'Rare as is true love, true friendship is still rarer.'
La Rochefoucauld.
Bridget's birthday came in May—the middle of May. From the time I have told you about in the last chapter Mr. Vane went on getting slowly better; at least he got no worse. But it did seem very slow. At last there came a day on which the doctor gave him leave to go downstairs.
'I want to see what he can do,' the doctor explained. 'At this rate we might go on for months and gain little ground. Perhaps he is stronger than he seems.'
They were all very eager and excited about this great step. It was an 'afternoon' day, as the little girls called those days on which Celestina and Miss Neale came back again, and this afternoon Mrs.[187] Fairchild came with them. Mrs. Vane was thankful to have her at hand in case of any help being needed. And all the children were sent out for a walk, with the promise of finding papa in the drawing-room when they came in again.
But as they were coming home they were met by Rough at the Rectory gate. It was one of his occasional half-days. He ran out to meet them, but he looked rather grave.
'Is papa down? Is he in the drawing-room?' cried Rosalys and Biddy.
'Yes,' said Rough; 'but mamma's been rather frightened about him. He seems so weak. She's sent me for the doctor, and he's there now. So you must not go in to see papa. That's why I came to meet you.'
Alie's face fell and Biddy's grew very red.
'I'm sure we shouldn't hurt him,' she said. 'It's all that nasty doctor,' and she almost looked as if she were going to get into one of her old tempers.
Celestina took hold of her hand gently.
'Don't, Biddy dear,' she whispered. 'Perhaps when the doctor goes you'll see him;' which did Bridget far more good than if she had overheard, as she luckily did not, Rough's remark to Alie: 'I [188]don't think she's any right to grumble1 when it's all her doing.'
It was not a kind thing to say, but then Rough's heart was sore and anxious, and when one feels so it is difficult not to be cross and sharp. All their hearts were sore, I think. Children jump on so fast in their minds. Bride and Rough, and Alie too, I daresay, had fancied to themselves that once 'downstairs' again papa would seem directly like himself, and this news was a great disappointment. So the little party went in rather sadly, Miss Neale telling them in a low voice to take off their things and come down to tea in the schoolroom as quietly as possible, Rough, over whom her authority did not extend, stationing himself at the front door to watch for the doctor's departure.
He stayed some time, and when he had gone Mr. Vane asked for the children.
'In a little,' Mrs. Vane answered. Then she turned to Celestina's mother. 'This idea has rather taken my breath away,' she said, but her voice was pretty cheerful.
'I hardly see how it is to be managed,' said Mr. Vane, for once rather despondently2.
'We will talk it all over afterwards,' said Mrs.[189] Vane, at a little sign from Celestina's mother; 'and now we will leave you to rest a while.'
'Oh dear, Mrs. Fairchild,' she said, when they were alone in the next room, 'I wonder what we can do. It is dreadful to think of going abroad—to be alone among strangers, and my husband so ill. And then leaving the children. I cannot send them to my mother. Her house is full with my eldest3 brother's family home from India.'
'I think they would get on very well here,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'And your own governess will be back in a fortnight. Of course Miss Neale would be too young for such a charge; besides, she cannot leave her mother. And—you must excuse my suggesting it—but is not Madame d'Ermont's home somewhere in the south?'
'To be sure,' exclaimed Mrs. Vane, starting up joyfully4; 'how stupid of me not to have thought of it! Thank you so much for reminding me. I have her last letter here. You have written to her yourself, have you not?'
'Yes, indeed. I wrote to thank her very much for her kindness,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'It may be of the greatest advantage to Celestina some day.'
For I have been so busy with the story of Biddy's [190]escapade and its consequences, that I have put off too long telling of the French lady's kind letter to Mrs. Vane about her old friend Mrs. Fairchild and her little name-daughter Celestina.
'It has touched me very much,' she wrote, 'to find I was still remembered; and if ever I can be of use to little Célestine and her mother I hope she or you will let me know.'
Well, the doctor had ordered Mr. Vane to go abroad, as I daresay you will have guessed.
It was a sad disappointment, just when they had come to Seacove and he seemed so well, and though no one reproached her, Bridget felt that the consequences of her self-will were not to be soon forgotten.
It was all settled very quickly; and from the time it was settled Mr. Vane, 'out of contradiction,' he said laughing, really seemed to improve faster than hitherto. So that he was looking a good deal more like 'a proper papa,' as Alie said, the day he and Mrs. Vane started on their long journey.
'I am so glad you are going to be near that nice old lady,' said Alie, amidst her tears; 'and oh, mamma dear, I will try to do everything you would like.'[191]
'I am sure you will, darling, and it is a great comfort to feel so much happier about Biddy now. You will try to make a nice birthday for her, I know.'
'There'll be the surprise—that's something nice to look forward to. And we may have Celestina as often as we like, mayn't we?'
'As often as her mother can spare her, of course,' Mrs. Vane answered.
'Mamma, I'll try to be good,' she said bluntly; 'and if papa gets quite well again'—here her voice broke. 'Oh, mamma, if only it was the day for you and papa to come back, and him quite, quite well. Mamma, I think I'd never be naughty again.'
This was a great, great deal from Biddy!
That day did come, but a good many other days had to pass before it came, and some of these were rather sad and anxious ones. For the first letters from abroad were not as cheerful as Mrs. Vane would have liked to make them for the little party so eagerly awaiting them at Seacove Rectory. Mr. Vane was very tired by the journey, and had it not been for the kindness of Madame d'Ermont, who [192]would not hear of them staying anywhere but in her house, at any rate till he grew stronger, Mrs. Vane said she felt as if she would have lost heart altogether. But after a little things brightened up again. 'Papa really seems to get stronger every day,' she wrote; and on Bridget's birthday morning there came a letter from papa himself, all scented8 with the sweet violets he had slipped into it—for that was long before the days of parcel posts, by which flowers reach us from the south of France and Italy as fresh as if we had just gathered them in our own gardens—and telling of quite a long walk he had been able to take without feeling too tired. The letter ended up with wishing Biddy a truly happy birthday, and hopes that it might be bright and sunny at Seacove. 'I only wish I could pack up some of the sunshine here to send you,' wrote Mr. Vane, 'for we have enough and to spare of it. But after all, the best sunshine of all is that of happy and contented9 and loving hearts—is it not, my Biddy?'
There was sunshine of both kinds that day at the Rectory. Celestina came early, almost immediately after breakfast indeed, so as to be present at the great 'surprise.' She was to spend the whole day for once with her friends, which was a great treat, [193]though she saw them regularly once or twice a week when she came to have a French lesson from Miss Millet10. Mrs. Vane had arranged this before she left, for little Miss Neale, who now gave Celestina lessons every day at Pier6 Street, could not teach French, and it was a great pleasure, and help too, to Biddy to have industrious11, attentive12 Celestina still her companion in something.
But to-day, of course, there was no question of lessons of any kind.
They had breakfast extra early, which some children I know, would not, I fear, consider a treat. Indeed, I once heard of some young people, scarcely to be called children, and by no means overworked young people either, who chose for a holiday pleasure that they should stay in bed for breakfast, and not get up till the middle of the day, which, I must say, I did not at all admire. The great reason for the extra early breakfast on Biddy's birthday was not that the Vane children were so very fond of being up betimes, but that Rough wanted to be there at the great scene, and with some difficulty he had got an hour's 'grace' from school that morning.
To begin at the beginning—for I know that when I was a child I liked to be told all about everything—the [194]first pleasure of the day, after the reading of papa's nice letter, was the sight of the breakfast-table. Kind Miss Millet and Alie had dressed it up with cowslips after Biddy had gone to bed the night before, for there were cowslips, and very pretty ones, to be had in some woods a mile or two inland from Seacove. And May birthdays always make one think of cowslips.
The breakfast itself was very nice too—extra nice; for there was no bread and milk for once, but only 'grown-up' things—a tempting13 dish of ham and eggs, and delicious hot rolls and tea-cakes, and strawberry jam and honey to eat with them as a finish up. And besides the letter from papa—which had really come the day before and been kept till this morning, as, in his fear of being too late, Mr. Vane had sent it off rather too soon—there was a neat little packet for Biddy from grandmamma, containing a story-book called The Christmas Stocking, and a lovely scarf worked in all kinds of marvellous Eastern colours, 'making one think of the Arabian nights,' as Alie said, from the Indian cousins. So that it was with a sigh of deep content that Biddy sat down to breakfast, knowing that something still more delightful14 and wonderful was in store.[195]
Celestina arrived before breakfast was quite over, and Rough ran out and brought her into the dining-room, where she had to eat a roll and strawberry jam to refresh her after her early walk. And then when every one had finished and Rough had said grace, they all set off to the schoolroom.
'Shut your eyes, Biddy,' said Rough. 'I'll lead you in, and mind you don't open them till I tell you.'
There stood Biddy, as quiet as a mouse, though her heart was beating fast, till, after one or two whispered directions—'That isn't quite straight,' 'Put the chairs by the fire, Celestina,' and so on—came Rough's voice—
'Now, Biddy. Open your eyes.'
And 'open her eyes' she did, though she half shut them again the next minute, and then had to rub them to make sure they were not tricking her. For there in front of her, on the schoolroom table, stood, its two big doors flung wide open, the very nicest, most complete doll-house that, in those days at least, could have been imagined. There were six good-sized rooms: drawing-room, dining-room, two bedrooms, nursery, and kitchen—the last, perhaps, the most fascinating of all, with its little kitchen-range, [196]its rows of brightly shining pots and pans, some black, some tin, and some copper15; its dresser and shelves, and charming dinner service, and ever so many other things it would take me a very long time to describe. And the dining-room, with its brown and gold papered walls, and red velvet16 carpet and little stuffed chairs; and the drawing-room, with sofas covered in dainty chintz and blue carpet and gilt-framed mirrors; and the bedrooms, one white and one pink; and the nursery, with the sweet little cradle and rocking-chair and baths and wash-hand stands and I don't know all what—truly it was a very pretty sight. Biddy gasped17; she could not speak.
'And only think, Biddy,' said Rosalys; 'it is our own old doll-house done up. The one mamma had herself when she was a little girl, you know. Doesn't that make it all the nicer? You can't think how we've all worked at it. We'd begun it before—before papa and you got ill; that was our secret that Celestina and I were always whispering about.'
And in her delight even staid Alie gave two or three jumps up into the air! But as she came down again she felt herself caught round the neck and hugged and squeezed. Oh, how she was hugged and squeezed![197]
And 'Oh, Alie,' whispered Biddy, 'you are too good to me; for you don't know how naughty I felt about your having a secret.'
'Never mind, never mind. I daresay it was my fault. Mamma says it's very teasing to talk about secrets, but it's all right now, and we are all going to be so happy with the doll-house, aren't we? Now you must kiss Celestina too; you don't know what a lot she's done. She hemmed18 the sheets of the beds and the table-cloths and ever so many things, and her mamma dressed the dolls—and—oh yes, Roughie papered nearly all the rooms, and——'
But here Rosalys, who seemed to be turning all of a sudden into a regular chatterbox, was interrupted by more huggings and squeezings, as Rough rather objected to much of this sort of thing, and Biddy had still a great deal to spare even after she had bestowed19 a full share upon Celestina. She quieted down, however, when Miss Millet suggested that unless they set to work to go all over the house and admire all its numberless treasures, it would be getting too late for the nice walk they wanted to have before dinner. But in the midst of the showing everything Celestina made them all laugh by calmly taking a little parcel from her pocket, from which she drew [198]out three or four little dolls, announcing that they were Eleanor and Amy and one or two new ones, all in grand clothes for the occasion, who had come to spend the day with the Rectory doll party.
'You did invite them, Alie, you remember, don't you?' she said, looking a little bit aggrieved20. 'They would never have come without being invited.'
'Oh yes, I know I did,' Rosalys replied. 'It was only the funny way you pulled them out of your pocket.'
'And some day, Biddy, mother says, perhaps you'll bring yours to drink tea with mine,' said Celestina, quite pleased again. 'We might pretend that mine were some cousins they had in the country who were not very rich, you know,' she went on simply. 'And I'd make their parlour as smart as I could. I'd try to dress it up with flowers and green, so that it would be like an arbour.'
'Yes,' said Biddy, 'that would be nice. And we might have tea as well as the dolls, mightn't we, Celestina? You know once you told me about some little cups you have that we might have tea out of.'[199]
'Oh yes,' Celestina replied hospitably21, 'of course we'd have real tea too. Mother would make some cakes and——'
'My dears,' said Miss Millet, 'I think we must be going out. You will have all the rest of the day to play with the doll-house, but it is such a lovely morning, and I think it's always so nice to have a good walk on a holiday.'
The little girls were quite of their governess's opinion, only sorry that Randolph could not make one of the party. He came home, however, in good time in the afternoon, and they all had a very merry tea together.
'What a nice birthday it's been!' said Bride, as she and Alie kissed Celestina, whose mother managed to spare an hour to come to fetch her and at the same time to wish Biddy 'many happy returns.' 'How good of you to dress the dolls for me, Mrs. Fairchild!' she went on. 'I think I shall love the doll-house more and more every day, for, you see, it's full of kind things you've all done for me. And I'm going to keep it so neat. Mamma will be quite surprised when she comes home to find how neat I've learnt to be.'
'And only think, Mrs. Fairchild,' added Rosalys;[200] 'do you know that papa and mamma will most likely be home in one month? Just fancy, how nice!'
The 'most likely' came true. One month saw Mr. and Mrs. Vane safe back at Seacove; 'papa' so bright and well, so bronzed and ruddy too, that it was difficult to believe he was the same feeble-looking invalid22 who had started on his long journey nine weeks before.
It is not often—very seldom, indeed—that I am able to tell my readers 'what became of' the children they have come to know, and sometimes, I hope, to care for in these simple stories. But as it is now many years ago since the Vane family came to Seacove Rectory, and as Randolph and his sisters and Celestina Fairchild have long ago been grown-up people, I can give you another peep of them some eight or ten years after the birthday I have been telling you about.
The curtain rises again on a different scene.
It is a lovely, old-fashioned garden, exquisitely23 neat and filled with plants and flowers, showing at their best in the bright soft light of a midsummer [201]afternoon. A rectory garden, but not Seacove. Poor Seacove, with its sandy soil and near neighbourhood to the sea, could not have produced the velvety24 grass of that old bowling-green, now (for we are still speaking of a good many years ago) a croquet-ground, or the luxuriant 'rose hedge' bordering one end. Two girls were walking slowly up and down the wide terrace walk in front of the low windows, talking as they walked. One was tall and slight, with a fair sweet face—a very lovely face, and one that no one loved and admired more heartily25 than did her younger sister.
'Alie dear, I do hope you've had a happy birthday,' said Bridget—sixteen-years-old Bridget!—for Rosalys was twenty-one to-day. 'There are some birthdays one should remember more than others. A twenty-first birthday is a very particular one, isn't it?'
'Yes indeed, Biddy, it is,' Alie replied. 'I can scarcely believe it. And fancy, in five years more you will be twenty-one!'
'I hope I shall go on growing till then,' said Biddy, whose great ambition was to be as tall as her sister. 'Some girls do, don't they? And I have grown a good deal this year. I don't look as stumpy as I did, do I?' and Biddy looked up in her sister's [202]face with a pleasant smile—a smile that showed her pretty white teeth and shone out of her nice brown eyes. She was not lovely like Alie, but she had a dear honest face—though she was still rather freckled26, and her dark wavy27 hair gave her a somewhat gipsy look.
'You aren't a bit stumpy—you're just nice,' said Rosalys, 'though I daresay you will grow some more. Just think what a little roundabout you once were, and how you've grown since then.'
'Yes indeed,' laughed Biddy. 'Talking of birthdays, Alie, do you remember my eighth birthday? The one at Seacove, when papa and mamma were away after his being so ill, and when you all gave me the doll-house—the dear old doll-house; do you know I really sometimes play with it still? I often think of Seacove.'
'So do I,' said Alie. 'Of course I didn't like it as much as this, for this garden is so sweet and the country all about here is so beautiful, and then it's so nice to be near grandmamma. But Seacove had a great charm about it too.'
'The sea,' said Biddy—'the sea and the sunsets,' she went on half dreamily; 'I always think when I see a red sunset——' but then she stopped. There [203]are some thoughts that one keeps quite in one's own mind!
'I always feel grateful to Seacove,' she said after a moment's pause. 'Mamma is quite sure that the three years we lived there did more than anything to make papa strong again. What a blessing28 it is that he is so well now!'
'And quite able for all his work here, though he could never stand London again,' said Alie. 'I wish Rough had gone into the Church too, Bride—that is to say, I wish he had wished it. Then we should have had him somewhere near us, instead of far away in India,' and she gave a little sigh.
'But he's getting on so well—he was just made to be a soldier,' said Biddy. 'And papa says it is like that. Some people just feel what they're meant to be. And Rough is a great comfort, even though he has to be away—and you know, Alie,' she went on quite gravely, 'I don't think there could have been another as good as papa, not in the same way: he's just nearly an angel.' Alie did not disagree. 'And Roughie will be home before your next birthday, you know.'
'I hope so indeed,' said Rosalys.
'Talking about long ago,' went on Bride, to [204]whom eight or nine years were still a very 'long ago,' 'reminds me of dear little Celestina. What ages it is since we have heard of her—not since the year her father died, and we were afraid they were left rather badly off. How strange it seems, Alie, doesn't it? that poor Mr. Fairchild should have died and papa got well, when you think how ill papa was and that he seemed quite well then.'
'He was always delicate—Mr. Fairchild, I mean,' said Rosalys. 'But it was very sad; they were so very fond of him. But, Biddy, we have heard of Celestina since then—don't you remember, mamma wrote to tell Madame d'Ermont of their trouble, and she wrote to Mrs. Fairchild inviting29 them to visit her? They couldn't go—not then—but mamma had another letter, thanking her and telling us where they were going to live. Still all that is a good while ago, and when mamma wrote again her letter was returned.'
'How kind they were to us at Seacove!' said Bridget. 'I would love to see Celestina again—fancy, she must be grown up.'
What I am now going to tell you will seem to some people 'too strange to be true,' but begging [205]these wise people's pardon, I cannot agree with them. Strange things of the kind—coincidences, they are sometimes called—have happened to me myself, too often, for me not to believe that 'there is something in it.' In plain words, I believe that our spirits are sometimes conscious of each other's nearness much sooner than our clumsy bodies are. How very often is one met with the remark, 'Why, we were just speaking of you!' How often does the thought of some distant friend suddenly start into our memories an hour or two before the post brings us a letter penned by the dear far-away fingers!
Something of this kind was what happened now. A young man-servant came out of the house and made his way to where the girls were.
'If you please, miss,' he said, 'a young lady is in the library waiting to see you. My mistress is out. The lady asked for both you and Miss Bridget.'
'Who can it be?' said Rosalys.
But they were accustomed to see visitors that had to be seen when their mother was out, and they went together to the library.
Alie went in first, but she stood perplexed31 and a [206]little confused as a slight tall figure rose from a chair and came forward to meet her.
'I am afraid,' the stranger began, but before she could say another word, or before Alie had time to do more than think to herself, much more quickly than it takes to tell it, that surely she should know that sweet pale face and bright though gentle eyes, Biddy had darted32 forward and was throwing her arms round the young girl's neck. 'Don't you know her, Alie?' she cried. 'I do. It's dear little Celestina, grown up, and oh, how nice and pretty and good you look! And we've been speaking of you all this morning. It's Alie's birthday; she's twenty-one, just fancy! And where have you been, and where's your mother, and——'
Her breathlessness gave Rosalys time to come forward and warmly kiss Celestina in her turn. Then they made her sit down; she was looking rather tired, for she had had a long walk in the sun—and by degrees she told them all her news. There was a good deal to tell. The last four years had been spent by her mother and herself in France, not far from Madame d'Ermont, whom Celestina described as having been more than kind.
'She paid for all my schooling33 and lessons,' the [207]girl said simply, 'so that mother could afford to stay with me all the time. Mother gave some English lessons herself too. And I was able to learn French quite well, which will be such an advantage to me. The last two years I taught English at the school, so the expenses were not so great. And we spent the summer holidays at Madame d'Ermont's château. Oh, she was so kind!'
'But why have you not written to us all this time?' asked her friends.
'We have—two or three times, but the address must have been wrong, for one letter was returned to us. I remember I put all rightly except the county, for I did not think that necessary; and now—the other day, I mean—when, we had answered the advertisement and were inquiring about Calton, we found that there are actually three or four places of the name in England. And oh, we were so delighted when we found on getting there that Laneverel Rectory was only two miles off.'
'Are you living at Calton then? What do you mean about an advertisement? Is your mother at Calton?'
Celestina laughed and blushed at her own confused way of explaining.[208]
'I am so pleased at seeing you that I am losing my head,' she said. 'Yes, we have come to live at Calton. We have got the dearest little house there. And I am French teacher at the large girls' school just outside the town. I get sixty pounds a year—is it not delightful? So we are quite rich. If only—you don't know how I wish poor father could have enjoyed it too—if he could but have had a few years of the pleasant life and rest.'
She smiled through the tears in her eyes. Biddy stroked her hand gently.
'But you yourself—it isn't all rest for you?' said Alie, thinking as she spoke34 that it was 'Celestina all over,' never giving a thought to herself.
'Oh no, I have to work of course. But I like it. And some of my pupils are very nice and intelligent. Besides—I should be miserable35 if I were idle,' she added brightly.
'Yes, indeed,' both the girls heartily agreed. 'We are very busy too, Celestina. We have lots and lots of things to do at home to help papa and mamma, and all the village people to look after, and the schools and the choir36 and the church. You must see the church, Celestina.'
'It is just—almost, at least—perfect,' added Biddy [209]enthusiastically, 'compared with poor old Seacove! Oh, do you remember the high pews with curtains round, and the old clerk, and the pulpit like a Queen Elizabeth bedstead.'
'Only without curtains,' said Celestina, at which they all laughed. They were so happy they would have laughed at anything!
Then Celestina had to be told about Rough, and how well he was getting on, though so far away, alas37! And then she had to be taken out into the garden to see its beauties, and have promises of unlimited38 cuttings and seeds and I don't know all what for her own little garden. There was poor old Smuttie's grave to show her too, in one corner, for Smut had lived to enjoy a year or two of peaceful and slumberous39 old age on the sunny doorstep in summer and the library hearthrug in winter at Laneverel Rectory. And then came the sounds of wheels, and the pony40 carriage turned in at the gate with Mr. and Mrs. Vane, and all the story of the joyful5 surprise had to be told over again.
The rector and his wife welcomed their old young friend as heartily as their daughters had done, you may be sure. They pressed her to stay to dinner, promising41 to drive her home in the cool of the even[210]ing, but this, Celestina, unselfish as ever, would not do, for 'mother' might be uneasy. So they had a very delightful 'afternoon tea' in the garden, for afternoon teas were just coming into fashion, and Rosalys and Bride walked half-way home with Celestina, parting with invitations and promises on both sides. Celestina was to spend at least half of her half-holidays at the Rectory, and Alie was to drive to Calton to fetch Mrs. Fairchild the very next Saturday, and the sisters were to pay Celestina a long visit the following week, to see the dear little house and all her treasures.
'You shall have tea in the sweet little French tea-cups Madame d'Ermont gave me,' said she joyfully. 'They are a little bigger than my doll ones long ago.'
'Oh dear,' said Biddy, 'that reminds me of the time I invited myself to tea to your house, and Alie was so shocked at me. I was a horrid42 little girl.'
'No, you weren't', said both the others. 'And any way,' added Alie fondly, 'isn't she nice now, Celestina?'
'I've never had any friends, if I may call you so,' was Celestina's indirect reply, 'that I have cared for as for you two,' and there was a dewy look [211]in her gentle eyes which said even more than her words.
A real friendship—a friendship to last through the changes that must come; a friendship too firmly based to be influenced by the fact that none of us, not even the sweetest and truest, are 'perfect,' that we must 'bear and forbear,' and gently judge each other while in this world—such friendships are very rare. We are not bound to our friends, not obliged to make the best of them, as with relations, and so, too often, we throw each other off hastily, take offence in some foolish way, and the dear old friendship is a thing of the past, one of those 'used to be's' that are so sad to come across in our memory. But it is not always so. Some friendships wear well, sending down their roots ever deeper and more firmly as the years go on, spreading out their gracious branches ever more widely overhead for us to find shelter and rest beneath them in the stormy as in the sunny days of life. And oh, dear children, such friendship is something to thank God for!
My little girls, whose friendship began in the old back parlour at Seacove, are not even young women now—they are getting down into the afternoon of [212]life—but they are still friends, true and tried. Friends whom sorrow and trials only join together still more closely; whose love for and trust in each other even death cannot destroy.
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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contented
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millet
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| n.小米，谷子 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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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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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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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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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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slumberous
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| a.昏昏欲睡的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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