"After long years."
It is raining, not only raining, but pouring. All the gracious sunshine of yesterday is obliterated1, forgotten, while in its place the sullen3 raindrops dash themselves with suppressed fury against the window-panes. Huge drops they are, swollen4 with the hidden rage of many days, that fall, and burst heavily, and make the casements5 tremble.
Outside, the flowers droop6 and hang their pretty heads in sad wonder at this undeserved Nemesis7 that has overtaken them. Along the sides of the graveled paths small rivulets8 run frightened. There is no song of birds in all the air. Only the young short grass uprears itself, and, drinking in with eager greediness the welcome but angry shower, refuses to bend its neck beneath the yoke9.
"How I hate a wet day!" says Luttrell, moodily10, for the twentieth time, staring blankly out of the deserted11 school-room window, where he and Molly have been yawning, moping for the last half-hour.
"Do you? I love it," replies she, out of a sheer spirit of contradiction; as, if there is one thing she utterly12 abhors14 it is the idea of rain.
"If I said I loved it, you would say the reverse," says he, laughing, not feeling equal to the excitement of a quarrel.
"Without doubt," replies she, laughing too: so that a very successful opening is rashly neglected. "Surely it cannot keep on like this all day," she says, presently, in a dismal15 tone, betraying by her manner the falsity of her former admiration16: "we shall have a dry winter if it continues much longer. Has any wise man yet discovered how much rain the clouds are capable of containing at one time? It would be such a blessing17 if they had: then we might know the worst, and make up our minds to it."
"drop a line to the clerk of the weather office; he might make it his business to find out if you asked him."
"Is that a joke?" with languid disgust. "And you professed18 yourself indignant with me yesterday when I perpetrated a really superior one! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I would not condescend19 to anything so feeble."
"That reminds me I have never yet paid you off for that misdemeanor. Now, when time is hanging so heavily on my hands, is a most favorable opportunity to pay the debt. I embrace it. And you too. So 'prepare for cavalry20.'"
Meantime, Letitia and John in the morning room—that in a grander house would have been designated a boudoir—are holding a hot discussion.
Lovat, the eldest22 son, being the handsomest and by far the most scampish of the children, is of course his mother's idol23. His master, however, having written to say that up to this, in spite of all the trouble that has been taken with him, he has evinced a far greater disposition24 for cricket and punching his companions' heads than for his Greek and Latin, Lovat's father had given it as his opinion that Lovat deserves a right good flogging; while Lovat's mother maintains that all noble, high-spirited boys are "just like that," and asks Mr. Massereene, with the air of a Q. C., whether he never felt a distaste for the dead languages.
Mr. Massereene replying that he never did, that he was always a model boy, and never anywhere but at the head of his class, his wife instantly declares she doesn't believe a word of it, and most unfairly rakes up a dead-and-gone story, in which Mr. Massereene figures as the principal feature, and is discovered during school hours on the top of a neighbor's apple-tree, with a long-suffering but irate25 usher26 at the foot of it, armed with his indignation and a birch rod.
"And for three mortal hours he stood there, while I sat up aloft grinning at him," says Mr. Massereene, with (considering his years) a disgraceful appreciation27 of his past immoral28 conduct; "and when at last the gardener was induced to mount the tree and drag me ignominiously29 to the ground, I got such a flogging as made a chair for some time assume the character of a rack."
"And you deserved it, too," says Letitia, with unwonted severity.
"I did, indeed, my dear," John confesses, heartily30, "richly. I am glad to see that at last you begin to take a sensible view of the subject. If I deserved a flogging because I once shirked my tasks, what does not Lovat deserve for a long course of such conduct?"
"He is not accused of stealing apples, at all events; and, besides, Lovat is quite different," says Letitia, vaguely31. Whereupon John tells her her heart is running away with her head, and that her partiality is so apparent that he must cease from further argument, and goes on with his reading.
Presently, however, he rises, and, crossing the room, stands over her, watching her white shapely fingers as they deftly33 fill up the holes in the little socks that lie in the basket beside her. She is so far en rapport34 with him as to know that his manner betokens35 a desire for confidence.
"Have you anything to say to me, dear?" she asks, looking up and suspending her employment for the time being.
"Letitia," begins he, thoughtfully, not to say solemnly, "it is quite two months since Luttrell first put in an appearance in this house. Now, I don't wish to seem inhospitable,—far be it from me: a thirst for knowledge alone induces me to put the question,—but, do you think he means to reside here permanently36?"
"It is certainly very strange," says Letitia, unmoved by his eloquence37 to even the faintest glimmer38 of a smile, so deep is her interest in the subject,—"the very oddest thing. If, now, it were a place where a young man could find any amusement, I would say nothing; but here! Do you know, John,"—mysteriously,—"I have my suspicions."
"No!" exclaims Mr. Massereene, betraying the wildest curiosity in voice and gesture,—so wild as to hint at the possibility of its not being genuine. "You don't say so!"
"It has once or twice occurred to me——"
"Yes?"
"I have certainly thought——"
"Letitia,"—with authority,—"don't think, or suspect, or let it occur to you any more: say it."
"Well, then, I think he is in love with Molly."
John breaks into a heavy laugh.
"What it is to be a woman of penetration," says he. "So you have found that out. Now, that is where we men fail. But are you certain? Why do you think it?"
"I am almost convinced of it," Letitia says, with much solemnity. "Last night I happened to be looking out of one of the windows that overhang the garden, and there in the moonlight (it was quite ten o'clock) I saw Molly give him a red rose; and he took it, and gazed at it as though he were going to devour39 it; and then he kissed it; and after that he kissed Molly's hand! Now, I don't think, John, unless a young man was—you know—eh?"
"I altogether agree with you. Unless a young man was, you know, why, he wouldn't—that's all. I am glad, however, he had the grace to stop at the hand,—that it was not Molly's lips he chose instead."
"My dear John!"
"My darling Letty! have I said anything so very outre? Were you never kissed by a young man?"
"Only by you," returns Mrs. Massereene, laughing apologetically, and blushing a rare delicate pink that would not have disgraced her at eighteen.
"Ah, you may well be excused, considering how you were tempted40. It is not every day one meets—— By the bye, Letty, did you cease your eavesdropping41 at that point?"
"Yes; I did not like to remain longer."
"Then depend upon it, my dear, you did not see the last act in that drama."
"You surely do not think Molly——"
"I seldom trouble to think. I only know Luttrell is an uncommonly42 good-looking fellow, and that the moon is a white witch."
"He is good-looking," says Letitia, rising and growing troubled; "he is more than that,—he is charming. Oh, John! if our Molly were to fall in love with him, and grow unhappy about it, what would we do? I don't believe he has anything beyond his pay."
"He has something more than that, I know, but not much. The Luttrells have a good deal of spare cash throwing about among them."
"But what of that? And a poor man would be wretched for Molly. Remember what an expensive regiment43 he is in. Why, I suppose as it is he can hardly keep himself. And how would it be with a wife and a large family?"
"Oh, Letitia! let us have the marriage ceremony first. Why on earth will you saddle the miserable44 man with a large family so soon? And wouldn't a small one do? Of what use to pile up the agony to such a height?"
"I think of no one but Molly. There is nothing so terrible as a long engagement, and that is what it will come to. Do you remember Sarah Annesley? She grew thinner and thinner day by day, and her complexion45 became positively46 yellow when Perceval went away. And her mother said it was suspense47 preying48 upon her."
"So they said, my dear; but we all know it was indigestion."
"John,"—austerely,—"what is the exact amount of Mr. Luttrell's income?"
"About six hundred a year, I think."
"As much as that?" Slightly relieved. "And will his father allow him anything more?"
"Unless you insist upon my writing to Sir William, I could not tell you that."
"Six hundred a year is far too little."
"It is almost as much as we have."
"But you are not in the army, and you are not a fashionable young man."
"If you say that again I shall sue for a divorce. But seriously, Letty, perhaps you are exciting yourself about nothing. Who knows but they are indifferent to each other?"
"I fear they are not. And I will not have poor Molly made unhappy."
"Why not 'poor Luttrell'? It is far more likely as I see it."
"I don't want any one to be unhappy. And something must be done."
"Do what?"
"That awful 'something' that is to be done."
"Certainly not. It is your duty to—to—find out everything, and ask them both what they mean."
"Then I won't," declares John, throwing out his arms decisively. "I would not be bribed52 to do it. What! ask a man his intentions! I couldn't bring myself to do such a thing. How could I look him in the face again? They must fight the best battle they can for themselves, like every one else. I won't interfere53."
"Very good. I shall speak to Molly. And I really think we ought to go and look them up. I have seen neither of them since breakfast time."
"The rain has ceased. Let us go out by the balcony," says Mr. Massereene, stepping through the open window. "I heard them in the school-room as I passed."
Now, this balcony, as I have told you, runs along all one side of the house, and on it the drawing-room, school-room, and one of the parlor54 windows open. Thick curtains hang from them and conceal50 in part the outer world; so that when John and Letty stand before the school-room window to look in they do so without being themselves seen. And this, I regret to say, is what they see:
In the centre of the room a square table, and flying round and round it, with the tail of her white gown twisted over her right arm, is Miss Massereene, with Mr. Luttrell in full chase after her.
"Well, upon my word!" says Mr. Massereene, unable through bewilderment to think of any remark more brilliant.
Round and round goes Molly, round and round follows her pursuer; until Luttrell, finding his prey49 to be quite as fleet if not fleeter than himself, resorts to a mean expedient55, and, catching56 hold of one side of the table, pushes it, and Molly behind it, slowly but surely into the opposite corner.
There is no hope. Steadily57, certainly, she approaches her doom58, and with flushed cheeks and eyes gleaming with laughter, makes a vain protest.
"Now I have you," says Luttrell, drawing an elaborate penknife from his pocket, in which all the tools that usually go to adorn59 a carpenter's shop fight for room. "Prepare for death, or—I give you your choice: I shall either cut your jugular60 vein61 or kiss you. Don't hurry. Say which you prefer. It is a matter of indifference62 to me."
["Letitia," whispers John, "I feel I am going to laugh. What shall I do?"
"Don't," says Letitia, with stern promptitude. "That is what you will do. It is no laughing matter. I hope you are not going to make a jest of it, John."
"But, my dear, supposing I can't help it?" suggests he, mildly. "Our risible64 faculties65 are not always under our control."
"On an occasion such as this they should be."
"Letitia," says Mr. Massereene, regarding her with severity, "you are going to laugh yourself; don't deny it."
"No,—no, indeed," protests Letitia, foolishly, considering her handsome face is one broad smile, and that her plump shoulders are visibly shaking.]
"It is mean! it is shameful66!" says Molly, from within, seeing no chance of escape. Whichever way she rushes can be only into his arms.
"All that you can say shan't prevent me," decides Luttrell, moving toward her with fell determination in his eye.
"Perhaps a little that I can say may have the desired effect," breaks in Mr. Massereene, advancing into the middle of the room, with Letitia, looking rather nervous, behind him.
There is a sudden, rather undignified, cessation of hostilities69 on the part of Mr. Luttrell, who beats a hasty retreat to the wall, where he stands as though glad of the support. He bears a sneaky rather than a distinguished70 appearance, and altogether has the grace to betray a considerable amount of shame.
Molly, dropping her gown, turns a rich crimson71, but is, I need hardly say, by far the least upset of the two delinquents72. She remains73 where she is, hedged in by the table, and is conscious of feeling a wild desire to laugh.
"How fortunate, John, that you happened to be on the spot! Mr. Luttrell was behaving so badly!"
"I don't need to be told that."
"But how did you come here?" asks Molly, making a brave but unsuccessful effort to turn the tables upon the enemy. "And Letitia, too! I do hate people who turn up when they are least expected. What were you doing on the balcony?"
"Watching you—and—your friend," says John, very gravely for him. He addresses himself entirely76 to Molly, her "friend" being in the last stage of confusion and utterly incapable77 of speech. At this, however, he can support the situation no longer, and, coming forward, says eagerly:
"John, let me explain. The fact is, I asked Miss Massereene to marry me, a little time ago, and she has promised to do so—if you—don't object." After this bit of eloquence he draws himself up, with a little shake, as though he had rid himself of something disagreeable, and becomes once more his usual self.
Letitia puts on a "didn't I tell you?" sort of air, and John says:
"Is that so?" looking at Molly for confirmation78.
"Yes, if it is your wish," cries she, forsaking79 her retreat, and coming forward to lay her hand upon her brother's arm entreatingly80, and with a gesture full of tenderness. "But if you do object, if it vexes81 you in the very slightest degree, John, I——"
"But you will give your consent, Massereene," interrupts her lover, hastily, as though dreading82 the remainder of the sentence, "won't you?" He too has come close up to John, and stands on one side, opposite Molly. Almost, from the troubled expression of his face as he looks at the girl, one might imagine him trying to combat her apparent lukewarmness more then her brother's objections.
"Things seem to have progressed very favorably without my consent," says John, glancing at the unlucky table, which has come in for a most unfair share of the blame. "But before giving you my blessing I acknowledge—now we are on the subject—I would like to know on what sum you intend setting up housekeeping." Here Letitia, who has preserved a strict neutrality throughout, comes more to the front. "It is inconvenient83, and anything but romantic, I know, but people must eat, and those who indulge in violent exercise are generally possessed84 of healthy appetites."
"I have over five hundred a year," says Luttrell, coloring, and feeling as if he had said fifty and was going to be called presumptuous85. He also feels that John has by some sudden means become very many years older than he really is.
"That includes everything?"
"Everything. When my uncle—Maxwell Luttrell—hops the—that is, drops off—I mean dies," says Luttrell whose slang is extensive and rather confusing, "I shall come in for five thousand pounds more."
"How can you speak in such a cold-blooded way of your uncle's death?" says Molly, who is not so much impressed by the occasion as she should be.
"Why not? There is no love lost between us. If he could leave it away from me he would; but that is out of his power."
"That makes it seven hundred," says Letitia, softly, à propos of the income.
"Nearer eight," says he, brightening at her tone.
"Molly, you wish to marry Tedcastle?" John asks his sister, gazing at her earnestly.
"Ye—es; but I'm not in a hurry, you know," replies she, with a little nod.
"She is young, Luttrell; she has seen little of the world. You must give her time. I know no man I would prefer to you as a brother; but—give her time. Be satisfied with the engagement; do not let us speak of marriage just yet."
"Not unless she wishes it," says the young man bravely, and perhaps a little proudly.
"In a year," says John, still with his eyes on his beautiful sister, and speaking with marked hesitation87, as though waiting for her to make some sign by which he shall know how to best forward her secret wishes; "then we may begin to talk about it."
"Yes, then we may talk about it," echoes Molly, cheerfully.
"But a year!—it is a lifetime," says Luttrell, with some excitement, turning his eyes, full of a mute desire for help, upon Letitia. And when did Letitia ever fail any one?
"No," cries Molly, pettishly89, "it shall be as John wishes. Why, it is nothing! Think of all the long years to come afterward90, when we shall not be able to get rid of each other, no matter how earnestly we may desire it; and then see how small in comparison is this one year."
Luttrell, who has grown a little pale, goes over to her and takes her hand in both his. His face is grave, fuller of purpose than they have ever seen it. To him the scene is a betrothal91, almost a marriage.
"You will be true to me?" he says, with suppressed emotion. "Swear that you will, before your brother."
"Of course I will," with a quick, nervous laugh. "Why should I be otherwise? You frighten me with your solemn ways. Am I more to you than I was yesterday? Why, how should I be untrue to you, even if I wished it? I shall see no one from the day you leave until you come again."
At this moment the noise of the door-handle being turned makes him drop her hand, and they all fall simultaneously92 into what they hope is an easy attitude. And then Sarah appears upon the threshold with a letter and a small packet between her first finger and thumb. She is a very genteel girl, is Sarah, and would scorn to take a firm grasp of anything.
"This 'ere is for you, sir," she says, delivering the packet to Luttrell, who consigns93 it hastily to his coat-pocket; "and this for you, Miss Molly," giving the letter. "The postman says, sir, as 'ow they only come by the afternoon, but I am of the rooted opinion that he forgot 'm this morning."
Thus Sarah, who is loquacious94 though trustworthy, and bears an undying grudge95 to the postman, in that he has expressed himself less enamored of her waning96 charms than of those of the more buxom97 Jane, who queens it over the stewpans and the cold joints98.
"I don't know the writing," she says in a vague tone. "I do hope it isn't a bill."
"A bill, with that monogram102!" exclaims Luttrell. "Not likely. I would swear to a dunning epistle at twenty yards' distance."
"Who can it be from?" wonders Molly, still dallying103 with one finger inserted beneath the flap of the envelope.
"Perhaps, if you look within you may find out," suggests John, meekly104; and thus encouraged she opens the letter and reads.
At first her face betrays mere105 indifference, then surprise, then a sudden awakening106 to intense interest, and lastly unmitigated astonishment107.
"It is the most extraordinary thing," she says, at last, looking up, and addressing them in an awestruck whisper, "the most unexpected. After all these years,—I can scarcely believe it to be true."
"An invitation to Herst Royal!"
"I don't believe you," cries Luttrell, who means no rudeness at all, but is merely declaring in a modern fashion how delighted beyond measure he is.
"Look: is not that Marcia's writing? I suppose she wrote it, though it is dictated109 by grandpapa."
All four heads were instantly bent110 over the clear, bold calligraphy111 to read the cold but courteous112 invitation it contains.
"Dear Eleanor" is given to understand that her grandfather will be pleased to make her acquaintance, if she will be pleased to transfer herself and her maid to Herst Royal on the twenty-seventh of the present month. There are a few hints about suitable trains, a request that a speedy reply in the affirmative will be sent, and then "dear Eleanor" is desired to look upon Mr. Amherst as her "affectionate grandfather." Not one word about all the neglect that has been showered upon her for nineteen years.
"Well?" says Luttrell, who is naturally the first to recover himself.
"Had you anything to do with this?" asks John, turning almost fiercely to him.
"Nothing, on my honor."
"He must be near death," says Letitia. Molly is silent, her eyes still fixed113 upon the letter. "I think, John—she ought to go."
"Of course she shall go," returns John, a kind of savage114 jealousy115 pricking116 him. "I can't provide for her after my death. That old man may be softened117 by her face or terrified by the near approach of dissolution into doing her justice. He has neither watched her, nor tended her, nor loved her; but now that she has come to perfection he claims her."
"John," cries Molly, with sudden passion, flinging herself into his arms, "I will not go. No, not one step. What is he to me, that stern old tyrant118, who has refused for nineteen years to acknowledge me? While you, my dear, my darling, you are my all."
"Nonsense, child!" speaking roughly, although consoled and strengthened by her caress119 and loving words. "It is what I have been wishing for all these years. Of course you must go. It is only right you should be recognized by your relations, even though it is so late in the day. Perhaps he will leave you a legacy120; and"—smiling—"I think I may console myself with the reflection that old Amherst will scarcely be able to cut me out."
"You may, without flattering yourself," says Luttrell.
"Letitia, do you too want to get rid of me?" asks Molly, still half crying.
"You are a hypocrite," says Letitia; "you know you are dying to go. I should, were I in your place. Instead of lamenting121, you ought to be thanking your stars for this lucky chance that has befallen you; and you should be doubly grateful to us for letting you go, as we shall miss you horribly."
"I shan't stay any time," says Molly, reviving. "I shall be back before you realize the fact that I have gone. I know in polite society no one is expected to outstay a month at the very longest."
"You cover me with confusion," says Luttrell, laughing. "Consider what unmentionable form I have displayed. How long have I outstayed my time? It is uncommonly good of you, Mrs. Massereene, not to have given me my congé long ago; but my only excuse is that I have been so utterly happy. Perhaps you will forgive me when you learn that I must tear myself away on Thursday."
"Oh! must you?" says Letitia, honestly sorry. Now that the engagement is un fait accompli, and the bridegroom-elect has declared himself not altogether so insolvent122 as she had feared, she drops precautionary measures and gives way to the affection with which she has begun to regard him. "You are going to Herst also. Why cannot you stay here to accompany Molly? Her going is barely three weeks distant."
"If I could I would not require much pressing, you can readily believe that. But duty is imperative123, and go I must."
"You did not tell me you were going," says Molly, looking aggrieved124. "How long have you known it?"
"For a week. I could not bear to think about leaving, much less to speak of it, so full of charms has Brooklyn proved itself,"—with a smile at Mrs. Massereene,—"but it is an indisputable fact for all that."
"Well, in spite of Lindley Murray I maintain that life is long," says Massereene, who has been silent for the past few minutes. "And I need hardly tell you, Luttrell, you are welcome here whenever you please to come."
"Thank you, old boy," says Luttrell.
"Come out," whispers Molly, slipping her hand into her lover's (she minds John and Letitia about as much as she minds the tables and chairs); "the rain has ceased; and see what a beautiful sun. I have any amount of things to say to you, and a whole volume of questions to ask about my detested125 grand-père. So freshen your wits. But first before we go"—mischievously, and with a little nod full of reproof—"I really think you ought to apologize to John for your scandalous behavior of this morning."
"Molly, I predict this glorious future for you," says her brother: "that you will be returned to me from Herst Royal in disgrace."
When they have reached the summer-house in the garden, whither they have wended their way, with a view to shade (as the sun, having been debarred from shining for so many hours, is now exerting itself to the utmost to make up for lost time), Luttrell draws from his pocket the identical parcel delivered to him by Sarah, and, holding it out to Molly, says, somewhat shamefacedly:
"Here is something for you."
"For me?" coloring with surprise and pleasant expectation. She is a being so unmistakably delighted with anything she receives, be it small or great, that it is an absolute joy to give to her. "What is it?"
"Open it and see. I have not seen it myself yet, but I hope it will please you."
Off comes the wrapper; a little leather case is disclosed, a mysterious fastener undone126, and there inside, in its velvet127 shelter, lies an exquisite128 diamond ring that glistens129 and flashes up into her enchanted130 eyes.
"Oh, Teddy! it cannot be for me," she says, with a little gasp131 that speaks volumes; "it is too beautiful. Oh, how good of you to think of it! And how did you know that if there is one thing on earth which I love it is a ring? And such a ring! You wicked boy, I do believe you have spent a fortune on it." Yet in reality she hardly guesses the full amount of the generous sum that has been so willingly expended132 on that glittering hoop133.
"I am glad you like it," he says, radiant at her praise. "I think it is pretty."
"'Pretty' is a poor word. It is far too handsome. I would scold you for your extravagance, but I have lost the power just now. And do you know," raising her soft, flushed face to her lover,—"I never had a ring before in my life, except a very old-fashioned one of my mother's, an ancient square, you know, with hair in the centre, and all around it big pearls, that are anything but pearly now, as they have grown quite black. Thank you a thousand times."
She slips her arm around his neck and presses her lips warmly, unbashfully to his cheek. Be it ever so cold, so wanting in the shyness that belongs to conscious tenderness, it is still the very first caress she has ever given him of her own accord. A little thrill runs through him, and a mad longing134 to catch her in his arms, as he feels the sweet, cool touch; yet he restrains himself. Some innate135 sense of honor, born on the occasion, a shrinking lest she should deem him capable of claiming even so natural a return for his gift, compels him to forego his desire. It is noticeable, too, that he does not even place the ring upon her engaged finger, as most men would have done. It is a bauble136 meant to gratify her: why make it a fetter137, be it ever so light a one?
"I am amply repaid," he says, gently. "Was there ever such luck as your getting that invitation this morning? I wonder what could have put it into the old fellow's head to invite you? Are you glad you are going?"
"I am. I almost think it is mean of me to be so glad, but I can't help it. Is my grandfather so very terrific?"
"He is all of that," says Luttrell, "and a good deal more. If I were an American I would have no scruples138 about calling him a 'darned old cuss': as it is, I will smother139 my feelings, and let you discover his failings for yourself."
"If he is as bad as you say, I wonder he gets any one to visit him."
"He does, however. We all go,—generally the same lot every year; though I have been rather out of it for a time, on account of my short stay in India. He has first-class shooting; and when he is not in the way, it is pretty jolly. He hates old people, and never allows a chaperon inside his doors,—I mean elderly chaperons. The young ones don't count: they, as a rule, are backward in the art of talking at one and making things disagreeable all round."
"But he is old himself."
"That's just it. It is all jealousy. He finds every old person he meets, no matter how unpleasant, a decided140 improvement on himself; whereas he can always hope the young ones may turn out his counterparts."
"Really, if you say much more, I shall be afraid to go to Herst."
"Oh, well"—temporizing—"perhaps I exaggerate slightly. He has a wretched temper, and he takes snuff, you know, but I dare say there are worse."
"Am I? I didn't know. Well, do you know, in spite of all my uncivil remarks, there is a certain charm about Herst that other country-houses lack? We all understand our host's little weaknesses, in the first place, and are, therefore, never caught sleeping. We feel as if we were at school again, united by a common cause, with all the excitement of a conspiracy142 on foot that has a master for its victim; though, to confess the truth, the master in our case has generally the best of it, as he has a perfect talent for hitting on one's sore point. Then, too, we know to a nicety when the dear old man is in a particularly vicious mood, which is usually at dinner-time, and we keep looking at each other through every course, wondering on whose devoted143 head the shell of his wrath144 will first burst; and when that is over we wonder again whose turn it will be next."
"It must keep you very lively."
"It does; and, what is better, it prevents formality, and puts an end to the earlier stages of etiquette145. We feel a sort of relationship, a clanship among us; and, indeed, for the most part, we are related, as Mr. Amherst prefers entertaining his family to any others,—it is so much easier to be unpleasant to them than to strangers. I am connected with him very distantly through my mother; so is Cecil Stafford; so is Potts in some undefined way."
"Now, don't tell me you are my cousin," says Molly, "because I wouldn't like it."
"I am not proud; if you will let me be your husband, I won't ask anything more. Oh, Molly, how I wish this year was at an end!"
"Do you? I don't. I am absolutely dying to go to Herst." Then, turning eyes that are rather wistful upon him, she says, earnestly, "Do they—the women, I mean—wear very lovely clothes? To be like them must I—be very well dressed?"
"You always are very well dressed, are you not?" asks her lover, in return, casting a loving, satisfied glance over the fresh, inexpensive Holland gown she wears, with a charming but strictly146 masculine disregard of the fact that muslin is not silk, nor cotton cashmere.
"Am I? You stupid boy!" says Molly; but she laughs in a little pleased way and pats his hand. Next to being praised herself, the sweetest thing to a woman is to have her dress praised. "Not I. Well, no matter; they may crush me if they please with their designs by Worth, but I defy them to have a prettier ring than mine," smiling at her new toy as it still lies in the middle of her hand. "Is Herst very large, Teddy? How shall I remember my own room? It will be so awkward to be forever running into somebody else's, won't it?"
"Your maid will manage all that for you."
"My maid?" coloring slowly, but still with her eyes on his. "And—supposing I have no maid?"
"Well, then," says Tedcastle, who has been bred in the belief that a woman without her maid is as lost as a babe without its mother, "why, then, I suppose, you would borrow one from your nearest neighbor. Cecil Stafford would lend you hers. I know my sisters were only allowed one maid between each two; and when they spent the autumn in different houses they used to toss up which should have her."
"I should fancy you could better answer that than I."
"No,—because I never had one."
"Well, neither had I," says Luttrell; at which they both laugh.
"I am afraid," says Molly, in a rather dispirited tone, "I shall feel rather strange at Herst. I wish you could manage to be there the very day I arrive,—could you, Teddy? I would not be so lonely if I knew for certain you would be on the spot to welcome me. It is horrible going there for—that is—to be inspected."
"I will surely be there a day or two after, but I doubt if I could be there on the twenty-seventh. You may trust me to do my best."
"I suppose it is—a very grand place," questions Molly, growing more and more depressed148, "with dinner-parties every day, and butlers, and footmen, and all the rest of it? And I shall be there, a stranger, with no one to care whether I enjoy myself or not."
"You forget me," says Luttrell, quietly.
"True," returns she, brightening; "and whenever you see me sitting by myself, Teddy, you are to come over to me, no matter how engaged you may be, and sit down beside me. If I have any one else with me, of course you need not mind it."
"Have I vexed150 you? How foolish you are! Why, if you are jealous in imagination, how will it be in reality? There will be many men at Herst; and perhaps—who knows——"
"What?"
"I may fall in love with some of them."
"Very likely." With studied coolness.
"Philip Shadwell, for instance?"
"It may be."
"Or your Mr. Potts?"
"There is no accounting151 for tastes."
"Or any one else that may happen to please me?"
"I see nothing to prevent it."
"And what then?"
"Why, then you will forget me, and like him,—until you like some one else better."
"Now, if I were a dignified68 young lady," says Molly, "I should feel insulted; but, being only Molly Bawn, I don't. I forgive you; and I won't fall in love with any one; so you may take that thunder-cloud off your brow as soon as it may please your royal highness."
"What do you gain by making me unhappy?" asks he, impetuously seizing the hand she has extended to him with all the air of an offended but gracious queen.
"Everything." Laughing. "I delight in teasing you, you look so deliciously miserable all through; it is never time thrown away upon you. Now, if you could only manage to laugh at my sallies or tease me back again, I dare say I should give in in a week and let you rest in peace ever after. Why don't you?"
"Perhaps because I can't. All people are not gifted with your fertile imagination. Or because it would give me no pleasure to see you 'deliciously miserable.'"
"Oh, you wouldn't see that," says Molly, airily. "All you could say would not suffice to bring even the faintest touch of misery152 into my face. Angry I might be, but 'miserable,' never!"
"Be assured, Molly, I shall never put your words to the test. Your happiness means mine."
"See how the diamonds flash!" says Molly, presently, recurring153 to her treasure. "Is this the engagement-finger? But I will not let it stay there, lest it might betray me."
"But every one knows it now."
"Are John and Letty every one? At Herst they are still in blissful ignorance. Let them remain so. I insist on our engagement being kept secret."
"But why?"
"Because if it was known it would spoil all my fun. I have noticed that men avoid a fiancée as they would a—a rattlesnake."
"I cannot see why being engaged should spoil your fun."
"But it would for all that. Come now, Ted2, be candid154: how often were you in love before you met me?"
"Well, then, to put it differently, how many girls did you like?"
"Like?" Reluctantly. "Oh, as for that, I suppose I did fancy I liked a few girls."
"Just so; and I should like to like a few men," says Miss Massereene, triumphantly156.
"You don't know what you are talking about," says Tedcastle, hotly.
"Indeed I do. That is just one of the great points which the defenders157 of women's rights forget to expatiate158 upon. A man may love as often as he chooses, while a woman must only love once, or he considers himself very badly used. Why not be on an equal footing? Not that I want to love any one," says Molly; "only it is the injustice159 of the thing I abhor13."
"Love any one you choose," says Tedcastle, passionately160, springing to his feet, "Shadwell or any other fellow that comes in your way, I shan't interfere. It is hardly necessary for you to say you don't 'want to love one.' Your heart is as cold as ice. It is high time this engagement—this farce—should come to an end."
"If you wish it," says Molly, quietly, in a subdued161 tone, yet as she says it she moves one step—no more—closer to him.
"But I do not wish it; that is my cruel fate!" cries the young man, taking both her hands and laying them over his heart with a despairing tenderness. "There are none happy save those incapable of knowing a lasting162 affection. Oh, Molly!"—remorsefully—"forgive me. I am speaking to you as I ought not. It is all my beastly temper; though I used not to be ill-tempered," says he, with sad wonder. "At home and among our fellows I was always considered rather easy-going than otherwise. I think the knowledge that I must part from you on Thursday (though only for a short time) is embittering163 me."
"Then you are really sorry to leave me?" questions Molly, peering up at him from under her straw hat.
"You know I am."
"But very sorry,—desperately so?"
"Yes." Gravely, and with something that is almost tears in his eyes. "Why do you ask me, Molly? Is it not palpable enough?"
"It is not. You look just the same as ever,—quite as 'easy-going'"—with a malicious164 pout—"as either your 'home' or your 'fellows' could desire. I quite buoyed165 myself up with the hope that I should see you reduced to a skeleton as the last week crept to its close, and here you are robust166 and well to do as usual. I call it unfeeling," says Miss Massereene, reproachfully, "and I don't believe you care a pin about me."
"Would you like to see me 'reduced to a skeleton'?" asks Luttrell, reproachfully. "You talk as though you had been done out of something; but a man may be horribly cut up about a thing without letting all the world know of it."
"You conceal it with great skill," says Molly, placing her hand beneath his chin, under a pretense167 of studying his features, but in reality to compel him to look at her; and, as it is impossible for any one to gaze into another's eyes for any length of time without showing emotion of some kind, presently he laughs.
"Ah!" cries she, well pleased, "now I have made you laugh, your little attack of the spleens will possibly take to itself wings and fly away."
All through the remainder of this day and the whole of the next—which is his last—she is sweetness itself to him. Whatever powers of tormenting168 she possesses are kept well in the background, while she betrays nothing but a very successful desire to please.
She wanders with him contentedly169 through garden and lawn; she sits beside him; at dinner she directs swift, surreptitious smiles at him across the flowers; later on she sings to him his favorite songs; and why she scarcely knows. Perhaps through a coquettish desire to make the parting harder; perhaps to make his chains still stronger; perhaps to soothe170 his evident regret; perhaps (who can say?) because she too feels that same regret.
And surely to-night some new spirit is awake within her. Never has she sung so sweetly. As her glorious voice floats through the dimly-lighted room and out into the more brilliant night beyond, Luttrell, and Letitia, and John sit entranced and wonder secretly at the great gift that has been given her.
"If ever words are sweet, what, what is song
When lips we love the melody prolong!"
Molly in every-day life is one thing; Molly singing divinely is another. One wonders curiously, when hearing her, how anything so gay, so debonnaire as she, can throw such passion into words, such thrilling tenderness, such wild and mournful longing.
"Molly," cries John impatiently from the balcony, "I cannot bear to hear you sing like that. One would think your heart was broken. Don't do it, child."
And Molly laughs lightly, and bursts into a barcarolle that utterly precludes171 the idea of any deep feeling; after which she gives them her own "Molly Bawn," and then, shutting down the piano, declares she is tired, and that evidently John doesn't appreciate her, and so she will sing no more.
Then comes the last morning,—the cruel moment when farewell must be said.
The dog-cart is at the door; John is good-naturedly busy about the harness; and, Letitia having suddenly and with suspicious haste recollected172 important commands for the kitchen, whither she withdraws herself, the lovers find themselves alone.
"Hurry, man; you will barely catch it," cries John, from outside, meaning the train; having calculated to a nicety how long it would take him to give and receive a kiss, now that he has been married for more years than he cares to count.
Luttrell, starting at his voice, seizes both Molly's hands.
"Keep thinking of me always," he says, in a low tone, "always, lest at any moment you forget."
Molly makes him no answer, but slowly raises to him eyes wet with unshed tears. It is more than he has hoped for.
"Molly," he cries, hurriedly, only too ready to grasp this small bud of a longed-for affection, "you will be sorry for me? There are tears in your eyes,—you will miss me? You love me, surely,—a little?"
Once more the lovely dewy eyes meet his; she nods at him and smiles faintly.
"A little," he repeats, wistfully. (Perhaps he has been assuring himself of some more open encouragement,—has dreamed of spoken tenderness, and feels the disappointment.) "Some men," he goes on, softly, "can lay claim to all the great treasure of their love's heart, while I—see how eagerly I accept the bare crumbs173. Yet, darling, believe me, your sweet coldness is dearer to me than another woman's warmest assertion. And later—who knows?—perhaps——"
"Yes, perhaps," says Molly, stirred by his emotion or by some other stronger sentiment lying deep at the bottom of her heart, "by and by I may perhaps bore you to death by the violence of my devotion. Meantime"—standing on tiptoe, and blushing just enough to make her even more adorable than before, and placing two white hands on his shoulders—"you shall have one small, wee kiss to carry away with you."
Half in doubt he waits until of her own sweet accord her lips do verily meet his; and then, catching her in his arms, he strains her to him, forgetful for the moment of the great fact that neither time nor tide waits for any man.
"You are not going, I suppose?" calls John, his voice breaking in rudely upon the harrowing scene. "Shall I send the horse back to the stables? Here, James,"—to the stable boy,—"take round Rufus; Mr. Luttrell is going to stay another month or two."
"You remind me of Charles the First," murmurs175 she, smiling through her tears. "Yes, I will remember you, and all you have said, and—everything. And more, I shall be longing to see you again. Now go." Giving him a little push.
Presently—he hardly knows how—he finds himself in the dog-cart, with John, oppressively cheerful, beside him, and, looking back as they drive briskly up the avenue, takes a last glance at Brooklyn, with Molly on the steps, waving her hand to him, and watching his retreating form with such a regretful countenance176 as gives him renewed courage.
In an upper window is Letitia, more than equal to the occasion, armed with one of John's largest handkerchiefs, that bears a strong resemblance to a young sheet as it flutters frantically177 hither and thither178 in the breeze; while below the two children, Daisy and Renee,—under a mistaken impression that the hour is festive,—throw after him a choice collection of old boots much the worse for wear, which they have purloined179 with praiseworthy adroitness180 from under their nurse's nose.
"Oh, Letty, I do feel so honestly lonely," says Molly, half an hour later, meeting her sister-in-law on the stairs.
"Do you, dearest?" admiringly. "That is very nice of you. Never mind; you know you will soon see him again. And let us come and consult about the dresses you ought to wear at Herst."
"Yes, do let us," returns Miss Massereene, brightening with suspicious alacrity181, and drawing herself up as straight as a young tree out of the despondent182 attitude she has been wearing. "That will pass the time better than anything."
Whereupon Letitia chuckles183 with ill-suppressed amusement and gives it as her opinion that "dear Molly isn't as bad as she thinks herself."
John has done his duty, has driven the melancholy184 young man to the station, and very nearly out of his wits—by insisting on carrying on a long and tedious argument that lasts the entire way, waiting pertinaciously185 for a reply to every one of his questions.
This has taken some time, more especially as the train was late and the back drive hilly; yet when at length he reaches his home he finds his wife and Molly still deep in the mysteries of the toilet.
"Well?" says his sister, as he stands in the doorway186 regarding them silently. As she speaks she allows the dejected expression of two hours ago to return to her features, her lids droop a little over her eyes, her forehead goes up, the corners of her mouth go down. She is in one instant a very afflicted187 Molly. "Well?" she says.
"He isn't well at all," replies John, with a dismal shake of the head and as near an imitation of Molly's rueful countenance as he can manage at so short a notice; "he is very bad. I never saw a worse case in my life. I doubt if he will last out the day. I don't know how you regard it, but I call it cruelty to animals."
"You need not be unfeeling," says Molly, reproachfully, "and I won't listen to you making fun of him behind his back. You wouldn't before his face."
"How do you know?" As though weighing the point. "I never saw him funny until to-day. He was on the verge188 of tears the entire way. It was lucky I was beside him, or he would have drenched189 the new cushions. For shame's sake he refrained before me, but I know he is in floods by this."
"He is not," says Molly, indignantly. "Crying, indeed! What an idea! He is far too much of a man for that."
"I am a man too," says John, who seems to find a rich harvest of delight in the contemplation of Luttrell's misery. "And once, before we were married, when Letitia treated me with disdain190, I gave way to my feelings to such an extent that——"
"Really, John," interposes his wife, "I wish you would keep your stupid stories to yourself, or else go away. We are very busy settling about Molly's things."
"What things? Her tea-things,—her playthings? Ah! poor little Molly! her last nice new one is gone."
"Letty, I hope you don't mind, dear," says Molly, lifting a dainty china bowl from the table near her. "Let us trust it won't break; but, whether it does or not, I must and will throw it at John."
"She should at all events have one pretty new silk dress," murmurs Letitia, vaguely, whose thoughts "are with her heart, and that is far away," literally191 buried, so to speak, in the depths of her wardrobe. "She could not well do without it. Molly,"—with sudden inspiration,—"you shall have mine. That dove-color always looks pretty on a girl, and I have only worn it once. It can easily be made to fit you."
"I wish, Letitia, you would not speak to me like that," says Molly, almost angrily, though there are tears in her eyes. "Do you suppose I want to rob you? I have no doubt you would give me every gown you possess, if I so willed it, and leave yourself nothing. Do remember I am going to Herst more out of spite and curiosity than anything else, and don't care in the least how I look. It is very unkind of you to say such things."
"You are the kindest soul in the world, Letty," says John from the doorway; "but keep your silk. Molly shall have one too." After which he decamps.
"That is very good of John," says Molly. "The fact is, I haven't a penny of my own,—I never have a week after I receive my allowance,—so I must only do the best I can. If I don't like it, you know, I can come home. It is a great thing to know, Letty, that you will be glad to have me, whether I am well dressed or very much the reverse."
"Exactly. And there is this one comfort also, that you look well in anything. By the bye, you must have a maid. You shall take Sarah, and we can get some one in until you come back to us. That"—with a smile—"will prevent your leaving us too long to our own devices. You will understand without telling what a loss the fair Sarah will be."
"You are determined I shall make my absence felt," says Molly, with a half-smile. "Really, Letty, I don't like——"
"But I do," says Letty. "I don't choose you to be one whit32 behind any one else at Herst. Without doubt they will beat you in the matter of clothes; but what of that? I have known many titled people have a fine disregard of apparel."
"So have I," returns Molly, gayly. "Indeed, were I a man, possessed with a desire to be mistaken for a lord, I would go to the meanest 'old clo' shop and purchase there the seediest garments and the most dilapidated hat (with a tendency toward greenness), and a pair of boots with a patch on the left side, and, having equipped myself in them, saunter down the 'shady side of Pall192 Mall' with a sure and certain conviction that I was 'quite the thing.' Should my ambitious longings193 soar as high as a dukedom, I would add to the above costume a patch on the right boot as well, and—questionable linen194."
"Well," says Letitia, with a sigh, "I hope Marcia is a nice girl, and that she will be kind to you."
"So do I,"—with a shrug,—"but from her writing I am almost sure she isn't."
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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abhors
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| v.憎恶( abhor的第三人称单数 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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betokens
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的第三人称单数 ) | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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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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eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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preying
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| v.掠食( prey的现在分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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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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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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52
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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53
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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54
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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55
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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56
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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57
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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58
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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59
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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60
jugular
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| n.颈静脉 | |
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61
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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62
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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63
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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64
risible
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| adj.能笑的；可笑的 | |
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65
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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66
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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67
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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68
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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69
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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70
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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71
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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72
delinquents
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| n.（尤指青少年）有过失的人，违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
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73
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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76
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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77
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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78
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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79
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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80
entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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81
vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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82
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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83
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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84
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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85
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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86
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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87
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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88
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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89
pettishly
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90
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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91
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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92
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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93
consigns
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的第三人称单数 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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94
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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95
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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96
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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97
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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98
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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99
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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100
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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101
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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102
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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103
dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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104
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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106
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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107
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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108
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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109
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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110
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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111
calligraphy
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| n.书法 | |
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112
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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113
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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114
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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115
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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116
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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117
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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118
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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119
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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120
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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121
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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122
insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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123
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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124
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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125
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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126
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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127
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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128
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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129
glistens
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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131
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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132
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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133
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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134
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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135
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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136
bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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137
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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138
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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139
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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140
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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141
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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142
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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143
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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144
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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145
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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146
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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147
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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148
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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149
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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150
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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151
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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152
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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153
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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154
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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155
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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156
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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157
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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158
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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159
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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160
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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161
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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162
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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163
embittering
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
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164
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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165
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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166
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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167
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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168
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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169
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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170
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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171
precludes
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| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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172
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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174
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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175
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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176
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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177
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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178
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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179
purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
adroitness
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181
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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182
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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183
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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184
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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185
pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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186
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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187
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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189
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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190
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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191
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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192
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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193
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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194
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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