It was another wet and chilly1 Easter in another year, and the town had just begun to fill after the recess2, when one morning after luncheon3 the good Duke of Otterbourne, as his county called him, riding down the Kensington high road, was thrown from his horse, between whose forelegs a bicycle had staggered and fallen. The boy on the bicycle was but scarcely bruised4; the Duke was carried insensible to the nearest pharmacy5 and never rallied. By four o’clock he was dead; and many persons, men and women, old and young, gentle and simple, felt their eyes wet as the news of his death circulated through the Park and streets.
His daughter-in-law heard of it as she drove in at Hyde Park Corner; a man she knew stopped her carriage and broke the intelligence to her as gently as he could. She was shocked for a moment; then she thought to herself: “We shall have Otterbourne House now, and I suppose there’ll be money, at least for a time.” Then, as she always studied appearances, she went home decorously and busied herself telegraphing to his family and her own.
The body of the old duke had been already taken to Otterbourne House and laid on his bed in those modest rooms opening on the gardens, to which she had so often desired to limit him. His features were calm and wore a look of peace; his neck had been broken in the fall; it was thought probable that he had suffered nothing, not even a passing pang6. Whilst telegrams were being sent all over England, and it grew dusk, she came, clothed in black, and knelt by the low bed, weeping. She always did what was right in small things, and at any moment some member of her family or his might enter the room. Meanwhile messengers of all degrees, servants, grooms7, commissionaires, telegraph boys, were rushing to and fro over the metropolis8 and its environs in their vain search for the Earl of Kenilworth. No one had any idea where Cocky was.
[239]No one had seen him for two days; his absence was of so slight an account that even his valet never took any heed9 of it; it was surmised10 that he was in congenial society.
She was thinking as she knelt of the alterations11 she would make in the house; the gardens were old-fashioned and would have to be laid out afresh; the circular entrance-hall should be made a patio12 like Frederic Leighton’s and have a glass dome13; the picture gallery sadly wanted weeding, and the process of weeding might be made lucrative14 to the weeder, for dealers15 would buy anything out of Otterbourne House with their eyes shut; the small oval room painted by Angelica Kauffman should be her boudoir. “I sha’n’t need to bore myself with Billy,” she thought: the duke had not been a rich man and had been impoverished16 by his sacrifices to assist Cocky; but still things would be very different to the hand-to-mouth life which they led, and which drove her to support the nuisance of Harrenden House and Vale Royal, and similar expedients17. The Duchess of Otterbourne would, she reckoned, have a free hand at least for a time; and they would probably be able to sell lots of things despite the entail18.
Alberic Orme arrived that night from his country vicarage; he was white, haggard, inexpressibly grieved; he had loved his father dearly.
“Where is my brother?” he asked her.
The two younger sons were away—the one with his ship, the other with his troop—in the Indian Ocean and at the Cape19.
“Cocky?” said Cocky’s wife. “Oh, they are looking for him. They will find him—in some pot-house!”
And so they did on the following morning.
When messengers in hot haste went flying over London to find his son, and telegrams were being despatched to the lamented20 duke’s country seats and county towns, Cocky was drinking gin and playing poker21 with half-a-dozen persons, more congenial than distinguished22, at a little riverside inn near Marlow, where he had been spending three days lost to the world, but dear at least to the hearts of Radical23 journalists. When at last he was found, and the fatal accident to his father communicated to him,[240] Cocky, who, however drunk he might be, never became a fool, pulled himself together, comprehended the position, and put all the money lying about in his pocket.
“Damned if they’ll dare ask a duke for it!” he said to himself with a chuckle24, and walked quite steadily25 to the carriage which had come for him, not casting even a look at his late companions, male or female, who were too awed26 and astonished, as well as too befumed with various drinks to stop him or even to speak to him.
“I’ll have a rattling27 good time now,” he thought, as he drove to the Marlow station. “And I’ll divorce her; Lord, what a joke it’ll be! Perhaps they won’t give it me; I dare say they won’t give it me; there’s a marplot called the Queen’s Proctor; they’ll talk of collusion, and she’ll bring counter-charges, and all the rest of it; but we’ll have the fun all the same, and she won’t be able to show her face at Court. They’re so damned particular at Court about the people who are found out! So is society: she’ll be drummed out of society. Lord, what fun it will be!”
Better even than gin and poker and music-hall singers and shady bookmakers in a village on the Thames.
Whilst his father had lived that fun had been always peremptorily28 forbidden to him.
“Whatever your wife may have done or shall do, you have forfeited29 all title to resent it,” the old duke had always said to him; “and I will not have my name bespattered with your filth30 in public.”
Wholly unconscious of the dark designs he carried in his sodden31 but sharp little brains, his wife was almost civil to him when he came into her presence, sobered by the fresh air he had breathed on his return from Marlow. She restrained the Blenheims from attacks on his trousers, and did not make any inquiries32 as to why he had been missing for fifty-six hours.
He was Cocky, he would always be Cocky, the most wretched little scamp in creation; still he was indisputably Seventh Duke of Otterbourne, and had considerable power to make himself disagreeable.
Out of his presence she enjoyed rapturously the vituperation which society papers and the Radical press[241] poured upon him now that he had really become an hereditary33 legislator.
“They are too funny for anything,” she said, tossing a handful of them to Brancepeth. “They must have had detectives after him every hour of his life. How on earth do they know all they do?”
“It’s easy enough to know about a man who don’t pay his cabman and borrows sovereigns of his valet,” replied Brancepeth with equanimity35, picking up the scattered36 news sheets.
“Well, he won’t want to borrow sovereigns now,” remarked his wife.
“Won’t he?” said her friend, with worlds of significance in the simple words. “Oh, Lord, if he ever gets to heaven he’ll pawn37 St. Peter’s key!”
“But there’ll be lots of money, won’t there? And the roc’s egg will be mine, won’t it?” she asked, for her knowledge of such matters was vague.
The remains39 of the late duke were taken down to Staghurst, his principal place, a vast mansion40 and a vaster park in a southwest county, his sons and daughter accompanying the corpse41; his daughter-in-law went also, taking with her Jack42 and Gerry; in small things she always did what looked well. If you pay in halfpence in that way the world pays you back in guineas.
The funeral took place on the following morning, on a very disagreeable day, with sleet43 and rain and wind; and the family vault44 and monuments were in a churchyard which lay fully45 exposed to the blasts from the east, with great yews46 overshadowing it and sepulchral47 figures by Chantrey and Nollekens and Roubiliac, looking grim and grey in the foggy air.
The late duke had many sincere mourners, for he had inspired many warm friendships in his own world, and respect and regard in all classes. Moreover, the large number of persons who in various ways were connected with, or dependent on, the Duke of Otterbourne could not but view with terror the advent48 to that title of the small, frail49, hectic50 little man, who had so cynical51 a smile in his pale eyes and so shocking a reputation in the country.[242] Gossip, too, had not spared that lovely lady in her graceful52 crape garments, and the beautiful little boys, whose rosy53 cheeks were a little less bright than usual, as she led them under the darkling yews and the sombre, weird54 sculptures of the tombs. The people assembled there, especially the tenantry, peasantry, and servants, all felt that the reign34 of kindness, straightforwardness55, and dignity was over, and that the future before them was one clouded and threatening.
“His new Grace do look a mighty56 poor chap,” said one old laborer57 to another. “And they do say as his blood’s all brandy, and none o’ the young ’uns is his own.”
But what the old man said audibly many there present thought.
The ceremony was dreary61 and tedious; Jack and Gerry were cold and frightened, and everyone else was bored; the clergy62 alone were, as usual, in all their swelling63 glory and fussy64 supremacy65, headed by the late duke’s brother, Augustus Orme, who was Bishop66 of Dunwich and Waton-on-the-Naze.
After the funeral, and reading of the will, the local magnates of county and church dispersed67, and everyone else returned to London by the four o’clock express except Cocky and his wife. He was chilly, feverish68, sleepy, and disinclined to leave the house, and she wanted to look over the collection of historial laces which had belonged to her mother-in-law, which had never seen the light for many years, Otterbourne having always jealously guarded them as the most sacred heirloom. They could not be sold now, but they might be used, in various ways; at the least they would adorn69 Drawing-room costumes; there was, she knew, a manteau de cour which had belonged to Henriette d’Angleterre. She was very fond of lace, and she was still more fond of little mauvais tours; she did not forget or forgive many words and acts of the late duke; it was one of those unkind small revenges which were to her pampered70 taste as cayenne pepper or chutney is to a jaded71 palate, to unlock the dead lady’s Italian cabinets and Indian boxes and sandal-wood[243] coffers, and to play havoc72 with the Spanish point, the English point, the Venetian point, the Chantilly, the Flemish, the Dutch, kerchiefs and collars and aprons73 and flounces and edgings, all fine and rare, many marked with the arms or badges of famous houses or royal wearers of a vanished time.
The poetic74 interest of the collection was nothing at all to the present duchess; what mattered to her was the value of it in money, though she could not sell it, and the effect it would have if she wore any of it. She did not herself like old lace, it always looked yellow and dingy75; but other people did and envied it, and it would all look very nice at some Loan Collection, and make her friends most agreeably jealous. She passed the afternoon hours over it, and in ransacking76 all the little drawers and boxes in the various cabinets of what had been the favorite sitting-room77 of the late duchess. Otterbourne, though he had often given his wife cause for jealousy78, had been profoundly attached to her and had kept this room untouched, even unentered, except to be swept, dusted, and aired.
Mouse knew this well enough—she had often been irritated at this room being locked against her; but her knowledge did not prevent her pillaging79 it any more than the sanctity of a church or a mosque80 to its pious81 devotees prevents soldiers from sacking and firing it. She had nothing to do, this rainy, chilly, dull day, and the examination of her mother-in-law’s relics82 and treasures served to pass the time; her second maid aided her, a sagacious and discreet83 young woman, who knew when to use her eyes and when to close them.
The poor dead duchess’s room was the cosiest84 and cheeriest in the whole huge building of Staghurst, which was an immense, uninteresting, last-century house built by Bonnani, and with a fire burning on its long-cold hearth85, and a dozen wax-candles lighted in its silver sconces, it was a warm, comfortable, pleasant place for a chilly evening. She had a nice succulent little dinner served there, and when she had done full justice to it returned to her examination of the Japanese cabinets and the Indian boxes and the sandal-wood coffers.
[244]What sentimental86 creatures men are, she thought, seeing a bouquet87 of flowers, which had been dead five-and-twenty years, still left untouched in their porcelain88 bowl in which the water had long been dry. If ever there was a male flirt89, poor Poodle had been one, and yet he had cherished such a solemn culte for his dead wife that he had kept her morning-room like a temple for a quarter of a century! It seemed to her very droll90.
The little boys came to bid her good-night, and she gave them some marrons glacés and kissed them and sent them away. She was impatient to go on with her examination of her late mother-in-law’s possessions before anyone could interrupt her, for she did not know at all who had the legal right to them.
Jack’s brilliant eyes under their long lashes91 roved over the room and espied92 the suggestive confusion of it.
He was a very honest little man; he was honest by nature, and Harry had made him so on principle; he had never seen his friend “dedful angy” save once, when he, Jack, had taken a large, sweet, crescent-shaped cake off a stall in the Promenade95 des Sept Heures at Spa.
There were things which would have touched some women. There were the love letters of Otterbourne, then Lord Kenilworth, ardent98, tender, and graceful, tied up with faded ribbon. There were innocent little notes written by Cocky in a big round hand between pencilled lines beginning “my darling mama.” There were baby shoes in pale-blue kid and pale-pink satin, of which the little wearers had died in infancy99. There were diaries, very simple, very brief, not always perfectly100 well spelled, but always full of affectionate records and entreating101 prayers of which her husband and her children were the objects. But these things did not move the present occupier of the title and of the room; she pitched them all[245] into a heap with no very gentle touch and cast the heap upon the fire. Old rubbish was best burned!
Just as she had done so and was assailed102 by an unpleasant misgiving103 that somebody might make a row about the destruction of these things (for everybody was so foolish and sentimental), she heard the voice of Cocky’s body-servant speaking at the door to her maid, and the maid approached her with a rather astonished face.
“If you please, your Grace, his Grace is unwell: could you go to his room a moment, madam?”
“Go to his room?”
She was as astonished as her maid. Cocky must be very ill indeed if she were summoned to him. His chronic104 maladies, due to brandies and sodas105 and insomnia106, were never even named to her. He had certainly coughed and shivered at the funeral that forenoon, and in the train the day before, but then he so often did this no one attached any importance to a little more of it or a little less.
This time, however, poor Cocky, over whom Providence107 (or the powers of darkness) did not watch as they ought to have done, had caught something worse than a cold, standing108 without a hat so long in that biting March morning, in a damp and windy country churchyard, and without a drop of anything inside him, as he pathetically remarked.
In the evening he was so unwell with shivering, difficulty of breathing, and pains in his head and limbs, that he could not even drink liquors and enjoy the newspaper attacks upon himself in his own rooms, but had to go to bed at ten o’clock, which he had certainly never done since his early boyhood.
“Most unlucky beast in all creation I am,” he muttered as he shivered between the sheets. “Just got the ribbons between my fingers and ten to one the coach’ll land in a ditch; ditch we must all end in, eh? Worms and winding109 sheet and all; even Mouse’ll come to that some time. Here, you, get me some brandy and don’t stand staring, you fool.”
But his valet was no fool, and instead of bringing the brandy went to another wing of the house for the doctor,[246] who had always lived in it for many years as attendant on the deceased duke.
The doctor found the new duke in a very sad state of health, with some fever and a hacking110 cough, which threatened to become pleuro-pneumonia and would try the slender amount of strength which the sick man possessed111 very dangerously; he advised that the duchess should be told.
So she was told, and came across the great house looking like a Burne-Jones in her long black robes, with the fairness of her skin and hair dazzling in their contrast to her garb112 of woe113.
“Is it anything serious?” she said, in an awed voice, for she was really shocked by his appearance, and did not want him to die at this moment of his succession.
“It’s skull114 and cross-bones business; that’s what it is,” said her husband with a groan115. “Rascally east wind did it. Don’t come here; you can’t do me any good.”
A famous London physician, who had probably killed more people than any other doctor living, and was esteemed116 proportionately, was summoned by telegraph; and by the sick man’s own desire the chief solicitor of the county town, who had been legal adviser118 and agent to the late duke, was sent for, to return in all haste to Staghurst and take down his instructions. Left alone with this person on his arrival, by his own express desire, Cocky, who had scarcely any voice left, whispered to him:
“Would it keep ’em out of the succession if I declare they aren’t my children?”
The solicitor hesitated; he felt his own position a most delicate and embarrassing one.
“Your Grace must not entertain such suspicions,” he said, with some confusion. “The duchess enjoys the esteem117 and respect of every——”
“Stow your gab!” hissed119 Cocky. “All I want to know is—if I made a formal declaration, would it stand?”
“No, sir—it would not.”
The lawyer thought the dying man’s mind wandered, being himself a country person to whose ears the gossip of smart society did not come. “Oh, your Grace, you[247] must not think of such a thing,” he added, greatly embarrassed. “Dear me, dear me, I do not know what to say, sir.”
The lawyer shook his head. “No, your Grace—it would not. Whatever may have happened, sir, you have condoned122, you see. Of course, I am not for a moment supposing that there are any grounds——”
“Stow that bosh!” said his client, as savagely as his weakness allowed. “If I could have divorced her all these years, and didn’t? If I said so now?”
The lawyer shook his head again. “It would not stand, sir.”
“Why not?” asked Cocky.
“Children born in wedlock123 must be legitimate124 heirs, your Grace,” the lawyer said, very decidedly, to pierce through the muddled125 senses of the dying client.
“Wedlock, eh?—wedlock?” repeated Cocky with a chuckle which ended in a convulsive cough. The word tickled126 his fancy mightily127, though Mr. Curton could not imagine what he had said which was ludicrous. “Wedlock!” echoed Cocky; “you won’t beat that, Curton, in a brace128 of years!”
“The word is good law and good English, sir,” said the solicitor, a little offended. “I repeat, after so many years of wedlock you could not leave a posthumous129 charge of the kind behind you. It might be mere130 pique131 and malice132 on your part. No Court would ratify133 it. It would only make a dreadful scandal, sir, because, I presume, Lord Alberic would endeavor to uphold your declaration, since he is next in succession after your Grace’s sons.”
An angry flash came into Cocky’s sunken colorless eyes.
“Beric? Gad134! I’d forgot that. So he would. I’d rather little Jack came after me. He’s a good plucked one; bit his lips not to squeal135 when I pinched him. And I don’t dislike poor Harry. He’s a good fellow, and she got over him.”
A fit of coughing stopped his revelations, to which the[248] discreet lawyer turned a deaf ear. He was an excellent person who lived in a large, square, white house, with shrubberies, and a carriage-drive, and a page in buttons; to him marriage was marriage, and a duke and duchess were one and indivisible; when such people got into law courts he was sincerely sorry that they did not respect themselves as greatly as he respected them; he knew that the gentleman, too, who now lay dying had been in many discreditable straits, for he had himself been frequently called in to assist in getting the delinquent136 out of them; but a duke was a duke, Otterbourne was Otterbourne, in the eyes of the good and conservative attorney, and he had a deaf ear which he could turn very usefully when needed.
To assist in making such a terrible hotch-potch of scandal, as would be made by any posthumous repudiation137, might have tempted138 a London Old Bailey practitioner140, but it did not tempt139 for an instant this respectable rural devotee of Themis.
Cocky was silent for some time, breathing hard and deliberating what he would do. Almost more than his wife he hated his brother Alberic, who had always been the beloved of his father.
He raised himself, at last, feebly on his pillows. “Look here, Curton,” he said, with gasping141 effort, “you make my will, and be quick about it, for I’m dead beat. I can’t touch much, I know, but where I can do anything, make it as deuced unpleasant for her as you can; and renew the—the—what d’ye call it—settlement for the jewels, so that she’ll have to give ’em up; renew it just as it stood in my father’s and grandfather’s wills, will you? And look here, Curton: I appoint as guardians142 my brother-in-law and my uncle Augustus.”
Mr. Curton inclined his head in approval.
“Lord Hurstmanceaux and the Bishop of Dunwich? Your Grace could not make a more admirable selection. The highest principle——”
Cocky chuckled143 with a sound very like the death-rattle. “I choose Ronnie ’cause he’s so damned conscientious144, he can’t refuse, and he’ll hate it so; and I choose old Augustus ’cause he came down once when I was a shaver[249] at Eton and never tipped me, and gave me a beastly book called ‘The Christian145 Year.’ Make it all as deuced annoyin’ to both of ’em as you can. Lord, what a pother they’ll find all my affairs in—that’s a comfort.”
And it was a genuine tonic146 and cordial to him to think how, after his decease, all his sins and embarrassments147 would continue to circle like mosquitos around the heads of his trustees and executors.
“Beric will hate being left out,” he murmured; on the whole he was getting considerable fun out of this ante-mortem duty. But it was a bore to die, an awful bore, just when he had come into things and could do what he liked; he moved restlessly and uneasily on his bed while the lawyer wrote out the clauses of the testament148, hastening as much as he could, for he saw that every breath might be his client’s last. When the witnesses were called in, oxygen was given to the dying man, and he rallied enough to sit up in his servant’s arms and sign “Otterbourne” legibly, in that clear handwriting which he had learned at Eton, and which had signed so much “bad paper.”
“I couldn’t do much, but I’ve done what I could,” he said feebly, as the pen fell from his fingers. “To be damned disagreeable to ’em all round,” he concluded, as his cough permitted him to complete the phrase.
“What a Christian spirit!” murmured the vicar of the village, who was present to witness the will, and had not heard the concluding sentence.
“Shut up!” said Cocky feebly but viciously. “You parsons are just like ravens149, always comin’ and cawin’ where anybody’s bein’ snuffed out; birds of ill-omen, you are—marryin’ and buryin’—he, he!”
The scared vicar looked aghast at the polished London physician. “The mind wanders: the end is near,” murmured that bland150 person, with a professional sigh.
Mr. Curton shook his head as he folded up the document. It was all very painful to the excellent lawyer; it destroyed all his theories of the nobility; and to make a ducal will in a hurry seemed to him almost like leze-majesty.
“Oh, my dear sir,” he murmured, in sad and useless regret,[250] “why, oh, why leave such a document as this to such a moment?”
“Always thought the pater’d outlive me,” murmured Cocky; “so he would—twenty years—if that byke hadn’t upset him.”
Mouse, sweet, resigned, composed, regretful, came noiselessly into the chamber151 of death, leading Jack by the hand, very sober and a little frightened, with his beautiful black eyes wide open and fixed152 in a vague terror on the bed.
Mouse approached the bedside. “Beric is here, dear,” she said gently. “He begs to see you. May he come in? Ronald is here, too.”
“Goody-goody and the Miser154?” said her husband, in a muffled155 faint voice. “No; tell ’em both to go to the devil.”
Cocky closed his eyes, and lay to all outward semblance156 unconscious and indifferent to worldly things; the worn-out lungs drawing in desperately157 a few last breaths of air. Who shall say what vain regrets for lost opportunities, for wasted talents, for foolish and fruitless hours, were in his thoughts? He looked already dead, save for the slight labored158 heaving of his chest beneath the bedclothes.
And there had been a time when in that very house he had been a pretty, innocent, beloved child; when he had been clasped in a mother’s arms, her idol159 and her hope; when he had run across those lawns without with fleet feet and flying hair; when old servants had watched his every step, repeated his every word, and a proud race had seen in him the security for its future continuance and honor!
The vicar by sheer force of habit folded his hands, composed a pious face, and began a prayer.
“O Lord our God, let this Thy good and faithful servant——”
“Stop that,” said Cocky, opening his eyes. “I won’t bluff160 the Almighty161 just at the last out of funk.”
It was one feeble flicker162 of the honor of his race, which he had outraged163 and derided164 all the forty years of his life,[251] but which in the moment of death came to him for one second. The words shocked his hearers as a blasphemy165, but in truth they expressed the only honorable scruple166 of a dishonorable life. He would not “bluff the Almighty”; he would not at the end of all, and in the face of death, turn, out of fear, to what he had mocked and ridiculed167 through all his years of life.
“Get on the bed and kiss your poor dear papa, my lord,” whispered the nurse, who had followed Jack into the room lest he should worry her lady.
Jack hung back, reluctant, but the slender white hands of his mother, which could hold so tightly, gripped him round the waist and lifted him on to the bed. He burst out crying from fright and a vague pity which stirred in his childish bosom168. Then his compassion169 made him conquer his fears. He put his fresh rosy mouth shrinkingly to the waxen sunken cheek of the dying man. But Cocky by a supreme170 effort turned his head away with a glare of anger in his eyes, and the child’s warm lips kissed the pillow.
“Damn you and your brats!” he said, with enfeebled voice but intensified171 venom172, and his gaze, full of meaning, met hers, and said all which he had never spoken through all the years in which she had borne his name.
“It is so sad how often the dying take a hatred173 to what they love best in life,” she murmured to the London physician, a bland bald person who had buried patients in Westminster Abbey, and that second best Valhalla, St. Paul’s.
“Damn you and all your brats!” Cocky muttered feebly again as his gaze sought and found his wife’s face through the mist of unreality which was fast hiding all the facts and figures of existence from him for evermore.
“Let us pray,” said the vicar in a hushed and awed voice, for he was indeed unspeakably shocked. She dropped on her knees and everyone else knelt also.
Then the shrill174 short labored breathing ceased to whistle feebly through the silence: the bed-covering heaved no more.
Cocky was dead.
[252]The child slipped down on to the floor. Alberic Orme and Hurstmanceaux stood hesitating on the threshold of the chamber.
“Oh, dear Duchess!” sighed the fashionable Esculapius, who was eminently175 pious. “These are the trials which are sent to us to detach us from earthly affections! The ways of God are inscrutable, but we must not question their merciful purpose.”
Cocky lay on the bed between them, very straight, very waxen, very like an effigy176 in yellow stone; but looking down on him his wife shuddered177, for it seemed to her that his left eye opened and winked178 and that his rigid180 jaw181 grinned. She had an uncomfortable feeling that, though she would soon comfortably forget all the rest of him, Cocky’s grin and Cocky’s wink179 would long rise up in her memory.
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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pharmacy
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| n.药房，药剂学，制药业，配药业，一批备用药品 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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15
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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16
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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17
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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18
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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19
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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20
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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22
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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23
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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24
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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25
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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26
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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28
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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29
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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31
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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32
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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33
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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34
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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35
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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36
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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37
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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38
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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39
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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40
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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41
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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42
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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43
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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44
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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45
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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46
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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47
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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48
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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49
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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50
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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51
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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52
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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53
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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54
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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55
straightforwardness
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| n.坦白，率直 | |
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56
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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57
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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58
gab
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| v.空谈，唠叨，瞎扯；n.饶舌，多嘴，爱说话 | |
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59
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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60
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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61
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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62
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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63
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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64
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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65
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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66
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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67
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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68
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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69
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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70
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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72
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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73
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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74
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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75
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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76
ransacking
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的现在分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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77
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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78
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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79
pillaging
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的现在分词 ) | |
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80
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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81
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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82
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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83
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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84
cosiest
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| adj.温暖舒适的( cosy的最高级 )；亲切友好的 | |
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85
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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86
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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87
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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88
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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89
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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90
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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91
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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92
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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94
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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95
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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96
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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97
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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98
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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99
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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100
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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101
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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102
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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103
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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104
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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105
sodas
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| n.苏打( soda的名词复数 )；碱；苏打水；汽水 | |
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106
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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107
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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108
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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109
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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110
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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111
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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112
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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113
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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114
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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115
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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116
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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117
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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118
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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119
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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120
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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121
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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122
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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124
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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125
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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126
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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127
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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128
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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129
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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130
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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131
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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132
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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133
ratify
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| v.批准，认可，追认 | |
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134
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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135
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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136
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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137
repudiation
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| n.拒绝；否认；断绝关系；抛弃 | |
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138
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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139
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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140
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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141
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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142
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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143
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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145
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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147
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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148
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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149
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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150
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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151
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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152
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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153
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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154
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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155
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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156
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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159
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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160
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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161
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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162
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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163
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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164
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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166
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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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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168
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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169
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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170
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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171
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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174
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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176
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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177
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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178
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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179
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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180
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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