"These violet delights have violet ends,
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder."
—Romeo and Juliet.
"That is the way with you men; you don't understand us,—you cannot."
—Courtship of Miles Standish.
Whether it is because of Marcia's demeanor1 toward Mr. Buscarlet, or the unusual excellence3 of the weather, no one can tell, but to-night Mr. Amherst is in one of his choicest moods.
Each of his remarks outdoes the last in brilliancy of conception, whilst all tend in one direction, and show a laudable desire to touch on open wounds. Even the presence of his chosen intimate, the lawyer, who remains4 to dinner and an uncomfortable evening afterward5, has not the power to stop him, though Mr. Buscarlet does all in his knowledge to conciliate him, and fags on wearily through his gossiping conversations with an ardor6 and such an amount of staying power as raises admiration7 even in the breast of Marcia.
All in vain. The little black dog has settled down on the old gentleman's shoulders with a vengeance8 and a determination to see it out with the guests not to be shaken.
Poor Mr. Potts is the victim of the hour. Though why, because he is enraged9 with Marcia, Mr. Amherst should expend10 his violence upon the wretched Plantagenet is a matter for speculation11. He leaves no stone unturned to bring down condemnation12 on the head of this poor youth and destroy his peace of mind; but fortunately, Plantagenet has learned the happy knack13 of "ducking" mentally and so letting all hostile missiles fly harmless over his rosy14 head.
After dinner Mr. Darley good-naturedly suggests a game of besique with his host, but is snubbed, to the great grief of those assembled in the drawing-room. Thereupon Darley, with an air of relief, takes up a book and retires within himself, leaving Mr. Buscarlet to come once more to the front.
"You have heard, of course, about the Wyburns?" he says, addressing Mr. Amherst. "They are very much cut up about that second boy. He has turned out such a failure! He missed his examination again last week."
"I see no cause for wonder. What does Wyburn expect? At sixty-five he weds15 a silly chit of nineteen without an earthly idea in her head, and then dreams of giving a genius to the world! When," says Mr. Amherst, turning his gaze freely upon the devoted16 Potts, "men marry late in life they always beget17 fools."
"That's me," says Mr. Potts, addressing Molly in an undertone, utterly18 unabashed. "My father married at sixty and my mother at twenty-five. In me you behold19 the fatal result."
"Well, well," goes on Mr. Buscarlet, hastily, with a view to checking the storm, "I think in this case it was more idleness than want of brain."
"My dear Buscarlet, did you ever yet hear of a dunce whose mother did not go about impressing upon people how idle the dear boy was? Idle? Pooh! lack of intellect!"
"At all events, the Wyburns are to be pitied. The eldest20 son's marriage with one so much beneath him was also a sad blow."
"Was it? Others endure like blows and make no complaint. It is quite the common and regular thing for the child you have nurtured21, to grow up and embitter22 your life in every possible way by marrying against your wishes, or otherwise bringing down disgrace upon your head. I have been especially blessed in my children and grandchildren."
"Just so, no doubt,—no doubt," says Mr. Buscarlet, nervously24. There is a meaning sneer25 about the old man's lips.
"Specially23 blessed," he repeats. "I had reason to be proud of them. Each child as he or she married gave me fresh cause for joy. Marcia's mother was an Italian dancer."
"She was an actress," Marcia interposes, calmly, not a line of displeasure, not the faintest trace of anger, discernible in her pale face. "I do not recollect26 having ever heard she danced."
"Probably she suppressed that fact. It hardly adds to one's respectability. Philip's father was a spendthrift. His son develops day by day a very dutiful desire to follow in his footsteps."
"Perhaps I might do worse," Shadwell replies, with a little aggravating27 laugh. "At all events, he was beloved."
"So he was,—while his money lasted. Eleanor's father——"
With a sudden, irrepressible start Molly rises to her feet and, with a rather white face, turns to her grandfather.
"I will thank you, grandpapa, to say nothing against my father," she says, in tones so low, yet so full of dignity and indignation, that the old man actually pauses.
"High tragedy," says he, with a sneer. "Why, you are all wrongly assorted28. The actress should have been your mother, Eleanor."
Yet it is noticeable that he makes no further attempt to slight the memory of the dead Massereene.
"I shan't be able to stand much more of this," says Mr. Potts, presently, coming behind the lounge on which sit Lady Stafford and Molly. "I shall infallibly blow out at that obnoxious29 old person, or else do something equally reprehensible30."
"He is a perfect bear," says Cecil angrily.
"He is a wicked old man," says Molly, still trembling with indignation.
"He is a jolly old snook," says Mr. Potts. But as neither of his listeners know what he means, they do not respond.
"Let us do something," says Plantagenet, briskly.
"It would take a good deal of music to soothe our bête noire," says Potts. "Besides—I confess it,—music is not what Artemus Ward2 would call my 'forte33.' I don't understand it. I am like the man who said he only knew two tunes34 in the world: one was 'God save the Queen,' and the other wasn't. No, let us do something active,—something unusual, something wicked."
"If you can suggest anything likely to answer to your description, you will make me your friend for life," says Cecil, with solemnity. "I feel bad."
"Did you ever see a devil?" asks Mr. Potts, in a sepulchral35 tone.
"A what?" exclaim Cecil and Molly, in a breath.
"A devil," repeats he, unmoved. "I don't mean our own particular old gentleman, who has been behaving so sweetly to-night, but a regular bona fide one."
"Nothing half so paltry37. There is no deception38 about my performance. It is simplicity39 itself. There is no rapping, but a great deal of powder. Have you ever seen one?"
"A devil? Never."
"Should you like to?"
"Shouldn't I!" says Cecil, with enthusiasm.
"Then you shall. It won't be much, you know, but it has a pretty effect, and anything will be less deadly than sitting here listening to the honeyed speeches of our host. I will go and prepare my work, and call you when it is ready."
In twenty minutes he returns and beckons40 them to come; and, rising, both girls quit the drawing-room.
With much glee Mr. Potts conducts them across the hall into the library, where they find all the chairs and the centre table pushed into a corner, as though to make room for one soup-plate which occupies the middle of the floor.
On this plate stands a miniature hill, broad at the base and tapering41 at the summit, composed of blended powder and water, which Mr. Potts has been carefully heating in an oven during his absence until, according to his lights, it has reached a proper dryness.
"Good gracious! what is it?" asks Molly.
"Powder," says Potts.
"I hope it won't go off and blow us all to bits," says Cecil, anxiously.
"It will go off, certainly, but it won't do any damage," replies their showman, with confidence; "and really it is very pretty while burning. I used to make 'em by hundreds when I was a boy, and nothing ever happened except once, when I blew the ear off my father's coachman."
This is not reassuring42. Molly gets a little closer to Cecil, and Cecil gets a little nearer to Molly. They both sensibly increase the distance between them and the "devil."
"Now I am going to put out the lamp," says Plantagenet, suiting the action to the word and suddenly placing them in darkness. "It don't look anything if there is light to overpower its own brilliancy."
Striking a match, he applies it to the little black mountain, and in a second it turns into a burning one. The sparks fly rapidly upward. It seems to be pouring its fire in little liquid streams all down its sides.
"It is Vesuvius," says the former.
"It is Mount Etna," says the latter, "except much better, because they don't seem to have any volcanoes nowadays. Mr. Potts, you deserve a prize medal for giving us such a treat."
"Plantagenet, my dear, I didn't believe it was in you," says Cecil. "Permit me to compliment you on your unprecedented44 success."
Presently, however, they slightly alter their sentiments. Every school-boy knows how overpowering is the smell of burnt powder.
"What an intolerable smell!" says Molly, when the little mound45 is half burned down, putting her dainty handkerchief up to her nose. "Oh! what is it? Gunpowder46? Brimstone? Sulphur?"
"And extremely appropriate, too, dear," says Cecil, who has also got her nose buried in her cambric; "entirely47 carries out the character of the entertainment. You surely don't expect to be regaled with incense48 or attar of roses. By the bye, Plantagenet, is there going to be much more of it,—the smell, I mean?"
"Not much," replies he. "And, after all, what is it? If you went out shooting every day you would think nothing of it. For my part I almost like the smell. It is wholesome49, and—er—— Oh, by Jove!"
There is a loud report,—a crash,—two terrified screams,—and then utter darkness. The base of the hill, being too dry, has treacherously51 gone off without warning: hence the explosion.
"You aren't hurt, are you?" asks Mr. Potts, a minute later, in a terrified whisper, being unable to see whether his companions are dead or alive.
"Not much," replies Cecil, in a trembling tone; "but, oh! what has happened? Molly, speak."
"I am quite safe," says Molly, "but horribly frightened. Mr. Potts, are you all right?"
"I am." He is ignorant of the fact that one of his cheeks is black as any nigger's, and that both his hands resemble it. "I really thought it was all up when I heard you scream. It was that wretched powder that got too dry at the end. However, it doesn't matter."
"Have you both your ears, Molly?" asks Cecil, with a laugh; but a sudden commotion52 in the hall outside, and the rapid advance of footsteps in their direction, check her merriment.
"I hear Mr. Amherst's voice," says Mr. Potts, tragically54. "If he finds us here we are ruined."
"Let us get behind the curtains at the other end of the room," whispers Cecil, hurriedly; "they may not find us there,—and—throw the plate out of the window."
No sooner said than done: Plantagenet with a quick movement precipitates55 the soup-plate—or rather what remains of it—into the court-yard beneath, where it falls with a horrible clatter56, and hastily follows his two companions into their uncertain hiding-place.
It stands in a remote corner, rather hidden by a bookcase, and consists of a broad wooden pedestal, hung round with curtains, that once supported a choice statue. The statue having been promoted some time since, the three conspirators57 now take its place, and find themselves completely concealed58 by its falling draperies.
This recess60, having been originally intended for one, can with difficulty conceal59 two, so I leave it to your imagination to consider how badly three fare for room inside it.
Mr. Potts, finding himself in the middle, begins to wish he had been born without arms, as he now knows not how to dispose of them. He stirs the right one, and Cecil instantly declares in an agonized61 whisper that she is falling off the pedestal. He moves the left, and Molly murmurs62 frantically63 in another instant she will be through the curtains at her side. Driven to distraction64, poor Potts, with many apologies, solves the difficulty by placing an arm round each complainant, and so supports them on their treacherous50 footing.
They have scarcely brought themselves into a retainable position when the door opens and Mr. Amherst enters the room, followed by Sir Penthony Stafford and Luttrell.
With one candlestick only are they armed, which Sir Penthony holds, having naturally expected to find the library lighted.
"What is the meaning of this smell?" exclaims Mr. Amherst, in an awful voice, that makes our three friends shiver in their shoes. "Has any one been trying to blow up the house? I insist on learning the meaning of this disgraceful affair."
"There doesn't seem to be anything," says Tedcastle, "except gunpowder, or rather the unpleasant remains of it. The burglar has evidently flown."
"If you intend turning the matter into a joke," retorts Mr. Amherst, "you had better leave the room."
"Nothing shall induce me to quit the post of danger," replies Luttrell, unruffled.
Meantime, Sir Penthony, who is of a more suspicious nature, is making a more elaborate search. Slowly, methodically he commences a tour round the room, until presently he comes to a stand-still before the curtains that conceal the trembling trio.
Mr. Amherst, in the middle of the floor, is busily engaged examining the chips of china that remain after their fiasco,—and that ought to tell the tale of a soup-plate.
Tedcastle comes to Sir Penthony's side.
Together they withdraw the curtains; together they view what rests behind them.
Mr. Potts, with half his face blackened beyond recognition, glares out at them with the courage of despair. On one side of him is Lady Stafford, on the other Miss Massereene; from behind each of their waists protrudes66 a huge and sooty hand. That hand belongs to Potts.
Three pairs of eyes gleam at the discoverers, silently, entreatingly67, yet with what different expressions! Molly is frightened, but evidently braced68 for action; Mr. Potts is defiant69; Lady Stafford is absolutely convulsed with laughter. Already filled with a keen sense of the comicality of the situation, it only wanted her husband's face of indignant surprise to utterly unsettle her. Therefore it is that the one embarrassment70 she suffers from is a difficulty in refraining from an outburst of merriment.
There is a dead silence. Only the grating of Mr. Amherst's bits of china mars the stillness. Plantagenet, staring at his judges, defies them, without a word, to betray their retreat. The judges—although angry—stare back at him, and acknowledge their inability to play the sneak71. Sir Penthony drops the curtain,—and the candle. Instantly darkness covers them. Luttrell scrapes a heavy chair along the waxed borders of the floor; there is some faint confusion, a rustle72 of petticoats, a few more footsteps than ought to be in the room, an uncivil remark from old Amherst about some people's fingers being all thumbs, and then once more silence.
When, after a pause, Sir Penthony relights his candle, the search is at an end.
Now that they are well out of the library, though still in the gloomy little anteroom that leads to it, Molly and Cecil pause to recover breath. For a few moments they keep an unbroken quiet. Lady Stafford is the first to speak,—as might be expected.
"I am bitterly disappointed," she says, in a tone of intense disgust. "It is a downright swindle. In spite of a belief that has lasted for years, that nose of his is a failure. I think nothing of it. With all its length and all its sharpness, it never found us out!"
By this time they have reached the outer hall, where the lamps are shining vigorously. They now shine down with unkind brilliancy on Mr. Potts's disfigured countenance74. A heavy veil of black spreads from his nose to his left ear, rather spoiling the effect of his unique ugliness.
It is impossible to resist; Lady Stafford instantly breaks down, and gives way to the laughter that has been oppressing her for the last half-hour, Molly chimes in, and together they laugh with such hearty75 delight that Mr. Potts burns to know the cause of their mirth, that he may join in.
He grins, however, in sympathy, whilst waiting impatiently an explanation. His utter ignorance of the real reason only enhances the absurdity76 of his appearance and prolongs the delight of his companions.
When two minutes have elapsed, and still neither of them offers any information, he grows grave, and whispers rather to himself than them, the one word, "Hysterics?"
"You are right," cries Cecil: "I was never nearer hysterics in my life. Oh, Plantagenet! your face is as black as—as——"
"Your hat!" supplies Molly, as well as she can speak. "And your hands,—you look demoniacal. Do run away and wash yourself and—— I hear somebody coming."
Whereupon Potts scampers77 up-stairs, while the other two gain the drawing-room, just as Mr. Amherst appears in the hall.
Seeing them, half an hour later, seated in all quietude and sobriety, discussing the war and the last new marvel78 in bonnets79, who would have supposed them guilty of their impromptu80 game of "hide and seek"?
Tedcastle and Sir Penthony, indeed, look much more like the real culprits, being justly annoyed, and consequently rather cloudy about the brows. Yet, with a sense of dignified81 pride, the two gentlemen abstain82 from giving voice to their disapprobation, and make no comment on the event of the evening.
Mr. Potts is serenity83 itself, and is apparently84 ignorant of having given offense85 to any one. His face has regained86 its pristine87 fairness, and is scrupulously88 clean; so is his conscience. He looks incapable89 of harm.
Bed-hour arrives, and Tedcastle retires to his pipe without betraying his inmost feelings. Sir Penthony is determined90 to follow his lead; Cecil is equally determined he shall not. To have it out with him without further loss of time is her fixed91 intention, and with that design she says, a little imperiously:
"Sir Penthony, get me my candle."
She has lingered, before saying this, until almost all the others have disappeared. The last of the men is vanishing round the corner that leads to the smoking-room; the last of the women has gone beyond sight of the staircase in search of her bedroom fire. Cecil and her husband stand alone in the vast hall.
"I fear you are annoyed about something," she says, in a maddening tone of commiseration92, regarding him keenly, while he gravely lights her candle.
"Why should you suppose so?"
"Because of your gravity and unusual silence."
"I was never a great talker, and I do not think I am in the habit of laughing more than other people."
"But you have not laughed at all,—all this evening, at least,"—with a smile,—"not since you discovered us in durance vile93."
"Did you find the situation so unpleasant? I fancied it rather amused you,—so much so that you even appeared to forget the dignity that, as a married woman, ought to belong to you."
"Well, but!"—provokingly—"you forget how very little married I am."
"At all events you are my wife,"—rather angrily; "I must beg you to remember that. And for the future I shall ask you to refrain from such amusements as call for concealment94 and necessitate95 the support of a young man's arm."
"I really do not see by what right you interfere96 with either me or my amusements," says Cecil, hotly, after a decided97 pause. Never has he addressed her with so much sternness. She raises her eyes to his and colors richly all through her creamy skin. "Recollect our bargain."
"I do. I recollect also that you have my name."
"And you have my money. That makes us quits."
"I do not see how you intend carrying out that argument. The money was quite as much mine as yours."
"But you could not have had it without me."
"Nor you without me."
"Which is to be regretted. At least I should have had a clear half, which I haven't; so you have the best of it. And—I will not be followed about, and pried98 after, and made generally uncomfortable by any one."
"You are."
"Just what I say. And, as I never so far forget myself as to call you by your Christian101 name without its prefix102, I think you might have the courtesy to address me as Lady Stafford."
"Certainly, if you wish it."
"I do. Have you anything more to say?"
"Yes, more than——"
"Then pray defer103 it until to-morrow, as"—with a bare-faced attempt at a yawn—"I really cannot sit up any longer. Good-night, Sir Penthony."
Sir Penthony puts the end of his long moustache into his mouth,—a sure sign of irritation,—and declines to answer.
"Good-night," repeats her ladyship, blandly104, going up the staircase, with a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips, and feeling no surprise that her polite little adieu receives no reply.
When she has reached the centre of the broad staircase she pauses, and, leaning her white arms upon the banisters, looks down upon her husband, standing105 irresolute106 and angry in the hall beneath.
"Sir Penthony," murmurs she; "Sir——" Here she hesitates for so long a time that when at last the "Penthony" does come it sounds more familiar and almost unconnected with the preceding word.
Stafford turns, and glances quickly up at her. She is dressed in some soft-flowing gown of black, caught here and there with heavy bows and bands of cream-color, that contrast admirably with her hair, soft skin, her laughing eyes, and her pouting107, rosy lips. In her hair, which she wears low on her neck, is a black comb studded with pearls; there are a few pearls round her neck, a few more in her small ears; she wears no bracelets108, only two narrow bands of black velvet109 caught with pearls, that make her arms seem even rounder and whiter than they are.
"Good-night," she says, for the third time, nodding at him in a slow, sweet fashion that has some grace or charm about it all its own, and makes her at the instant ten times lovelier than she was before.
Stafford, coming forward until he stands right under her, gazes up at her entranced like some modern Romeo. Indeed, there is something almost theatrical110 about them as they linger, each waiting for the other to speak,—he fond and impassioned, yet half angry too, she calm and smiling, yet mutinous111.
For a full minute they thus hesitate, looking into each other's eyes; then the anger fades from Stafford's face, and he whispers, eagerly, tenderly:
"Good-night, my——"
"Friend," murmurs back her ladyship, decisively, leaning yet a little farther over the banisters.
Then she kisses her hand to him and drops at his feet the rose that has lain on her bosom112 all the evening, and, with a last backward glance and smile, flits away from him up the darkened staircase and vanishes.
"I shall positively113 lose my heart to her if I don't take care," thinks the young man, ruefully, and very foolishly, considering how long ago it is since that misfortune has befallen him. But we are ever slow to acknowledge our own defeats. His eyes are fixed upon the flower at his feet.
"No, I do not want her flowers," he says, with a slight frown, pushing it away from him disdainfully. "It was a mere114 chance my getting it. Any other fellow in my place at the moment would have been quite as favored,—nay, beyond doubt more so. I will not stoop for it."
With his dignity thus forced to the front, he walks the entire length of the hall, his arms folded determinedly115 behind him, until he reaches a door at the upper end.
Here he pauses and glances back almost guiltily. Yes, it is still there, the poor, pretty yellow blossom that has been so close to her, now sending forth116 its neglected perfume to an ungrateful world.
It is cruel to leave it there alone all night, to be trodden on, perhaps, in the morning by an unappreciative John or Thomas, or, worse still, to be worn by an appreciative117 James. Desecration118!
"'Who hesitates is lost,'" quotes Stafford, aloud, with an angry laugh at his own folly119, and, walking deliberately120 back again, picks up the flower and presses it to his lips.
"I thought that little speech applied121 only to us poor women," says a soft voice above him, as, to his everlasting122 chagrin123, Cecil's mischievous124, lovable face peers down at him from the gallery overhead. "Have another flower, Sir Penthony? You seem fond of them."
She throws a twin-blossom to the one he holds on to his shoulder as she speaks with very accurate aim.
"So it was,"—with an accent of affected126 surprise,—"which makes your behavior all the more astonishing. Well, do not stand there kissing it all night, or you will catch cold, and then—what should I do?"
"What?"
"Die of grief, most probably." With a little mocking laugh.
"Very probably. Yet you should pity me too, in that I have fallen so low as to have nothing better given me to kiss. I am wasting my sweetness on——"
"Is it sweetness?" asks she, wickedly.
At this they both laugh,—a low, a soft laugh, born of the hour and a fear of interruption, and perhaps a dread127 of being so discovered, that adds a certain zest128 to their meeting. Then he says, still laughing, in answer to her words, "Try."
"No, thank you." With a little moue. "Curiosity is not my besetting129 sin, although I could not resist seeing how you would treat my parting gift a moment ago. Ah!"—with a little suppressed laugh of the very fullest enjoyment,—"you cannot think what an interesting picture you made,—almost tragic53. First you stalked away from my unoffending rose with all the dignity of a thousand Spaniards; and then, when you had gone sufficiently130 far to make your return effective, you relented, and, seizing upon the flower as though it were—let us say, for convenience sake—myself, devoured131 it with kisses. I assure you it was better than a play. Well,"—with a sigh,—"I won't detain you any longer. I'm off to my slumbers132."
"Don't go yet, Cecil. Wait one moment. I—have something to say to you."
"No doubt. A short time since you said the same thing. Were I to stay now you might, perhaps, finish that scolding; instinct told me it was hanging over me; and—I hate being taken to task."
"I will not, I swear I will never again attempt to scold you about anything, experience having taught me the futility133 of such a course. Cecil, stay."
"Lady Stafford, if you please, Sir Penthony." With a tormenting134 smile.
"Lady Stafford then,—anything, if you will only stay."
"I can't, then. Where should I be without my beauty sleep? The bare idea fills me with horror. Why, I should lose my empire. Sweet as parting is, I protest I, for one, would not lengthen135 it until to-morrow. Till then—farewell. And—Sir Penthony—be sure you dream of me. I like being dreamed of by my——"
"By whom?"
"My slaves," returns this coquette of all coquettes, with a last lingering glance and smile. After which she finally disappears.
"There is no use disguising the fact any longer,—I have lost my heart," groans136 Sir Penthony, in despair, as he straightway carries off both himself and his cherished flowers to the shelter of his own room.
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1
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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weds
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| v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的第三人称单数 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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26
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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27
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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28
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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29
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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30
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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31
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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32
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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33
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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34
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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35
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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36
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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37
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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38
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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39
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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40
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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42
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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43
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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44
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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45
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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46
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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49
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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50
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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51
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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52
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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53
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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54
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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55
precipitates
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的第三人称单数 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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56
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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57
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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58
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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59
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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60
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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61
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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62
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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63
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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64
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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65
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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66
protrudes
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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68
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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69
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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70
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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71
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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72
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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73
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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74
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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75
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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76
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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77
scampers
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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79
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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80
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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81
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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82
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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83
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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84
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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85
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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86
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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87
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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88
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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89
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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90
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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91
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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92
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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93
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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94
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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95
necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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96
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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97
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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98
pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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99
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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100
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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101
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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102
prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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103
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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104
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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105
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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106
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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107
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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108
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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109
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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110
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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111
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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112
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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113
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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114
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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115
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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116
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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117
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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118
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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119
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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120
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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121
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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122
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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123
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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124
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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125
stammers
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| n.口吃，结巴( stammer的名词复数 )v.结巴地说出( stammer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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127
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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128
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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129
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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130
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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131
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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132
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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133
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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134
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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135
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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136
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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