In another week he also was carried out under the big yews1 and the Chantrey and Roubiliac statues, and laid beside the remains2 of his father and forefathers3 in a black-velvet covered coffin4 with silver handles and his ducal coronet upon it. But he had no sincere mourners, not one, although in the usual sickly tawdry habit of the time heaps of wreaths and garlands were piled up to his detested5 memory. His wife was again present, enveloped6 in the long crape veil of usage, with her two little sons beside her—a most touching7 and lovely figure. During the ceremony it would have been impossible for any observer to say whether she were profoundly touched or merely apathetic9; but at one point in the service, when the village choir10 were singing a Mendelssohn hymn11, her head drooped12 lower and lower, and her veiled figure moved with what resembled a convulsive sob13: a correspondent of a daily paper, indeed, scribbled14 in shorthand that only for one instant did her admirable fortitude15 give way to an irrepressible burst of natural anguish16. Jack17 knew better: he nudged Gerry and whispered very low: “Mammy’s laughin’. We mustn’t.”
Amongst the floral decorations there, heaped on and about the coffin, there was a harp18 made of lilies with silver strings19 and one string broken. As an emblem20 of Cocky’s life it was really too deliciously funny. It got the better of her nerves and she was forced to bury her face in her handkerchief.
For on the harp was a card, and on the card was written in a big sprawling21 handwriting, “From Lily.”
Happily all human emotions are so closely related that irrepressible laughter resembles irrepressible tears enough[254] to deceive a newspaper correspondent and a sympathetic crowd.
“Isn’t it too comical?” she said to her sister Carrie.
“Very droll, yes,” said Lady Wisbeach. “Awfully cheeky in the woman sending a wreath here.”
“How Cocky would laugh if he knew,” said his widow; she could not divest26 herself of the feeling that Cocky did know, and did enjoy, the farce27 of his own burial.
Poor Cocky! Well, he was buried for good and all, with his crowns and crosses and harps28 and garlands all left to wither29 and rot above him, and he would never bore her and worry her and annoy her any more. She felt almost charitably toward him; he might have been worse, he might have been interfering30 and difficult and quarrelsome, and might have noticed, as his father had done, that the pretty children in his nursery had little resemblance to his family portraits. All was quite safe now, and he was silent for ever under his mass of decaying flowers.
She passed to her carriage on her brother’s arm, amidst a respectful murmur31 of deep admiration32 and of that genuine good feeling which is so often awakened33 in crowds, they know not why and hardly know for whom.
“Poor dear pretty crittur, widdered in all her bloom!” said a good village dame34 to her husband, the water in her honest eyes as they followed the two little fair heads of the orphaned35 boys.
Then they all returned to the castle, and the will was read, and the thing was over, and she ate a luncheon36 in her own rooms with a good appetite.
She was relieved that her sisters-in-law had taken their departure without going into, or making any remark about, their late mother’s morning-room. The fact was, that these ladies disliked her so extremely that they had hurried away after each funeral as quickly as they could, compatible with usage and decency37.
Her portrait by Henner was one of the most beautiful pictures in the galleries of Staghurst; but the old duke’s daughters would have preferred less loveliness and more scruples38 in the mother of the little boy with the soft black eyes, who was now the lawful39 head of their family.
[255]Jack, meanwhile, was full of his own new position, which his mind only dimly grasped; and the whole thing puzzled him greatly. Fifteen days before they had put his grandfather in a box, and shut down the slab40 of stone on him, and now they were doing the same with poor pappy, who would never any more come behind him on the staircases and painfully pinch his legs, or tap a hot cigarette unexpectedly against his cheek. Why was not Harry41 here to make it all clear to him? He did not know that Harry, who really and profoundly mourned the dead man, had desired to come to the funeral, had entreated42 to be allowed to come, but had been peremptorily43 forbidden.
He noticed that all the people about Staghurst regarded him with awe44, and the women bobbed very low in the country lanes; and the young footman who waited on him at table was very solicitous45 to press on him jams and candied fruits. It was the first time in his life that he had ever had as much jam as he wished for; rank has its privileges still, despite the Labor46 Party.
“That’s the little duke, bless his pretty face!” he had heard the women say who were respectfully gathered about the churchyard entrance to see the great people come out from the gate. And very pretty Jack did look, with his bright hair shining like new gold against his sable47 garments, and a look of pity and wistfulness and solemnity on his face which was touching.
“Am I really duke and all that?” he asked later of the nurse who had accompanied them to Staghurst.
She replied: “You really are, sir, yes.”
“Am I what gran’pa’ was?”
“Yes, your Grace, yes.”
“Then I’ll live with Harry.”
The nurse, who was discretion49 itself, answered, “Your Grace will do just whatever your Grace wishes.”
“That’ll be jolly,” said the new duke; and he stood on his golden head.
“But I suppose I shall always have to behave very well,” he thought, in a soberer moment. The obligation[256] was painful; Jack’s natural man was naughty; not as naughty as Boo wished him to be, but still naughty, naughty in a frank sportive merry way, as colts are skittish50 and pups destructive.
His mother enjoyed her luncheon, because that long Service had given her renewed appetite, and she was infinitely51 diverted by Lily Larking’s wreath; but, all the same, she felt as she had never felt in her life, lonely, insecure, anxious, apprehensive52. Cocky had been more support to her than she had realized before his death; his connivance53, his condonation54, his ready resources in difficulty, his unlimited55 unscrupulousness, had all been more useful and more valuable than she had ever realized until they were all lost to her for ever. Their association had not been much more creditable than that of two thieves or marauders, but mutual56 interest had bound them together as it binds57 those, and the link, when broken, left a blank.
Moreover, had she not married him to be Duchess of Otterbourne? She was Duchess of Otterbourne now, but shorn of all the advantages appertaining to the title except the mere8 barren rank. Anything more odious58 than the position of a widow living on her jointure and bullied59 by trustees, could not, she thought, be conceived. She had not been able to grasp the sense of Cocky’s will as it had been read aloud in its barbarous legal jargon60 and bastard61 Latin, but she had understood that it was “nasty,” very nasty in its provisions; and that as guardians62 of the children, there were appointed her brother and Augustus Orme, the churchman. She seemed, herself, to come in nowhere, and to have no power or privileges of any sort, and to be cut down as utterly63 in every way as the provisions of her marriage settlements allowed.
There had been so much solidarity64 between Cocky and herself in their way of looking at life, in their enjoyment65 of ruse66 and expedient67, in their mutual sense of the injustice68 and the nuisance of things, that this sympathy between them had prevented her from perceiving that the man she had married hated her very bitterly for having married him. She was not in the least prepared for the many forms of vengeance69 which were gathered together in that[257] neat and formal document which was the last will and testament70 of the companion of her life.
Cocky had never expected to outlive his father; but he had always said to himself: “By God, if I do——!”
The law—that stiff, starched71, unbending, and unpleasant thing which comes so often between us and our desires—had denied him the pleasure of doing much that he had wished to do, but all that it had let him do he had done to punish and torment72 the lady who had wedded73 him “with a card up her sleeve.”
When Hurstmanceaux and Alberic Orme came to visit her, after the lawyers and the other members of the family had left the castle, they were both surprised to see how seriously depressed74 and how much worn she looked.
“Did you see Lily Larking’s wreath? It was too droll,” were her first words.
“It was scandalous that it was allowed to pass the church doors,” said Hurstmanceaux. “I suppose they did not know.”
“Of course they did not know; who should have heard of Lily Larking in Somersetshire? We can go up to town to-night, can’t we, Ronnie?”
“Do you wish it? There is a ten o’clock train. The children would be better in bed.”
“That does not matter. I want to be in town.”
She was anxious to get away from Staghurst, which had grown hateful to her, and was very desirious to learn something which she could only learn in London, viva voce, from her own lawyer, Mr. Gregge, a gentleman who had not been invited to either of the funerals, though his existence, as her confidential76 adviser77, had been known to both the families.
She and her brother and brother-in-law dined together at eight o’clock. She was silent and pre-occupied.
“Who would ever have imagined that any woman would lament78 Cocky’s loss?” thought Alberic Orme; and Hurstmanceaux thought, “Souvent femme varie, bien fol qui s’y fie. The idea of her mourning for Cocky!” They could not see into her mind, which was gloomy and[258] troubled, like the dark old ponds which were lying black under a fitful moonlight in the melancholy79 park without.
Both the men who accompanied her up to town were perplexed80. The tears which rose to her eyes, the unmistakable trouble in her expression, the look of anxiety and sorrow were genuine; there was no doubt about it. Lord Alberic, who had always been very cold to her, wondered if he had done her injustice all these years, and Hurstmanceaux, who knew her better, thought: “She counted on having a rattling81 good time on the succession, and she’s really sorry that little blackguard is dead.”
But it was a matter concealed82 from almost everyone, and of which neither family dreamed, which was racking her nerves like neuralgia. It was the destination of the big diamond, the roc’s egg, which had been her ostensible83 object in marrying Cocky.
When she thought of that jewel, high-couraged and mettlesome84 and thoroughbred though she was, a sickly chill passed over her, and she shuddered85, as she looked at her brother’s profile in the faint light of the railway-lamp, as the train sped through the night. For she had, in vulgar parlance86, pawned87 the famous jewel.
That is to say, that being in great want of money, of a sum so large that no one she could appeal to would be likely or even able to give it to her, she had borrowed that sum, four years previously88, on the roc’s egg, of a great jeweler, who had caused to be made for her such a precise counterfeit89 in paste that no detection was possible by the naked eye.
The famous jeweler was a Pole by birth, a Parisian by long residence and habit; he had dropped his own name, which had been politically compromised in his earliest manhood and for forty years had traded in the city of his adoption90 as a naturalized Frenchman, known as M. Boris Beaumont. His riches were now great; his taste in and knowledge of gems92 were unerring; and he had that note of fashion without which a great tradesman in Paris is an Apollo without a bow or a lute93. All the great ladies were his clients; without something of Beaumont’s no bridal corbeille was well furnished; his exquisite94 trifles were the most distinguished95 of New Year’s gifts. He was[259] deferential96, good-natured, adroit97; in his trade he was absolutely to be depended on; if Beaumont told you a stone was good, you might buy it without further warranty98, and you would never repent99; the price of it was high, even very high; but if you made that objection he would say briefly with a little shrug100: “Que voulezvous? Ça vient de moi!”
Behind his very elegant shop was a conservatory101, behind the conservatory was a little salon102 where his patronesses could have ices or tea according to the season, and read Gyp’s last delightful103 persiflage104. In that little salon many a secret has been confided105 to Beaumont; many a dilemma106 been exposed to him.
“Les honnêtes femmes! Les honnêtes femmes!” he said once to a friend. “Ah mon cher, il n’y qu’elles pour canaille!” But it was rarely he was so indiscreet as this, though he knew so many of the passions and pains which throbbed107 under the diamond tiaras and the sapphire108 rivières in the brains and in the breasts of his fair clients.
Now and then Beaumont went to the opera, or to the Français on a Tuesday, and from his modest stall looked up at his patrician109 patronesses in all the beauty of their semi-nudity, their admirable maquillage, their wondrous110 toilettes, and then he smiled as he lowered his glasses with a little malice111 but more indulgence.
To Mouse, of course, Beaumont was well known: when she had wanted this large sum he had taken it from his capital for her, but as security he would accept in return nothing less than the famous Otterbourne jewel.
“You have it. Bring it me,” he said as simply as if he had been speaking of a bit of cornelian or agate112.
In vain she implored113, protested, entreated, wept, tried all the armory114 of persuasion115, represented that he was tempting117 her to a crime, actually to a crime!
“Ah, no, madame,” said Beaumont very gently, “I tempt116 you to nothing. I would rather keep my three hundred thousand francs in the Bank of France. I do not wish for your diamond at all. Only if there be any question of this loan, that is the only security I can take for it. Whether you like these terms or not is nothing to[260] me; they are mine, and I cannot change them. The affair will oblige you, madame, not me.”
Beaumont was not an unkind man; more than one young actress had owed her prosperity to him, more than one honorable family had been saved from ruin by his assistance; but to women like Mouse he was inflexible118, he had not a shred119 of compassion120 for their troubles, and never believed a word they spoke121; he dealt with them harshly and obstinately122; he despised them from the depths of his soul, the pretty creatures, who sipped123 his iced mocha, and broke off the buds of his Malmaison roses.
The roc’s egg was brought to him one heavily raining day by a lady in a cab in whom he, well-used though he was to such secret visits, had difficulty in recognizing the blonde English beauty. It had been now in his possession for four years, and though it was a magnificent object such as could be fully25 appreciated only by trained eyes like his own, he began to get tired of keeping it locked up, and unseen by any eyes save his own. He would not have felt tired if she had paid him any interest on his loan; but she had never paid him a centième. She had not even paid anything for the imitation diamond which had cost him a good deal, for it was admirably and exquisitely124 made; it had been worn many times at Courts at home and abroad, and she had nearly laughed outright125 more than once at the precautions with which it was surrounded when it was not worn, and the fire-proof iron safe screwed down to the floor in which it dwelt when it was not the envied occupant of her own white breast; not even the sharp suspicious eyes of Cocky had ever discerned any difference in it from that of the great gem91 which it represented.
“C’est une ingrâte,” said Beaumont to himself when he saw a person for whom he had done so much flash past him on the boulevards as she drove to Chantilly or La Marche; and he hated ingratitude126.
For her own part, having given him the great jewel and worn the substitute successfully, she had of late dismissed the subject from her mind with her usual happy insouciance127. But now, clauses in her husband’s will and in that of his father’s, had recalled it to her harshly, and[261] with insistence128. She knew that the jewels, like most other things, were held in trust for the little rosy-cheeked man in the further corner of the carriage; and that sooner or later they would be subjected to examination, and in all probability taken out of her custody129. She had no longer even the rights in them which are called rights of user. So much she had gathered as she had listened to the reading of the will; she was not sure, but she was afraid, and this glacial fear gripped her light and courageous130 heart, and almost made its pulses stand still.
She felt almost to hate the unconscious little duke, tucked up in a bear-skin with his legs crossed under him in a corner of the railway-carriage.
Jack could not get out of his mind the idea of poor Pappy being left all alone in that dark stone place underground; “and he can’t even smoke,” he thought, with a tender pity in his little heart for the man who had so often pinched his legs and tugged131 at his hair. His mother reclined in her compartment132 looking very white, grave, and angry, in her sombre clothes, and in her unwonted taciturnity; his uncles talked to each other of things that he could not understand. Gerry was sound asleep; Jack watched the steam fly past the window-pane.
“It’s a horrid133 thing to be deaded,” he thought. “Oh, I hope,—I hope,—I do hope,—Harry won’t ever be deaded.”
“What nonsense are you talking to yourself?” said his mother angrily. “And people say dead—not deaded.”
Jack shrank into his corner and watched the wreaths of steam fly on against the dark.
Jack had seen his grandfather omnipotent136, deferred137 to by everybody, and independent in all actions; why did not these privileges descend138 with the dukedom to himself?
“You’re a minor139, Jack,” one of his aunts had said to him, but the word had only confused him. He thought it meant a man who worked underground with a pickaxe and a safety-lamp as he had seen them drawn140 in instructive books.
[262]“Harry’ll tell me all I can do,” he thought; and comforted by that thought he fell asleep like his brother.
“I can see no one,” she said to her groom141 of the chambers142 the next morning in Stanhope Street.
“None,” she answered curtly—“at least only Gregge.”
This gentleman waited on her and bore himself with a manner that expressed his wounded feelings at not having been sent for into the country.
“Never mind that,” she said impatiently. “They don’t like you, you know, because you give me good advice, and they think it bad; I want you to tell me what rights I have.”
“I was not at the reading of the will, your Grace,” replied Mr. Gregge, still full of his own wrongs.
“But I am sure you know all about it.”
“I have heard something from Messrs. Wilton and Somers,” he answered cautiously, naming the London solicitors146 of the late dukes.
“Well, what rights have I?”
“Your rights are limited, madam; exceedingly limited. At least I believe so. I have no positive information.”
Her pretty teeth shut tightly together. He seemed to her less polite and deferential than usual.
“I do as I like with the children, don’t I?” she asked angrily.
“Subject to their guardians’ approval.”
“That is to say, I don’t?”
He was silent.
She beat the carpet very feverishly147 with her foot.
“I keep the jewels, of course?”
“Your own, madam, of course.”
“I mean the Otterbourne jewels; the great Indian diamond?”
“No, madam. I fear they will be removed from your keeping. You have no right of user over them.”
“They are not mine? For my lifetime?”
Then, alarmed at the terror and fury he read in her countenance149, he hastened to add:
[263]“I speak as amicus curiæ; I have not read the will; if you wish me to confer with the late duke’s legal advisers150 I will do so, and inform you more exactly of your position.”
She assented151 and dismissed him with scant152 courtesy, being a prey153 to extreme anxiety. She had never entertained any doubt as to her jurisdiction154 over the children and the jewels, and she had never correctly comprehended the changed position in which the death of her husband places a woman of rank. She wrote to Beaumont a harsh and imperious letter in the third person, ordering him to come to her at once and bring her property with him. In her eyes, whatever he might be in his own, he was only a tradesman.
Beaumont knew very well that he had done an invalid155 thing, and that the signature of the lady locked up in his safe was in law worth nothing. But he was used to doing illegal things, he always found they answered best. The transaction was bonâ fide on his part, and the jewel was in his hands.
Before the Duke of Otterbourne would lose it, and let the matter be brought before a tribunal, Beaumont knew very well that he himself should be repaid. She could not repay him, her husband could not, but the family, the head of the family, would. So he had always reasoned. “La famille! C’est le magôt de ces gens là,” he said to himself.
The death of the Duke of Otterbourne had disagreeably surprised him, and made him take a trip across the Channel, a fidgety, worrying little journey which he at all times disliked, for he was never comfortable out of the Rue156 de la Paix. He had scarcely reached London when the newspapers informed him of the illness, and in a few days of the demise157, of the late duke’s successor. He was much too well-bred to intrude158 on the retreat of the widowed duchess. He knew that the retreat would not last very long. He amused himself by going to see the imitation jewelry159 of Birmingham, and was lost in wonder that a nation which has the art of India under its eyes can outrage160 heaven and earth by gewgaws meet for savages161. Then, having taken precautions so as to be informed of[264] all which might be done with the Otterbourne heirlooms, he returned to the home of his heart and awaited events. When some few days later he received her curt145 summons he was extremely astonished, but agreeably so; he concluded he was about to receive his money. No one, he thought, would write in that imperious tone who was not prepared to pay to the uttermost farthing. So he reluctantly again undertook that fidgeting little journey of Calais-Douvres which the wit and wisdom of two nations are content to leave in chaos162 whilst they ridicule163 the Chinese for not making good roads.
He read her letter again on the steamer; it was so very uncivil that it could only mean payment, immediate164 and complete. Why not? The Otterbourne family was after all a very illustrious one.
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1
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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10
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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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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12
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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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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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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strings
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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larking
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| v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的现在分词 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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irresistibly
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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40
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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41
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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42
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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44
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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45
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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46
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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47
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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48
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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49
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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50
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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51
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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52
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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53
connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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54
condonation
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| n.容忍，宽恕，原谅 | |
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55
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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56
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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57
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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58
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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59
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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61
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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62
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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63
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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64
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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65
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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66
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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67
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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68
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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69
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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70
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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71
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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73
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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75
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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76
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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77
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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78
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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79
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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80
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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81
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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82
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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83
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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84
mettlesome
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| adj.（通常指马等）精力充沛的，勇猛的 | |
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85
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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86
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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87
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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88
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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89
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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90
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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91
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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92
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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93
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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94
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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95
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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96
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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97
adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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98
warranty
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| n.担保书，证书，保单 | |
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99
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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100
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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101
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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102
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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103
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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104
persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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105
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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106
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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107
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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108
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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109
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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110
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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111
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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112
agate
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| n.玛瑙 | |
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113
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
armory
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| n.纹章，兵工厂，军械库 | |
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115
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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116
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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117
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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118
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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119
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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120
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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121
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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122
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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123
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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125
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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126
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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127
insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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128
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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129
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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130
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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131
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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133
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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134
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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135
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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136
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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137
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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138
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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139
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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140
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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141
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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142
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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143
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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144
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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145
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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146
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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147
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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148
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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150
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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151
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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153
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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154
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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155
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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156
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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157
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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158
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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159
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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160
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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161
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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162
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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163
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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164
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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