Archibald Floyd was very lonely at Felden Woods without his daughter. He took no pleasure in the long drawing-room, or the billiard-room and library, or the pleasant galleries, in which there were all manner of easy corners, with abutting1 bay-windows, damask-cushioned oaken benches, china vases as high as tables, all enlivened by the alternately sternly masculine and simperingly feminine faces of those ancestors whose painted representations the banker had bought in Wardour-street. (Indeed, I fear those Scottish warriors2, those bewigged worthies3 of the Northern Circuit, those taper-waisted ladies with pointed4 stomachers, tucked-up petticoats, pannier hoops5, and blue-ribbon bedizened crooks6, had been painted to order, and that there were such items in the account of the Wardour-street rococo7 merchant as, “To one knight8 banneret, killed at Bosworth, £25 5s.") The old banker, I say, grew sadly weary of his gorgeous mansion9, which was of little avail to him without Aurora10.
People are not so very much happier for living in handsome houses, though it is generally considered such a delightful11 thing to occupy a mansion which would be large enough for a hospital, and take your simple meal at the end of a table long enough to accommodate a board of railway directors. Archibald Floyd could not sit beside both the fireplaces in his long drawing-room, and he felt strangely lonely looking from the easy-chair on the hearth12-rug, through a vista13 of velvet-pile and satin-damask, walnut-wood, buhl, malachite, china, parian, crystal, and ormolu, at that solitary14 second hearth-rug and those empty easy-chairs. He shivered in his dreary15 grandeur16. His five-and-forty by thirty feet of velvet-pile might have been a patch of yellow sand in the great Sahara for any pleasure he derived17 from its occupation. The billiard-room, perhaps, was worse; for the cues and balls were every one made precious by Aurora’s touch; and there was a great fine drawn18 seam upon the green cloth, which marked the spot where Miss Floyd had ripped it open what time she made her first juvenile19 essay at billiards20.
The banker locked the doors of both these splendid apartments, and gave the keys to his housekeeper21.
“Keep the rooms in order, Mrs. Richardson,” he said, “and keep them thoroughly22 aired; but I shall only use them when Mr. and Mrs. Mellish come to me.”
And, having shut up these haunted chambers23, Mr. Floyd retired25 to that snug26 little study in which he kept his few relics27 of the sorrowful past.
It may be said that the Scottish banker was a very stupid old man, and that he might have invited the county families to his gorgeous mansion; that he might have summoned his nephews and their wives, with all grand-nephews and nieces appertaining, and might thus have made the place merry with the sound of fresh young voices, and the long corridors noisy with the patter of restless little feet. He might have lured28 literary and artistic29 celebrities30 to his lonely hearth-rug, and paraded the lions of the London season upon his velvet-pile. He might have entered the political arena31, and have had himself nominated for Beckenham, Croydon, or West Wickham. He might have done almost anything; for he had very nearly as much money as Aladdin, and could have carried dishes of uncut diamonds to the father of any princess whom he might take it into his head to marry. He might have done almost anything, this ridiculous old banker; yet he did nothing but sit brooding over his lonely hearth — for he was old and feeble, and he sat by the fire even in the bright summer weather — thinking of the daughter who was far away.
He thanked God for her happy home, for her devoted32 husband, for her secure and honorable position; and he would have given the last drop of his blood to obtain for her these advantages; but he was, after all, only mortal, and he would rather have had her by his side.
Why did he not surround himself with society, as brisk Mrs. Alexander urged, when she found him looking pale and care-worn?
Why? Because society was not Aurora. Because all the brightest bon-mots of all the literary celebrities who have ever walked this earth seemed dull to him when compared with his daughter’s idlest babble33. Literary lions! Political notabilities! Out upon them! When Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton and Mr. Charles Dickens should call in Mr. Makepeace Thackeray and Mr. Wilkie Collins to assist them in writing a work, in fifteen volumes or so, about Aurora, the banker would be ready to offer them a handsome sum for the copyright. Until then, he cared very little for the best book in Mr. Mudie’s collection. When the members of the Legislature should bring their political knowledge to bear upon Aurora, Mr. Archibald Floyd would be happy to listen to them. In the interim34, he would have yawned in Lord Palmerston’s face, or turned his back upon Earl Russell.
The banker had been a kind uncle, a good master, a warm friend, and a generous patron; but he had never loved any creature except his wife Eliza and the daughter she had left to his care. Life is not long enough to hold many such attachments35 as these; and the people who love very intensely are apt to concentrate the full force of their affection upon one object. For twenty years this black-eyed girl had been the idol36 before which the old man had knelt; and now that the divinity is taken away from him, he falls prostrate37 and desolate38 before the empty shrine39. Heaven knows how bitterly this beloved child had made him suffer, how deeply she had plunged40 the reckless dagger41 to the very core of his loving heart, and how freely, gladly, tearfully, and hopefully he had forgiven her. But she had never atoned42 for the past. It is poor consolation44 which Lady Macbeth gives to her remorseful45 husband when she tells him that “what’s done can not be undone46;” but it is painfully and terribly true. Aurora could not restore the year which she had taken out of her father’s life, and which his anguish47 and despair had multiplied by ten. She could not restore the equal balance of the mind which had once experienced a shock so dreadful as to shatter its serenity48, as we shatter the mechanism49 of a watch when we let it fall violently to the ground. The watchmaker patches up the damage, and gives us a new wheel here, and a spring there, and sets the hands going again, but they never go so smoothly51 as when the watch was fresh from the hands of the maker50, and they are apt to stop suddenly with no shadow of warning. Aurora could not atone43. Whatever the nature of that girlish error which made the mystery of her life, it was not to be undone. She could more easily have baled the ocean dry with a soup-ladle — and I dare say she would gladly have gone to work to spoon out the salt water if by so doing she could have undone that by-gone mischief52. But she could not; she could not! Her tears, her penitence53, her affection, her respect, her devotion could do much, but they could not do this.
The old banker invited Talbot Bulstrode and his young wife to make themselves at home at Felden, and drive down to the Woods as freely as if the place had been some country mansion of their own. They came sometimes, and Talbot entertained his great-uncle-in-law with the troubles of the Cornish miners, while Lucy sat listening to her husband’s talk with unmitigated reverence54 and delight. Archibald Floyd made his guests very welcome upon these occasions, and gave orders that the oldest and costliest55 wines in the cellar should be brought out for the captain’s entertainment; but sometimes, in the very middle of Talbot’s discourse56 upon political economy, the old man would sigh wearily, and look with a dimly-yearning gaze far away over the tree-tops in a northward57 direction, toward that distant Yorkshire household in which his daughter was the queen.
Perhaps Mr. Floyd had never quite forgiven Talbot Bulstrode for the breaking off of the match between him and Aurora. The banker had, certainly, of the two suitors, preferred John Mellish; but he would have considered it only correct if Captain Bulstrode had retired from the world upon the occasion of Aurora’s marriage, and broken his heart in foreign exile, rather than advertising58 his indifference59 by a union with poor little Lucy. Archibald looked wonderingly at his fairhaired niece as she sat before him in the deep bay-window, with the sunshine upon her amber24 tresses and the crisp folds of her peach-colored silk dress, looking for all the world like one of the painted heroines so dear to the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood60, and marvelled61 how it was that Talbot could have come to admire her. She was very pretty, certainly, with pink cheeks, a white nose, and rose-colored nostrils62, and a species of beauty which consists in very careful finishing-off and picking-out of the features; but oh, how tame, how cold, how weak, beside that Egyptian goddess, that Assyrian queen with the flashing eyes and the serpentine63 coils of purple-black hair!
Talbot Bulstrode was very calm, very quiet, but apparently64 sufficiently65 happy. I use that word “sufficiently” advisedly. It is a dangerous thing to be too happy. Your high-pressure happiness, your sixty-miles-an-hour enjoyment66, is apt to burst up and come to a hard end. Better the quietest parliamentary train, which starts very early in the morning, and carries its passengers safe into the terminus when the shades of night come down, than that rabid, rushing express, which does the journey in a quarter of the time, but occasionally topples over a bank, or rides pickaback upon a luggage-train in its fiery67 impetuosity.
Talbot Bulstrode was substantially happier with Lucy than he ever could have been with Aurora. His fair young wife’s undemonstrative worship of him soothed68 and flattered him. Her gentle obedience69, her entire concurrence70 in his every thought and whim71, set his pride at rest. She was not eccentric, she was not impetuous. If he left her alone all day in the snug little house in Half-Moon street which he had furnished before his marriage, he had no fear of her calling for her horse and scampering72 away into Rotten Row, with not so much as a groom73 to attend upon her. She was not strong-minded. She could be happy without the society of Newfoundlands and Skye terriers. She did not prefer Landseer’s dog-pictures above all other examples of modern art. She might have walked down Regent street a hundred times without being once tempted74 to loiter upon the curb-stone and bargain with suspicious-looking merchants for a “noice leetle dawg.” She was altogether gentle and womanly, and Talbot had no fear to trust her to her own sweet will, and no need to impress upon her the necessity of lending her feeble little hands to the mighty75 task of sustaining the dignity of the Raleigh Bulstrodes.
She would cling to him sometimes half lovingly, half timidly, and, looking up with a pretty, deprecating smile into his coldly handsome face, ask him, falteringly76, if he was really, REALLY happy.
“Yes, my darling girl,” the Cornish captain would answer, being very well accustomed to the question, “decidedly, very happy.”
His calm business- like tone would rather disappoint poor Lucy, and she would vaguely77 wish that her husband had been a little more like the heroes in the High-Church novels, and a little less devoted to Adam Smith, McCulloch, and the Cornish mines.
“But you don’t love me as you loved Aurora, Talbot?” (There were profane78 people who corrupted79 the captain’s Christian80 name into “Tal;” but Mrs. Bulstrode was not more likely to avail herself of that disrespectful abbreviation than she was to address her gracious sovereign as “Vic.") “But you don’t love me as you loved Aurora, Talbot, dear?” the pleasing voice would urge, so tenderly anxious to be contradicted.
“Not as I loved Aurora, perhaps, darling.”
“Not as much?”
“As much and better, my pet; with a more enduring and a wiser love.”
If this was a little bit of a fib when the captain first said it, is he to be utterly81 condemned82 for the falsehood? How could he resist the loving blue eyes so ready to fill with tears if he had answered coldly; the softly pensive83 voice, tremulous with emotion; the earnest face; the caressing84 hand laid so lightly upon his coat-collar? He must have been more than moral had he given any but loving answers to those loving questions. The day soon came when his answers were no longer tinged85 with so much as the shadow of falsehood. His little wife crept stealthily, almost imperceptibly into his heart; and if he remembered the fever-dream of the past, it was only to rejoice in the tranquil86 security of the present.
Talbot Bulstrode and his wife were staying at Felden Woods for a few days during the burning July weather, and sat down to dinner with Mr. Floyd upon the day succeeding the night of the storm. They were disturbed in the very midst of that dinner by the unexpected arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Mellish, who rattled87 up to the door in a hired vehicle, just as the second course was being placed upon the table.
Archibald Floyd recognized the first murmur88 of his daughter’s voice, and ran out into the hall to welcome her.
She showed no eagerness to throw herself into her father’s arms, but stood looking at John Mellish with a weary, absent expression, while the stalwart Yorkshireman allowed himself to be gradually disencumbered of a chaotic89 load of travelling-bags, sun-umbrellas, shawls, magazines, newspapers, and overcoats.
“My darling, my darling!” exclaimed the banker, “what a happy surprise, what an unexpected pleasure!”
She did not answer him, but, with her arms about his neck, looked mournfully into his face.
“She would come,” said Mr. John Mellish, addressing himself generally; “she would come. The doose knows why! But she said she must come, and what could I do but bring her? If she asked me to take her to the moon, what could I do but take her? But she would n’t bring any luggage to speak of, because we’re going back to-morrow.”
“Going back to-morrow!” repeated Mr. Floyd; “impossible.”
“Bless your heart!” cried John, “what’s impossible to Lolly? If she wanted to go to the moon, she’d go, don’t I tell you? She’d have a special engine, or a special balloon, or a special something or other, and she’d go. When we were in Paris she wanted to see the big fountains play, and she told me to write to the emperor and ask him to have them set going for her. She did, by Jove!”
Lucy Bulstrode came forward to bid her cousin welcome; but I fear that a sharp, jealous pang90 thrilled through that innocent heart at the thought that those fatal black eyes were again brought to bear upon Talbot’s life.
Mrs. Mellish put her arms about her cousin as tenderly as if she had been embracing a child.
“You here, dearest Lucy!” she said. “I am so very glad.”
“He loves me,” whispered little Mrs. Bulstrode, “and I never, never can tell you how good he is.”
“Of course not, my darling,” answered Aurora, drawing her cousin aside while Mr. Mellish shook hands with his father-in-law and Talbot Bulstrode. “He is the most glorious of princes, the most perfect of saints, is he not? and you worship him all day; you sing silent hymns91 in his praise, and perform high mass in his honor, and go about telling his virtues92 upon an imaginary rosary. Ah! Lucy, how many kinds of love there are; and who shall say which is the best or highest? I see plain, blundering John Mellish yonder with unprejudiced eyes; I know his every fault, I laugh at his every awkwardness. Yes, I laugh now, for he is dropping those things faster than the servants can pick them up.”
She stopped to point to poor John’s chaotic burden.
“I see all this as plainly as I see the deficiencies of the servant who stands behind my chair; and yet I love him with all my heart and soul, and I would not have one fault corrected, or one virtue93 exaggerated, for fear it should make him different to what he is.”
Lucy Bulstrode gave a little half-resigned sigh.
“What a blessing94 that my poor cousin is happy,” she thought; “and yet how can she be otherwise than miserable95 with that absurd John Mellish?”
What Lucy meant perhaps was this. How could Aurora be otherwise than wretched in the companionship of a gentleman who had neither a straight nose nor dark hair. Some women never outlive that school-girl infatuation for straight noses and dark hair. Some girls would have rejected Napoleon the Great because he was n’t “tall,” or would have turned up their noses at the author of Childe Harold if they had happened to see him in a stand-up collar. If Lord Byron had never turned down his collars, would his poetry have been as popular as it was. If Mr. Alfred Tennyson were to cut his hair, would that operation modify our opinion of The Queen of the May? Where does that marvellous power of association begin and end? Perhaps there may have been a reason for Aurora’s contentment with her commonplace prosaic96 husband. Perhaps she had learned at a very early period of her life that there are qualities even more valuable than exquisitely97 modelled features or clustering locks. Perhaps, having begun to be foolish very early, she had outstripped98 her contemporaries in the race, and had early learned to be wise.
Archibald Floyd led his daughter and her husband into the dining-room, and the dinner-party sat down against with the two unexpected guests, and the second course was served, and the lukewarm salmon99 brought in again for Mr. and Mrs. Mellish.
Aurora sat in her old place on her father’s right hand. In the old girlish days Miss Floyd had never occupied the bottom of the table, but had loved best to sit close to that foolishly doting100 parent, pouring out his wine for him in defiance101 of the servants, and doing other loving offices which were deliciously inconvenient102 to the old man.
To-day Aurora seemed especially affectionate. That fondly clinging manner had all its ancient charm to the banker. He put down his glass with a tremulous hand to gaze at his darling child, and was dazzled with her beauty, and drunken with the happiness of having her near him.
“But, my darling,” he said, by and by, “what do you mean by talking about going back to Yorkshire to-morrow?”
“Nothing, papa, except that I must go,” answered Mrs. Mellish, determinedly103.
“But why come, dear, if you could only stop one night?”
“Because I wanted to see you, dearest father, and to talk to you about — about money matters.”
“That’s it,” exclaimed John Mellish, with his mouth half full of salmon and lobster-sauce. “That’s it! Money matters! That’s all I can get out of her. She goes out late last night, and roams about the garden, and comes in wet through and through, and say she must come to London about money matters. What should she want with money matters? If she wants money, she can have as much as she wants. She shall write the figures, and I’ll sign the check; or she shall have a dozen blank checks to fill in just as she pleases. What is there upon this earth that I’d refuse her? If she dipped a little too deep, and put more money than she could afford upon the bay filly, why does n’t she come to me, instead of bothering you about money matters? You know I said so in the train, Aurora, ever so many times. Why bother your poor papa about it?”
The poor papa looked wonderingly from his daughter to his daughter’s husband. What did it all mean? Trouble, vexation, weariness of spirit, humiliation104, disgrace?
Ah! Heaven help that enfeebled mind whose strength has been shattered by one great shock. Archibald Floyd dreaded105 the token of a coming storm in every chance cloud on the summer’s sky.
“Perhaps I may prefer to spend my own money, Mr. John Mellish,” answered Aurora, “and pay any foolish bets I have chosen to make out of my own purse, without being under an obligation to any one.”
Mr. Mellish returned to his salmon in silence.
“There is no occasion for a great mystery, papa,” resumed Aurora; “I want some money for a particular purpose, and I have come to consult with you about my affairs. There is nothing very extraordinary in that, I suppose?”
Mrs. John Mellish tossed her head, and flung this sentence at the assembly as if it had been a challenge. Her manner was so defiant106 that even Talbot and Lucy felt called upon to respond with a gentle dissenting107 murmur.
“No, no, of course not; nothing more natural,” muttered the captain; but he was thinking all the time, “Thank God I married the other one.”
After dinner the little party strolled out of the drawing-room windows on to the lawn, and away toward that iron bridge upon which Aurora had stood, with her dog by her side, less than two years ago, on the occasion of Talbot Bulstrode’s second visit to Felden Woods. Lingering upon that bridge on this tranquil summer’s evening, what could the captain do but think of that September day, barely two years agone? Barely two years! not two years! And how much had been done, and thought, and suffered since! How contemptible108 was the narrow space of time! yet what terrible eternities of anguish, what centuries of heart-break, had been compressed into that pitiful sum of days and weeks! When the fraudulent partner in some house of business puts the money which is not his own upon a Derby favorite, and goes home at night a loser, it is strangely difficult for that wretched defaulter to believe that it is not twelve hours since he travelled the road to Epsom confident of success, and calculating how he should invest his winnings. Talbot Bulstrode was very silent, thinking of the influence which this family of Felden Woods had had upon his destiny. His little Lucy saw that silence and thoughtfulness, and, stealing softly to her husband, linked her arm in his. She had a right to do it now — yes, to pass her little soft white hand under his coat sleeve, and even look up, almost boldly, in his face.
“Do you remember when you first came to Felden, and we stood upon this very bridge?” she asked; for she too had been thinking of that far-away time in the bright September of ‘57. “Do you remember, Talbot, dear?”
She had drawn him away from the banker and his children in order to ask this all-important question.
“Yes, perfectly110, darling. As well as I remember your graceful111 figure seated at the piano in the long drawing-room, with the sunshine on your hair.”
“You remember that! you remember me!“ exclaimed Lucy, rapturously.
“Very well, indeed.”
“But I thought — that is, I know — that you were in love with Aurora then.”
“I think not.”
“You only think not.”
“How can I tell!” cried Talbot. “I freely confess that my first recollection connected with this place is of a gorgeous black-eyed creature, with scarlet112 in her hair; and I can no more disassociate her image from Felden Woods than I can, with my bare right hand, pluck up the trees which give the place its name. But if you entertain one distrustful thought of that pale shadow of the past, you do yourself and me a grievous wrong. I made a mistake, Lucy; but, thank Heaven, I saw it in time.”
It is to be observed that Captain Bulstrode was always peculiarly demonstrative in his gratitude113 to Providence114 for his escape from the bonds which were to have united him to Aurora. He also made a great point of the benign115 compassion116 in which he heldJohn Mellish. But, in despite of this, he was apt to be rather captious117 and quarrelsomely disposed toward the Yorkshireman; and I doubt if John’s little stupidities and weaknesses were, on the whole, very displeasing118 to him. There are some wounds which never heal. The jagged flesh may reunite; cooling medicines may subdue119 the inflammation; even the scar left by the dagger-thrust may wear away, until it disappears in that gradual transformation120 which every atom of us is supposed by physiologists121 to undergo; but the wound has been, and to the last hour of our lives there are unfavorable winds which can make us wince122 with the old pain.
Aurora treated her cousin’s husband with the calm cordiality which she might have felt for a brother. She bore no grudge123 against him for the old desertion, for she was happy with her husband — happy with the man who loved and believed in her, surviving every trial of his simple faith. Mrs. Mellish and Lucy wandered among the flower-beds by the waterside, leaving the gentlemen on the bridge.
“So you are very, very happy, my Lucy?” said Aurora.
“Oh, yes, yes, dear. How could I be otherwise. Talbot is so good to me. I know, of course, that he loved you first, and that he does n’t love me quite — in the same way, you know — perhaps, in fact — not as much.” Lucy Bulstrode was never tired of harping124 on this unfortunate minor125 string. “But I am very happy. You must come and see us, Aurora, dear. Our house is so pretty!”
Mrs. Bulstrode hereupon entered into a detailed126 description of the furniture and decorations in Half-Moon street, which is perhaps scarcely worthy127 of record. Aurora listened rather absently to the long catalogue of upholstery, and yawned several times before her cousin had finished.
“It’s a very pretty house, I dare say, Lucy,” she said at last, “and John and I will be very glad to come and see you some day. I wonder, Lucy, if I were to come in any trouble or disgrace to your door, whether you would turn me away?”
“Trouble! disgrace!” repeated Lucy, looking frightened.
“You would n’t turn me away, Lucy, would you? No; I know you better than that. You’d let me in secretly, and hide me away in one of the servants’ bedrooms, and bring me food by stealth, for fear the captain should discover the forbidden guest beneath his roof. You’d serve two masters, Lucy, in fear and trembling.”
Before Mrs. Bulstrode could make any answer to this extraordinary speech, the approach of the gentlemen interrupted the feminine conference.
It was scarcely a lively evening, this July sunset at Felden Woods. Archibald Floyd’s gladness in his daughter’s presence was something damped by the peculiarity128 of her visit; John Mellish had some shadowy remnants of the previous night’s disquietude hanging about him; Talbot Bulstrode was thoughtful and moody129; and poor little Lucy was tortured by vague fears of her brilliant cousin’s influence. I don’t suppose that any member of that “attenuated” assembly felt very much regret when the great clock in the stable-yard struck eleven, and the jingling130 bedroom candlesticks were brought into the room.
Talbot and his wife were the first to say good-night. Aurora lingered at her father’s side, and John Mellish looked doubtfully at his dashing white sergeant131, waiting to receive the word of command.
“You may go, John,” she said; “I want to speak to papa.”
“But I can wait, Lolly.”
“On no account,” answered Mrs. Mellish, sharply. “I am going into papa’s study to have a quiet confabulation with him. What end would be gained by your waiting? you’ve been yawning in our faces all the evening. You’re tired to death, I know, John; so go at once, my precious pet, and leave papa and me to discuss our money matters.” She pouted132 her rosy133 lips, and stood upon tiptoe, while the big Yorkshireman kissed her.
“How you do henpeck me, Lolly!” he said, rather sheepishly. “Good-night, sir. God bless you! Take care of my darling.”
He shook hands with Mr. Floyd, parting from him with that half-affectionate, half-reverent manner which he always displayed to Aurora’s father. Mrs. Mellish stood for some moments silent and motionless, looking after her husband, while her father, watching her looks, tried to read their meaning.
How quiet are the tragedies of real life! That dreadful scene between the Moor134 and his Ancient takes place in the open street of Cyprus. According to modern usage, I can not fancy Othello and Iago debating about poor Desdemona’s honesty in St. Paul’s churchyard, or even in the market-place of a country town; but perhaps the Cyprus street was a dull one, a cul-de-sac, it may be, or at least a deserted135 thoroughfare, something like that in which Monsieur Melnotte falls upon the shoulder of General Damas and sobs136 out his lamentations. But our modern tragedies seem to occur in-doors, and in places where we should least look for scenes of horror. Even while I write this the London flaneursare staring all agape at a shop-window in a crowded street as if every pitiful feather, every poor shred137 of ribbon in that milliner’s window had a mystical association with the terrors of a room up stairs. But to the ignorant passers-by how commonplace the spot must seem; how remote in its every-day associations from the terrors of life’s tragedy!
Any chance traveller driving from Beckenham to West Wickham would have looked, perhaps enviously138, at the Felden mansion, and sighed to be lord of that fair expanse of park and garden; yet I doubt if in the county of Kent there was any creature more disturbed in mind than Archibald Floyd, the banker. Those few moments during which Aurora stood in thoughtful silence were as so many hours to his anxious mind. At last she spoke139.
“Will you come to the study, papa?” she said; “this room is so big, and so dimly lighted, I always fancy there are listeners in the corners.”
She did not wait for an answer, but led the way to a room upon the other side of the hall — the room in which she and her father had been so long closeted together upon the night before her departure for Paris. The crayon portrait of Eliza Floyd looked down upon Archibald and his daughter. The face wore so bright and genial140 a smile that it was difficult to believe it was the face of the dead.
The banker was the first to speak.
“My darling girl,” he said, “what is it you want of me?”
“Money, papa. Two thousand pounds.”
She checked his gesture of surprise, and resumed before he could interrupt her:
“The money you settled upon me on my marriage with John Mellish is invested in our own bank, I know. I know, too, that I can draw upon my account when and how I please; but I thought that if I wrote a check for two thousand pounds the unusual amount might attract attention, and it might possibly fall into your hands. Had this occurred, you would perhaps have been alarmed, at any rate astonished. I thought it best, therefore, to come to you myself and ask you for the money, especially as I must have it in notes.”
Archibald Floyd grew very pale. He had been standing141 while Aurora spoke, but as she finished he dropped into a chair near his little office-table, and, resting his elbow upon an open desk, leaned his head on his hand.
“What do you want the money for, my dear?” he asked, gravely.
“Never mind what, papa. It is my own money, is it not, and I may spend it as I please?”
“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” he answered, with some slight hesitation142. “You shall spend whatever you please. I am rich enough to indulge any whim of yours, however foolish, however extravagant143. But your marriage settlement was rather intended for the benefit of your children — than — than for — anything of this kind, and I scarcely know if you are justified144 in touching145 it without your husband’s permission, especially as your pin-money is really large enough to enable you to gratify any reasonable wish.”
The old man pushed his gray hair away from his forehead with a weary action and a tremulous hand. Heaven knows that even in that desperate moment Aurora took notice of the feeble hand and the whitening hair.
“Give me the money, then, papa,” she said. “Give it me from your own purse. You are rich enough to do that.”
“Rich enough! Yes, if it were twenty times the sum,” answered the banker, slowly. Then, with a sudden burst of passion, he exclaimed, “Oh, Aurora, Aurora, why do you treat me so badly? Have I been so cruel a father that you can’t confide109 in me. Aurora, why do you want this money?”
She clasped her hands tightly together, and stood looking at him for a few moments irresolutely146.
“I can not tell you,” she said, with grave determination. “If I were to tell you — what — what I think of doing, you might thwart147 me in my purpose. Father! father!” she cried, with a sudden change in her voice and manner, “I am hemmed148 in on every side by difficulty and danger, and there is only one way of escape — except death. Unless I take that one way, I must die. I am very young — too young and happy, perhaps, to die willingly. Give me the means of escape.”
“You mean this sum of money?”
“Yes.”
“You have been pestered149 by some connection — some old associate of — his?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I can not tell you.”
They were silent for some moments. Archibald Floyd looked imploringly150 at his child, but she did not answer that earnest gaze. She stood before him with a proudly downcast look; the eyelids151 drooping152 over the dark eyes, not in shame, not in humiliation, only in the stern determination to avoid being subdued153 by the sight of her father’s distress154.
“Aurora,” he said at last, “why not take the wisest and the safest step? Why not tell John Mellish the truth? The danger would disappear; the difficulty would be overcome. If you are persecuted155 by this low rabble156, who so fit as he to act for you? Tell him, Aurora — tell him all!”
“No, no, no!”
She lifted her hands, and clasped them upon her pale face.
“No, no; not for all this wide world!” she cried.
“Aurora,” said Archibald Floyd, with a gathering157 sternness upon his face, which overspread the old man’s benevolent158 countenance159 like some dark cloud, “Aurora — God forgive me for saying such words to my own child — but I must insist upon your telling me that this is no new infatuation, no new madness, which leads you to —” He was unable to finish his sentence.
Mrs. Mellish dropped her hands from before her face, and looked at him with her eyes flashing fire, and her cheeks in a crimson160 blaze.
“Father,” she cried, “how dare you ask me such a question? New infatuation! New madness! Have I suffered so little, do you think, from the folly161 of my youth? Have I paid so small a price for the mistake of my girlhood that you should have cause to say these words to me to-night? Do I come of so bad a race,” she said, pointing indignantly to her mother’s portrait, “that you should think so vilely162 of me? Do I—”
Her tragical163 appeal was rising to its climax164, when she dropped suddenly at her father’s feet, and burst into a tempest of sobs.
“Papa, papa, pity me,” she cried, “pity me!”
He raised her in his arms, and drew her to him, and comforted her, as he had comforted her for the loss of a Scotch165 terrier-pup twelve years before, when she was small enough to sit on his knee, and nestle her head in his waistcoat.
“Pity you, my dear!” he said. “What is there I would not do for you to save you one moment’s sorrow? If my worthless life could help you; if —”
“You will give me the money, papa?” she asked, looking up at him half coaxingly166 through her tears.
“Yes, my darling, to-morrow morning.”
“In bank-notes?”
“In any manner you please. But, Aurora, why see these people? Why listen to their disgraceful demands? Why not tell the truth?”
“Ah! why, indeed!” she said, thoughtfully. “Ask me no questions, dear papa, but let me have the money to-morrow, and I promise you that this shall be the very last you hear of my old troubles.”
She made this promise with such perfect confidence that her father was inspired with a faint ray of hope.
“Come, darling papa,” she said, “your room is near mine; let us go up stairs together.”
She entwined her arms in his, and led him up the broad staircase, only parting from him at the door of his room.
Mr. Floyd summoned his daughter into the study early the next morning, while Talbot Bulstrode was opening his letters, and Lucy strolling up and down the terrace with John Mellish.
“I have telegraphed for the money, my darling,” the banker said. “One of the clerks will be here with it by the time we have finished breakfast.”
Mr. Floyd was right. A card inscribed167 with the name of a Mr. George Martin was brought to him during breakfast.
“Mr. Martin will be good enough to wait in my study,” he said.
Aurora and her father found the clerk seated at the open window, looking admiringly through festoons of foliage168, which clustered round the frame of the lattice, into the richly-cultivated garden. Felden Woods was a sacred spot in the eyes of the junior clerks in Lombard street, and a drive to Beckenham in a Hansom cab on a fine summer’s morning, to say nothing of such chance refreshment169 as pound-cake and old Madeira, or cold fowl170 and Scotch ale, was considered no small treat.
Mr. George Martin, who was laboring171 under the temporary affliction of being only nineteen years of age, rose in a confused flutter of respect and surprise, and blushed very violently at sight of Mrs. Mellish.
Aurora responded to his reverential salute172 with such a pleasant nod as she might have bestowed173 upon the younger dogs in the stable-yard, and seated herself opposite to him at the little table by the window. It was such an excruciatingly narrow table that Aurora’s muslin dress rustled174 against the drab trowsers of the junior clerk as Mrs. Mellish sat down.
The young man unlocked a little morocco pouch175 which he wore suspended from a strap176 across his shoulder, and produced a roll of crisp notes; so crisp, so white and new, that, in their unsullied freshness, they looked more like notes on the Bank of Elegance177 than the circulating medium of this busy, money-making nation.
“I have brought the cash for which you telegraphed, sir,” said the clerk.
“Very good, Mr. Martin,” answered the banker. “Here is my check ready written for you. The notes are —”
“Twenty fifties, twenty-five twenties, fifty tens,” the clerk said, glibly178.
Mr. Floyd took the little bundle of tissue-paper, and counted the notes with the professional rapidity which he still retained.
“Quite correct,” he said, ringing the bell, which was speedily answered by a simpering footman. “Give this gentleman some lunch. You will find the Madeira very good,” he added, kindly179, turning to the blushing junior; “it’s a wine that is dying out, and by the time you’re my age, Mr. Martin, you won’t be able to get such a glass as I can offer you to-day. Good-morning.”
Mr. George Martin clutched his hat nervously180 from the empty chair on which he had placed it, knocked down a heap of papers with his elbow, bowed, blushed, and stumbled out of the room, under convoy181 of the simpering footman, who nourished a profound contempt for the young men from the h’office.
“Now, my darling,” said Mr. Floyd, “here is the money. Though, mind, I protest against —”
“No, no, papa, not a word,” she interrupted; “I thought that was all settled last night.”
He sighed, with the same weary sigh as on the night before, and, seating himself at his desk, dipped a pen into the ink.
“What are you going to do, papa?”
“I’m only going to take the numbers of the notes.”
“There is no occasion.”
“There is always occasion to be business-like,” said the old man, firmly, as he checked the numbers of the notes one by one upon a sheet of paper with rapid precision.
Aurora paced up and down the room impatiently while this operation was going forward.
“How difficult it has been to me to get this money!” she exclaimed. “If I had been the wife and daughter of two of the poorest men in Christendom, I could scarcely have had more trouble about this two thousand pounds. And now you keep me here while you number the notes, not one of which is likely to be exchanged in this country.”
“I learned to be business-like when I was very young, Aurora,” answered Mr. Floyd, “and I have never been able to forget my old habits.”
He completed his task in defiance of his daughter’s impatience182, and handed her the packet of notes when he had done.
“I will keep the list of numbers, my dear,” he said. “If I were to give it to you, you would most likely lose it.”
He folded the sheet of paper, and put it in a drawer of his desk.
“Twenty years hence, Aurora,” he said, “should I live so long, I should be able to produce this paper, if it were wanted.”
“Which it never will be, you dear methodical papa,” answered Aurora. “My troubles are ended now. Yes,” she added, in a graver tone, “I pray God that my troubles may be ended now.”
She encircled her arms about her father’s neck, and kissed him tenderly.
“I must leave you, dearest, to-day,” she said; “you must not ask me why — you must ask me nothing. You must only love and trust me — as my poor John trusts me — faithfully, hopefully, through everything.”
1 abutting | |
adj.邻接的v.(与…)邻接( abut的现在分词 );(与…)毗连;接触;倚靠 | |
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2 warriors | |
武士,勇士,战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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3 worthies | |
应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 ); 值得做某事; 可尊敬的; 有(某人或事物)的典型特征 | |
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4 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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5 hoops | |
n.箍( hoop的名词复数 );(篮球)篮圈;(旧时儿童玩的)大环子;(两端埋在地里的)小铁弓 | |
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6 crooks | |
n.骗子( crook的名词复数 );罪犯;弯曲部分;(牧羊人或主教用的)弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7 rococo | |
n.洛可可;adj.过分修饰的 | |
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8 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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9 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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10 aurora | |
n.极光 | |
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11 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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12 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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13 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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14 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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15 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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16 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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17 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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18 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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19 juvenile | |
n.青少年,少年读物;adj.青少年的,幼稚的 | |
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20 billiards | |
n.台球 | |
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21 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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22 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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23 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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24 amber | |
n.琥珀;琥珀色;adj.琥珀制的 | |
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25 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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26 snug | |
adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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27 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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28 lured | |
吸引,引诱(lure的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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29 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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30 celebrities | |
n.(尤指娱乐界的)名人( celebrity的名词复数 );名流;名声;名誉 | |
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31 arena | |
n.竞技场,运动场所;竞争场所,舞台 | |
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32 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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33 babble | |
v.含糊不清地说,胡言乱语地说,儿语 | |
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34 interim | |
adj.暂时的,临时的;n.间歇,过渡期间 | |
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35 attachments | |
n.(用电子邮件发送的)附件( attachment的名词复数 );附着;连接;附属物 | |
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36 idol | |
n.偶像,红人,宠儿 | |
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37 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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38 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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39 shrine | |
n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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40 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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41 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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42 atoned | |
v.补偿,赎(罪)( atone的过去式和过去分词 );补偿,弥补,赎回 | |
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43 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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44 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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45 remorseful | |
adj.悔恨的 | |
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46 undone | |
a.未做完的,未完成的 | |
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47 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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48 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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49 mechanism | |
n.机械装置;机构,结构 | |
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50 maker | |
n.制造者,制造商 | |
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51 smoothly | |
adv.平滑地,顺利地,流利地,流畅地 | |
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52 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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53 penitence | |
n.忏悔,赎罪;悔过 | |
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54 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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55 costliest | |
adj.昂贵的( costly的最高级 );代价高的;引起困难的;造成损失的 | |
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56 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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57 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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58 advertising | |
n.广告业;广告活动 a.广告的;广告业务的 | |
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59 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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60 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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61 marvelled | |
v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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63 serpentine | |
adj.蜿蜒的,弯曲的 | |
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64 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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65 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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66 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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67 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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68 soothed | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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69 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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70 concurrence | |
n.同意;并发 | |
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71 whim | |
n.一时的兴致,突然的念头;奇想,幻想 | |
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72 scampering | |
v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑,惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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73 groom | |
vt.给(马、狗等)梳毛,照料,使...整洁 | |
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74 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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75 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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76 falteringly | |
口吃地,支吾地 | |
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77 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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78 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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79 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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80 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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81 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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82 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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83 pensive | |
a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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84 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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85 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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87 rattled | |
慌乱的,恼火的 | |
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88 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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89 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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90 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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91 hymns | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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92 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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93 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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94 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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95 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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96 prosaic | |
adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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97 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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98 outstripped | |
v.做得比…更好,(在赛跑等中)超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99 salmon | |
n.鲑,大马哈鱼,橙红色的 | |
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100 doting | |
adj.溺爱的,宠爱的 | |
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101 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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102 inconvenient | |
adj.不方便的,令人感到麻烦的 | |
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103 determinedly | |
adv.决意地;坚决地,坚定地 | |
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104 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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105 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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106 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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107 dissenting | |
adj.不同意的 | |
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108 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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109 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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110 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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111 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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112 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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113 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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114 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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115 benign | |
adj.善良的,慈祥的;良性的,无危险的 | |
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116 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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117 captious | |
adj.难讨好的,吹毛求疵的 | |
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118 displeasing | |
不愉快的,令人发火的 | |
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119 subdue | |
vt.制服,使顺从,征服;抑制,克制 | |
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120 transformation | |
n.变化;改造;转变 | |
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121 physiologists | |
n.生理学者( physiologist的名词复数 );生理学( physiology的名词复数 );生理机能 | |
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122 wince | |
n.畏缩,退避,(因痛苦,苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动;v.畏缩,退缩,退避 | |
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123 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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124 harping | |
n.反复述说 | |
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125 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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126 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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127 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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128 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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129 moody | |
adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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130 jingling | |
叮当声 | |
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131 sergeant | |
n.警官,中士 | |
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132 pouted | |
v.撅(嘴)( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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134 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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135 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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136 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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137 shred | |
v.撕成碎片,变成碎片;n.碎布条,细片,些少 | |
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138 enviously | |
adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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139 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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140 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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141 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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142 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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143 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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144 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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145 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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146 irresolutely | |
adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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147 thwart | |
v.阻挠,妨碍,反对;adj.横(断的) | |
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148 hemmed | |
缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 ); 包围 | |
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149 pestered | |
使烦恼,纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150 imploringly | |
adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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151 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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152 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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153 subdued | |
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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154 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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155 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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156 rabble | |
n.乌合之众,暴民;下等人 | |
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157 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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158 benevolent | |
adj.仁慈的,乐善好施的 | |
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159 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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160 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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161 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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162 vilely | |
adv.讨厌地,卑劣地 | |
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163 tragical | |
adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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164 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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165 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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166 coaxingly | |
adv. 以巧言诱哄,以甘言哄骗 | |
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167 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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168 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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169 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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170 fowl | |
n.家禽,鸡,禽肉 | |
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171 laboring | |
n.劳动,操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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172 salute | |
vi.行礼,致意,问候,放礼炮;vt.向…致意,迎接,赞扬;n.招呼,敬礼,礼炮 | |
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173 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174 rustled | |
v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175 pouch | |
n.小袋,小包,囊状袋;vt.装...入袋中,用袋运输;vi.用袋送信件 | |
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176 strap | |
n.皮带,带子;v.用带扣住,束牢;用绷带包扎 | |
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177 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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178 glibly | |
adv.流利地,流畅地;满口 | |
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179 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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180 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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181 convoy | |
vt.护送,护卫,护航;n.护送;护送队 | |
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182 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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