and be mine at once?”
“I will see,” murmured Cecil. “When a little of this bustle123, this disgrace shall have passed away. Let it die out first.”
A grave expression arose to Lord Averil’s face. “It must not be very long first, Cecil: if you would be mine while your brother is in life.”
“I will, I will; it shall be as you wish,” she answered, her tears falling. And before Lord Averil could make any rejoinder, she had hastily left him, and was standing86 against the window, stealthily drying her eyes: for the door had opened to admit Thomas Godolphin.
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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gendarme
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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groom
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gratuitously
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bestowed
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crimson
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badger
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triumphant
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prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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fatigue
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fatigued
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countenance
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temperaments
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18
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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19
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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20
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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21
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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22
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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23
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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25
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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26
pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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29
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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30
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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31
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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32
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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33
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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34
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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35
promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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36
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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37
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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38
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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39
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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40
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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41
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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42
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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43
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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44
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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45
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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46
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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47
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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48
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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49
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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50
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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51
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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52
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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53
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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54
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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55
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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56
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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57
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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59
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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60
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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61
relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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62
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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63
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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64
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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65
machiavellian
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| adj.权谋的，狡诈的 | |
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66
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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67
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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68
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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69
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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70
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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71
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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72
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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74
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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75
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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76
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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77
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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78
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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79
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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80
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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81
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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82
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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83
scantier
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| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的比较级 ) | |
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84
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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85
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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86
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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87
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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88
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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89
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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91
bidder
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| n.(拍卖时的)出价人，报价人，投标人 | |
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92
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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93
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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94
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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95
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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96
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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97
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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98
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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99
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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100
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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101
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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102
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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103
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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104
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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105
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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106
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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107
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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108
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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109
iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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110
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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111
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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112
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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113
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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114
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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115
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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116
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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117
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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118
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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119
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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120
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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121
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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122
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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123
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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