I.
Winterfield Defends Himself.
Beaupark House, June 17th, 18 —.
You and I, Cousin Beeminster, seldom meet. But I occasionally hear of you, from friends acquainted with both of us.
I have heard of you last at Sir Philip’s rent-day dinner a week since. My name happened to be mentioned by one of the gentlemen present, a guest like yourself. You took up the subject of your own free will, and spoke1 of me in these terms:
“I am sorry to say it of the existing head of the family — but Bernard is really unfit for the position which he holds. He has, to say the least of it, compromised himself and his relatives on more than one occasion. He began as a young man by marrying a circus-rider. He got into some other scrape, after that, which he has contrived2 to keep a secret from us. We only know how disgraceful it must have been by the results — he was a voluntary exile from England for more than a year. And now, to complete the list, he has mixed himself up in that miserable3 and revolting business of Lewis Romayne and his wife.”
If any other person had spoken of me in this manner, I should have set him down as a mischievous4 idiot — to be kicked perhaps, but not to be noticed in any other way.
With you, the case is different. If I die without male offspring, the Beaupark estate goes to you, as next heir.
I don’t choose to let a man in this position slander5 me, and those dear to me, without promptly6 contradicting him. The name I bear is precious to me, in memory of my father. Your unanswered allusion7 to my relations with “Lewis Romayne and his wife,” coming from a member of the family, will be received as truth. Rather than let this be, I reveal to you, without reserve, some of the saddest passages of my life. I have nothing to be ashamed of — and, if I have hitherto kept certain events in the dark, it has been for the sake of others, not for my own sake. I know better now. A woman’s reputation — if she is a good woman — is not easily compromised by telling the truth. The person of whom I am thinking, when I write this, knows what I am going to do — and approves of it.
You will receive, with these lines, the most perfectly9 candid10 statement that I can furnish, being extracts cut out of my own private Diary. They are accompanied (where plain necessity seems to call for it) by the written evidence of other persons.
There has never been much sympathy between us. But you have been brought up like a gentleman — and, when you have read my narrative11, I expect that you will do justice to me, and to others — even though you think we acted indiscreetly under trying and critical circumstances.
B. W.
ii.
Winterfield Makes Extracts.
First Extract.
April 11th, 1869.— Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter have left Beaupark to-day for London. Have I really made any impression on the heart of the beautiful Stella? In my miserable position — ignorant whether I am free or not — I have shrunk from formally acknowledging that I love her.
12th.— I am becoming superstitious12! In the Obituary13 of to-day’s Times the death is recorded of that unhappy woman whom I was mad enough to marry. After hearing nothing of her for seven years — I am free! Surely this is a good omen14? Shall I follow the Eyrecourts to London, and declare myself? I have not confidence enough in my own power of attraction to run the risk. Better to write first, in strictest confidence, to Mrs. Eyrecourt.
14th.— An enchanting15 answer from my angel’s mother, written in great haste. They are on the point of leaving for Paris. Stella is restless and dissatisfied; she wants change of scene; and Mrs. Eyrecourt adds, in so many words —“It is you who have upset her; why did you not speak while we were at Beaupark?” I am to hear again from Paris. Good old Father Newbliss said all along that she was fond of me, and wondered, like Mrs. Eyrecourt, why I failed to declare myself. How could I tell them of the hideous16 fetters17 which bound me in those days?
18th, Paris.— She has accepted me! Words are useless to express my happiness.
19th.— A letter from my lawyer, full of professional subtleties18 and delays. I have no patience to enumerate19 them. We move to Belgium to-morrow. Not on our way back to England — Stella is so little desirous of leaving the Continent that we are likely to be married abroad. But she is weary of the perpetual gayety and glitter of Paris, and wants to see the old Belgian cities. Her mother leaves Paris with regret. The liveliest woman of her age that I ever met with.
Brussels, May 7.— My blessing20 on the old Belgian cities. Mrs. Eyrecourt is so eager to get away from them that she backs me in hurrying the marriage, and even consents, sorely against the grain, to let the wedding be celebrated21 at Brussels in a private and unpretending way. She has only stipulated22 that Lord and Lady Loring (old friends) shall be present. They are to arrive tomorrow, and two days afterward23 we are to be married.
(An inclosure is inserted in this place. It consists of the death-bed confession24 of Mr. Winterfield’s wife, and of the explanatory letter written by the rector of Belhaven. The circumstances related in these documents, already known to the reader, are left to speak for themselves, and the Extracts from the Diary are then continued.)
Bingen, on the Rhine, May 19.— Letters from Devonshire at last, which relieve my wretchedness in some small degree. The frightful26 misfortune at Brussels will at least be kept secret, so far as I am concerned. Beaupark House is shut up, and the servants are dismissed, “in consequence of my residence abroad.” To Father Newbliss I have privately27 written. Not daring to tell him the truth, I leave him to infer that my marriage engagement has been broken off, he writes back a kind and comforting letter. Time will, I suppose, help me to bear my sad lot. Perhaps a day may come when Stella and her friends will know how cruelly they have wronged me.
London, November 18, 1860.— The old wound has been opened again. I met her accidentally in a picture gallery. She turned deadly pale, and left the place. Oh, Stella! Stella!
London, August 12, 1861.— Another meeting with her. And another shock to endure, which I might not have suffered if I had been a reader of the marriage announcements in the newspapers. Like other men, I am in the habit of leaving the marriage announcements to the women.
I went to visit an agreeable new acquaintance, Mr. Romayne. His wife drove up to the house while I was looking out of window. I recognized Stella! After two years, she has made use of the freedom which the law has given to her. I must not complain of that, or of her treating me like a stranger, when her husband innocently introduced us. But when are were afterward left together for a few minutes — no! I cannot write down the merciless words she said to me. Why am I fool enough to be as fond of her as ever?
Beaupark, November 16.— Stella’s married life is not likely to be a happy one. To-day’s newspaper announces the conversion28 of her husband to the Roman Catholic Faith. I can honestly say I am sorry for her, knowing how she has suffered, among her own relatives, by these conversions29. But I so hate him, that this proof of his weakness is a downright consolation30 to me.
Beaupark, January 27, 1862.— A letter from Stella, so startling and deplorable that I cannot remain away from her after reading it. Her husband has deliberately31 deserted32 her. He has gone to Rome, to serve his term of probation33 for the priesthood. I travel to London by to-day’s train.
London, January 27.— Short as it is, I looked at Stella’s letter again and again on the journey. The tone of the closing sentences is still studiously cold. After informing me that she is staying with her mother in London, she concludes her letter in these terms:
“Be under no fear that the burden of my troubles will be laid on your shoulders. Since the fatal day when we met at Ten Acres, you have shown forbearance and compassion34 toward me. I don’t stop to inquire if you are sincere — it rests with you to prove that. But I have some questions to ask, which no person but you can answer. For the rest, my friendless position will perhaps plead with you not to misunderstand me. May I write again?”
Inveterate35 distrust in every sentence! If any other woman had treated me in this way, I should have put her letter into the fire, and should not have stirred from my comfortable house.
January 29.— A day missed out of my Diary. The events of yesterday unnerved me for the time.
Arriving at Derwent’s Hotel on the evening of the 27th, I sent a line to Stella by messenger, to ask when she could receive me.
It is strange how the merest trifles seem to touch women! Her note in reply contains the first expression of friendly feeling toward me which has escaped her since we parted at Brussels. And this expression proceeds from her ungovernable surprise and gratitude37 at my taking the trouble to travel from Devonshire to London on her account!
For the rest, she proposed to call on me at the hotel the next morning. She and her mother, it appeared, differed in opinion on the subject of Mr. Romayne’s behavior to her; and she wished to see me, in the first instance, unrestrained by Mrs. Eyrecourt’s interference.
There was little sleep for me that night. I passed most of the time in smoking and walking up and down the room. My one relief was afforded by Traveler — he begged so hard to go to London with me, I could not resist him. The dog always sleeps in my room. His surprise at my extraordinary restlessness (ending in downright anxiety and alarm) was expressed in his eyes, and in his little whinings and cries, quite as intelligibly39 as if he had put his meaning into words. Who first called a dog a dumb creature? It must have been a man, I think — and a thoroughly40 unlovable man, too, from a dog’s point of view.
Soon after ten, on the morning of the 28th, she entered my sitting-room41.
In her personal appearance, I saw a change for the worse: produced, I suppose, by the troubles that have tried her sorely, poor thing. There was a sad loss of delicacy42 in her features, and of purity in her complexion43. Even her dress — I should certainly not have noticed it in any other woman — seemed to be loose and slovenly44. In the agitation45 of the moment, I forgot the long estrangement46 between us; I half lifted my hand to take hers, and checked myself. Was I mistaken in supposing that she yielded to the same impulse, and resisted it as I did? She concealed47 her embarrassment48, if she felt any, by patting the dog.
“I am ashamed that you should have taken the journey to London in this wintry weather —” she began.
It was impossible, in her situation, to let her assume this commonplace tone with me. “I sincerely feel for you,” I said, “and sincerely wish to help you, if I can.”
She looked at me for the first time. Did she believe me? or did she still doubt? Before I could decide, she took a letter from her pocket, opened it, and handed it to me.
“Women often exaggerate their troubles,” she said. “It is perhaps an unfair trial of your patience — but I should like you to satisfy yourself that I have not made the worst of my situation. That letter will place it before you in Mr. Romayne’s own words. Read it, except where the page is turned down.”
It was her husband’s letter of farewell.
The language was scrupulously49 delicate and considerate. But to my mind it entirely50 failed to disguise the fanatical cruelty of the man’s resolution, addressed to his wife. In substance, it came to this:—
“He had discovered the marriage at Brussels, which she had deliberately concealed from him when he took her for his wife. She had afterward persisted in that concealment52, under circumstances which made it impossible that he could ever trust her again.” (This no doubt referred to her ill-advised reception of me, as a total stranger, at Ten Acres Lodge54.) “In the miserable break-up of his domestic life, the Church to which he now belonged offered him not only her divine consolation, but the honor, above all earthly distinctions, of serving the cause of religion in the sacred ranks of the priesthood. Before his departure for Rome he bade her a last farewell in this world, and forgave her the injuries that she had inflicted55 on him. For her sake he asked leave to say some few words more. In the first place, he desired to do her every justice, in a worldly sense. Ten Acres Lodge was offered to her as a free gift for her lifetime, with a sufficient income for all her wants. In the second place, he was anxious that she should not misinterpret his motives56. Whatever his opinion of her conduct might be, he did not rely on it as affording his only justification58 for leaving her. Setting personal feeling aside, he felt religious scruples59 (connected with his marriage) which left him no other alternative than the separation on which he had resolved. He would briefly60 explain those scruples, and mention his authority for entertaining them, before he closed his letter.”
There the page was turned down, and the explanation was concealed from me.
A faint color stole over her face as I handed the letter back to her.
“It is needless for you to read the end,” she said. “You know, under his own hand, that he has left me; and (if such a thing pleads with you in his favor) you also know that he is liberal in providing for his deserted wife.”
I attempted to speak. She saw in my face how I despised him, and stopped me.
“Whatever you may think of his conduct,” she continued, “I beg that you will not speak of it to me. May I ask your opinion (now you have read his letter) on another matter, in which my own conduct is concerned? In former days —”
She paused, poor soul, in evident confusion and distress61.
“Why speak of those days?” I ventured to say.
“I must speak of them. In former days, I think you were told that my father’s will provided for my mother and for me. You know that we have enough to live on?”
I had heard of it, at the time of our betrothal62 — when the marriage settlement was in preparation. The mother and daughter had each a little income of a few hundreds a year. The exact amount had escaped my memory.
After answering her to this effect, I waited to hear more.
She suddenly became silent; the most painful embarrassment showed itself in her face and manner. “Never mind the rest,” she said, mastering her confusion after an interval63. “I have had some hard trials to bear; I forget things —” she made an effort to finish the sentence, and gave it up, and called to the dog to come to her. The tears were in her eyes, and that was the way she took to hide them from me.
In general, I am not quick at reading the minds of others — but I thought I understood Stella. Now that we were face to face, the impulse to trust me had, for the moment, got the better of her caution and her pride; she was half ashamed of it, half inclined to follow it. I hesitated no longer. The time for which I had waited — the time to prove, without any indelicacy on my side, that I had never been unworthy of her — had surely come at last.
“Do you remember my reply to your letter about Father Benwell?” I asked.
“Yes — every word of it.”
“I promised, if you ever had need of me, to prove that I had never been unworthy of your confidence. In your present situation, I can honorably keep my promise. Shall I wait till you are calmer? or shall I go on at once?”
“At once!”
“When your mother and your friends took you from me,” I resumed, “if you had shown any hesitation64 —”
She shuddered65. The image of my unhappy wife, vindictively66 confronting us on the church steps, seemed to be recalled to her memory. “Don’t go back to it!” she cried. “Spare me, I entreat67 you.”
I opened the writing-case in which I keep the papers sent to me by the Rector of Belhaven, and placed them on the table by which she was sitting. The more plainly and briefly I spoke now, the better I thought it might be for both of us.
“Since we parted at Brussels,” I said, “my wife has died. Here is a copy of the medical certificate of her death.”
Stella refused to look at it. “I don’t understand such things,” she answered faintly. “What is this?”
She took up my wife’s death-bed confession.
“Read it,” I said.
She looked frightened. “What will it tell me?” she asked.
“It will tell you, Stella, that false appearances once led you into wronging an innocent man.”
Having said this, I walked away to a window behind her, at the further end of the room, so that she might not see me while she read.
After a time — how much longer it seemed to be than it really was!— I heard her move. As I turned from the window, she ran to me, and fell on her knees at my feet. I tried to raise her; I entreated68 her to believe that she was forgiven. She seized my hands, and held them over her face — they were wet with her tears. “I am ashamed to look at you,” she said. “Oh, Bernard, what a wretch25 I have been!”
I never was so distressed69 in my life. I don’t know what I should have said, what I should have done, if my dear old dog had not helped me out of it. He, too, ran up to me, with the loving jealousy70 of his race, and tried to lick my hands, still fast in Stella’s hold. His paws were on her shoulder; he attempted to push himself between us. I think I successfully assumed a tranquillity72 which I was far from really feeling. “Come, come!” I said, “you mustn’t make Traveler jealous.” She let me raise her. Ah, if she could have kissed me— but that was not to be done; she kissed the dog’s head, and then she spoke to me. I shall not set down what she said in these pages. While I live, there is no fear of my forgetting those words.
I led her back to her chair. The letter addressed to me by the Rector of Belhaven still lay on the table, unread. It was of some importance to Stella’s complete enlightenment, as containing evidence that the confession was genuine. But I hesitated, for her sake, to speak of it just yet.
“Now you know that you have a friend to help and advise you —” I began.
“No,” she interposed; “more than a friend; say a brother.”
I said it. “You had something to ask of me,” I resumed, “and you never put the question.”
She understood me.
“I meant to tell you,” she said, “that I had written a letter of refusal to Mr. Romayne’s lawyers. I have left Ten Acres, never to return; and I refuse to accept a farthing of Mr. Romayne’s money. My mother — though she knows that we have enough to live on — tells me I have acted with inexcusable pride and folly73. I wanted to ask if you blame me, Bernard, as she does?”
I daresay I was inexcusably proud and foolish too. It was the second time she had called me by my Christian74 name since the happy bygone time, never to come again. Under whatever influence I acted, I respected and admired her for that refusal, and I owned it in so many words. This little encouragement seemed to relieve her. She was so much calmer that I ventured to speak of the Rector’s letter.
She wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh, Bernard, have I not learned to trust you yet? Put away those papers. There is only one thing I want to know. Who gave them to you? The Rector?”
“No.”
“How did they reach you, then?”
“Through Father Benwell.”
She started at that name like a woman electrified75.
“I knew it!” she cried. “It is the priest who has wrecked76 my married life — and he got his information from those letters, before he put them into your hands.” She waited a while, and recovered herself. “That was the first of the questions I wanted to put to you,” she said. “I am answered. I ask no more.”
She was surely wrong about Father Benwell? I tried to show her why.
I told her that my reverend friend had put the letters into my hand, with the seal which protected them unbroken. She laughed disdainfully. Did I know him so little as to doubt for a moment that he could break a seal and replace it again? This view was entirely new to me; I was startled, but not convinced. I never desert my friends — even when they are friends of no very long standing77 — and I still tried to defend Father Benwell. The only result was to make her alter her intention of asking me no more questions. I innocently roused in her a new curiosity. She was eager to know how I had first become acquainted with the priest, and how he had contrived to possess himself of papers which were intended for my reading only.
There was but one way of answering her.
It was far from easy to a man like myself, unaccustomed to state circumstances in their proper order — but I had no other choice than to reply, by telling the long story of the theft and discovery of the Rector’s papers. So far as Father Benwell was concerned, the narrative only confirmed her suspicions. For the rest, the circumstances which most interested her were the circumstances associated with the French boy.
“Anything connected with that poor creature,” she said, “has a dreadful interest for me now.”
“Did you know him?” I asked, with some surprise.
“I knew him and his mother — you shall hear how, at another time. I suppose I felt a presentiment78 that the boy would have some evil influence over me. At any rate, when I accidentally touched him, I trembled as if I had touched a serpent. You will think me superstitious — but, after what you have said, it is certainly true that he has been the indirect cause of the misfortune that has fallen on me. How came he to steal the papers? Did you ask the Rector, when you went to Belhaven?”
“I asked the Rector nothing. But he thought it his duty to tell me all that he knew of the theft.”
She drew her chair nearer to me. “Let me hear every word of it!” she pleaded eagerly.
I felt some reluctance79 to comply with the request.
“Is it not fit for me to hear?” she asked.
This forced me to be plain with her. “If I repeat what the Rector told me,” I said, “I must speak of my wife.”
She took my hand. “You have pitied and forgiven her,” she answered. “Speak of her, Bernard — and don’t, for God’s sake, think that my heart is harder than yours.”
I kissed the hand that she had given to me — even her “brother” might do that!
“It began,” I said, “in the grateful attachment80 which the boy felt for my wife. He refused to leave her bedside on the day when she dictated81 her confession to the Rector. As he was entirely ignorant of the English language, there seemed to be no objection to letting him have his own way. He became inquisitive82 as the writing went on. His questions annoyed the Rector — and as the easiest way of satisfying his curiosity, my wife told him that she was making her will. He knew just enough, from what he had heard at various times, to associate making a will with gifts of money — and the pretended explanation silenced and satisfied him.”
“Did the Rector understand it?” Stella asked.
“Yes. Like many other Englishmen in his position, although he was not ready at speaking French, he could read the language, and could fairly well understand it, when it was spoken. After my wife’s death, he kindly83 placed the boy, for a few days, under the care of his housekeeper84. Her early life had been passed in the island of Martinique, and she was able to communicate with the friendless foreigner in his own language. When he disappeared, she was the only person who could throw any light on his motive57 for stealing the papers. On the day when he entered the house, she caught him peeping through the keyhole of the study door. He must have seen where the confession was placed, and the color of the old-fashioned blue paper, on which it was written, would help him to identify it. The next morning, during the Rector’s absence, he brought the manuscript to the housekeeper, and asked her to translate it into French, so that he might know how much money was left to him in ‘the will.’ She severely85 reproved him, made him replace the paper in the desk from which he had taken it, and threatened to tell the Rector if his misconduct was repeated. He promised amendment86, and the good-natured woman believed him. On that evening the papers were sealed, and locked up. In the morning the lock was found broken, and the papers and the boy were both missing together.”
“Do you think he showed the confession to any other person?” Stella asked. “I happen to know that he concealed it from his mother.”
“After the housekeeper’s reproof,” I replied, “he would be cunning enough, in my opinion, not to run the risk of showing it to strangers. It is far more likely that he thought he might learn English enough to read it himself.”
There the subject dropped. We were silent for a while. She was thinking, and I was looking at her. On a sudden, she raised her head. Her eyes rested on me gravely.
“It is very strange!” she said
“What is strange?”
“I have been thinking of the Lorings. They encouraged me to doubt you. They advised me to be silent about what happened at Brussels. And they too are concerned in my husband’s desertion of me. He first met Father Benwell at their house.” Her head drooped87 again; her next words were murmured to herself. “I am still a young woman,” she said. “Oh, God, what is my future to be?”
This morbid88 way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her that she had dear and devoted89 friends.
“Not one,” she answered, “but you.”
“Have you not seen Lady Loring?” I asked.
“She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting90 me to make their house my home. I have no right to blame them — they meant well. But after what has happened, I can’t go back to them.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” I said.
“Are you thinking of the Lorings?” she asked.
“I don’t even know the Lorings. I can think of nobody but you.”
I was still looking at her — and I am afraid my eyes said more than my words. If she had doubted it before, she must have now known that I was as fond of her as ever. She looked distressed rather than confused. I made an awkward attempt to set myself right.
“Surely your brother may speak plainly,” I pleaded.
She agreed to this. But nevertheless she rose to go — with a friendly word, intended (as I hoped) to show me that I had got my pardon for that time. “Will you come and see us to-morrow?” she said. “Can you forgive my mother as generously as you have forgiven me? I will take care, Bernard, that she does you justice at last.”
She held out her hand to take leave. How could I reply? If I had been a resolute91 man, I might have remembered that it would be best for me not to see too much of her. But I am a poor weak creature — I accepted her invitation for the next day.
January 30.— I have just returned from my visit.
My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and confusion — and her mother is the cause of it. I wish I had not gone to the house. Am I a bad man, I wonder? and have I only found it out now?
Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went in. Judging by the easy manner in which she got up to receive me, the misfortune that has befallen her daughter seemed to have produced no sobering change in this frivolous92 woman.
“My dear Winterfield,” she began, “I have behaved infamously93. I won’t say that appearances were against you at Brussels — I will only say I ought not to have trusted to appearances. You are the injured person; please forgive me. Shall we go on with the subject? or shall we shake hands, and say no more about it?”
I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was looking for Stella.
“Sit down,” she said; “and be good enough to put up with no more attractive society than mine. Unless I set things straight, my good friend, you and my daughter — oh, with the best intentions!— will drift into a false position. You won’t see Stella to-day. Quite impossible — and I will tell you why. I am the worldly old mother; I don’t mind what I say. My innocent daughter would die before she would confess what I am going to tell you. Can I offer you anything? Have you had lunch?”
I begged her to continue. She perplexed94 — I am not sure that she did not even alarm me.
“Very well,” she proceeded. “You may be surprised to hear it — but I don’t mean to allow things to go on in this way. My contemptible95 son-in-law shall return to his wife.”
This startled me, and I suppose I showed it.
“Wait a little,” said Mrs. Eyrecourt. “There is nothing to be alarmed about. Romayne is a weak fool; and Father Benwell’s greedy hands are (of course) in both his pockets. But he has, unless I am entirely mistaken, some small sense of shame, and some little human feeling still left. After the manner in which he has behaved, these are the merest possibilities, you will say. Very likely. I have boldly appealed to those possibilities nevertheless. He has already gone away to Rome; and I need hardly add — Father Benwell would take good care of that — he has left us no address. It doesn’t in the least matter. One of the advantages of being so much in society as I am is that I have nice acquaintances everywhere, always ready to oblige me, provided I don’t borrow money of them. I have written to Romayne, under cover to one of my friends living in Rome. Wherever he may be, there my letter will find him.”
So far, I listened quietly enough, naturally supposing that Mrs. Eyrecourt trusted to her own arguments and persuasions96. I confess it even to myself, with shame. It was a relief to me to feel that the chances (with such a fanatic51 as Romayne) were a hundred to one against her.
This unworthy way of thinking was instantly checked by Mrs. Eyrecourt’s next words.
“Don’t suppose that I am foolish enough to attempt to reason with him,” she went on. “My letter begins and ends on the first page. His wife has a claim on him, which no newly-married man can resist. Let me do him justice. He knew nothing of it before he went away. My letter — my daughter has no suspicion that I have written it — tells him plainly what the claim is.”
She paused. Her eyes softened97, her voice sank low — she became quite unlike the Mrs. Eyrecourt whom I knew.
“In a few months more, Winterfield,” she said, “my poor Stella will be a mother. My letter calls Romayne back to his wife —and his child.“
Mrs. Eyrecourt paused, evidently expecting me to offer an opinion of some sort. For the moment I was really unable to speak. Stella’s mother never had a very high opinion of my abilities. She now appeared to consider me the stupidest person in the circle of her acquaintance.
“Are you a little deaf, Winterfield?” she asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you understand me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then why can’t you say something? I want a man’s opinion of our prospects99. Good gracious, how you fidget! Put yourself in Romayne’s place, and tell me this. If you had left Stella —”
“I should never have left her, Mrs. Eyrecourt.”
“Be quiet. You don’t know what you would have done. I insist on your supposing yourself to be a weak, superstitious, conceited100, fanatical fool. You understand? Now, tell me, then. Could you keep away from your wife, when you were called back to her in the name of your firstborn child? Could you resist that?”
“Most assuredly not!”
I contrived to reply with an appearance of tranquillity. It was not very easy to speak with composure. Envious101, selfish, contemptible — no language is too strong to describe the turn my thoughts now took. I never hated any human being as I hated Romayne at that moment. “Damn him, he will come back!” There was my inmost feeling expressed in words.
In the meantime, Mrs. Eyrecourt was satisfied. She dashed at the next subject as fluent and as confident as ever.
“Now, Winterfield, it is surely plain to your mind that you must not see Stella again — except when I am present to tie the tongue of scandal. My daughter’s conduct must not allow her husband — if you only knew how I detest102 that man!— must not, I say, allow her husband the slightest excuse for keeping away from her. If we give that odious103 old Jesuit the chance, he will make a priest of Romayne before we know where we are. The audacity104 of these Papists is really beyond belief. You remember how they made Bishops105 and Archbishops here, in flat defiance106 of our laws? Father Benwell follows that example, and sets our other laws at defiance — I mean our marriage laws. I am so indignant I can’t express myself as clearly as usual. Did Stella tell you that he actually shook Romayne’s belief in his own marriage? Ah, I understand — she kept that to herself, poor dear, and with good reason, too.”
I thought of the turned-down page in the letter. Mrs. Eyrecourt readily revealed what her daughter’s delicacy had forbidden me to read — including the monstrous107 assumption which connected my marriage before the registrar108 with her son-in-law’s scruples.
“Yes,” she proceeded, “these Catholics are all alike. My daughter — I don’t mean my sweet Stella; I mean the unnatural109 creature in the nunnery — sets herself above her own mother. Did I ever tell you she was impudent110 enough to say she would pray for me? Father Benwell and the Papal Aggression111 over again! Now tell me, Winterfield, don’t you think, taking the circumstances into consideration — that you will act like a thoroughly sensible man if you go back to Devonshire while we are in our present situation? What with foot-warmers in the carriage, and newspapers and magazines to amuse you, it isn’t such a very long journey. And then Beaupark — dear Beaupark — is such a remarkably112 comfortable house in the winter; and you, you enviable creature, are such a popular man in the neighborhood. Oh, go back! go back!”
I got up and took my hat. She patted me on the shoulder. I could have throttled113 her at that moment. And yet she was right.
“You will make my excuses to Stella?” I said.
“You dear, good fellow, I will do more than make your excuses; I will sing your praises — as the poet says.” In her ungovernable exultation114 at having got rid of me, she burst into extravagant115 language. “I feel like a mother to you,” she went on, as we shook hands at parting. “I declare I could almost let you kiss me.”
There was not a single kissable place about Mrs. Eyrecourt, unpainted, undyed, or unpowdered. I resisted temptation and opened the door. There was still one last request that I could not help making.
“Will you let me know,” I said, “when you hear from Rome?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” Mrs. Eyrecourt answered, briskly. “Good-by, you best of friends — good-by.”
I write these lines while the servant is packing my portmanteau. Traveler knows what that means. My dog is glad, at any rate, to get away from London. I think I shall hire a yacht, and try what a voyage round the world will do for me. I wish to God I had never seen Stella!
Second Extract.
Beaupark, February 10.— News at last from Mrs. Eyrecourt.
Romayne has not even read the letter that she addressed to him — it has actually been returned to her by Father Benwell. Mrs. Eyrecourt writes, naturally enough, in a state of fury. Her one consolation, under this insulting treatment, is that her daughter knows nothing of the circumstances. She warns me (quite needlessly) to keep the secret — and sends me a copy of Father Benwell’s letter:
“Dear Madam — Mr. Romayne can read nothing that diverts his attention from his preparation for the priesthood, or that recalls past associations with errors which he has renounced116 forever. When a letter reaches him, it is his wise custom to look at the signature first. He has handed your letter to me, unread— with a request that I will return it to you. In his presence, I instantly sealed it up. Neither he nor I know, or wish to know, on what subject you have addressed him. We respectfully advise you not to write again.”
This is really too bad; but it has one advantage, so far as I am concerned. It sets my own unworthy doubts and jealousies117 before me in a baser light than ever. How honestly I defended Father Benwell! and how completely he has deceived me! I wonder whether I shall live long enough to see the Jesuit caught in one of his own traps?
11th.— I was disappointed at not hearing from Stella, yesterday. This morning has made amends119; it has brought me a letter from her.
She is not well; and her mother’s conduct sadly perplexes her. At one time, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s sense of injury urges her to indulge in violent measures — she is eager to place her deserted daughter under the protection of the law; to insist on a restitution120 of conjugal121 rights or on a judicial122 separation. At another time she sinks into a state of abject123 depression; declares that it is impossible for her, in Stella’s deplorable situation, to face society; and recommends immediate124 retirement125 to some place on the Continent in which they can live cheaply. This latter suggestion Stella is not only ready, but eager, to adopt. She proves it by asking for my advice, in a postscript126; no doubt remembering the happy days when I courted her in Paris, and the many foreign friends of mine who called at our hotel.
The postscript gave me the excuse that I wanted. I knew perfectly well that it would be better for me not to see her — and I went to London, for the sole purpose of seeing her, by the first train.
London, February 12.— I found mother and daughter together in the drawing-room. It was one of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s days of depression. Her little twinkling eyes tried to cast on me a look of tragic127 reproach; she shook her dyed head and said, “Oh. Winterfield, I didn’t think you would have done this!— Stella, fetch me my smelling bottle.”
But Stella refused to take the hint. She almost brought the tears into my eyes, she received me so kindly. If her mother had not been in the room — but her mother was in the room; I had no other choice than to enter on my business, as if I had been the family lawyer.
Mrs. Eyrecourt began by reproving Stella for asking my advice, and then assured me that she had no intention of leaving London. “How am I to get rid of my house?” she asked, irritably128 enough. I knew that “her house” (as she called it) was the furnished upper part of a house belonging to another person, and that she could leave it at a short notice. But I said nothing. I addressed myself to Stella.
“I have been thinking of two or three places which you might like,” I went on. “The nearest place belongs to an old French gentleman and his wife. They have no children, and they don’t let lodgings129; but I believe they would be glad to receive friends of mine, if their spare rooms are not already occupied. They live at St. Germain — close to Paris.”
I looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt as I said those last words — I was as sly as Father Benwell himself. Paris justified130 my confidence: the temptation was too much for her. She not only gave way, but actually mentioned the amount of rent which she could afford to pay. Stella whispered her thanks to me as I went out. “My name is not mentioned, but my misfortune is alluded131 to in the newspapers,” she said. “Well-meaning friends are calling and condoling132 with me already. I shall die, if you don’t help me to get away among strangers!”
I start for Paris by the mail train, to-night.
Paris, February 13.— It is evening. I have just returned from St. Germain. Everything is settled — with more slyness on my part. I begin to think I am a born Jesuit; there must have been some detestable sympathy between Father Benwell and me.
My good friends, Monsieur and Madame Villeray, will be only too glad to receive English ladies, known to me for many years. The spacious133 and handsome first floor of their house (inherited from once wealthy ancestors by Madame Villeray) can be got ready to receive Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter in a week’s time. Our one difficulty related to the question of money. Monsieur Villeray, living on a Government pension, was modestly unwilling134 to ask terms; and I was too absolutely ignorant of the subject to be of the slightest assistance to him. It ended in our appealing to a house-agent at St. Germain. His estimate appeared to me to be quite reasonable. But it exceeded the pecuniary135 limit mentioned by Mrs. Eyrecourt. I had known the Villerays long enough to be in no danger of offending them by proposing a secret arrangement which permitted me to pay the difference. So that difficulty was got over in due course of time.
We went into the large garden at the back of the house, and there I committed another act of duplicity.
In a nice sheltered corner I discovered one of those essentially136 French buildings called a “pavilion,” a delightful137 little toy house of three rooms. Another private arrangement made me the tenant138 of this place. Madame Villeray smiled. “I bet you,” she said to me in her very best English, “one of these ladies is in her fascinating first youth.” The good lady little knows what a hopeless love affair mine is. I must see Stella sometimes — I ask, and hope for, no more. Never have I felt how lonely my life is, as I feel it now.
Third Extract.
London, March 1.— Stella and her mother have set forth139 on their journey to St. Germain this morning, without allowing me, as I had hoped and planned, to be their escort.
Mrs. Eyrecourt set up the old objection of the claims of propriety140. If that were the only obstacle in my way, I should have set it aside by following them to France. Where is the impropriety of my seeing Stella, as her friend and brother — especially when I don’t live in the same house with her, and when she has her mother, on one side, and Madame Villeray, on the other, to take care of her?
No! the influence that keeps me away from St. Germain is the influence of Stella herself.
“I will write to you often,” she said; “but I beg you, for my sake, not to accompany us to France.” Her look and tone reduced me to obedience141. Stupid as I am I think (after what passed between me and her mother) I can guess what she meant.
“Am I never to see you again?” I asked.
“Do you think I am hard and ungrateful?” she answered. “Do you doubt that I shall be glad, more than glad, to see you, when —?”
She turned away from me and said no more.
It was time to take leave. We were under her mother’s superintendence; we shook hands and that was all.
Matilda (Mrs. Eyrecourt’s maid) followed me downstairs to open the door. I suppose I looked, as I felt, wretchedly enough. The good creature tried to cheer me. “Don’t be anxious about them,” she said; “I am used to traveling, sir — and I’ll take care of them.” She is a woman to be thoroughly depended on, a faithful and attached servant. I made her a little present at parting, and I asked her if she would write to me from time to time.
Some people might consider this to be rather an undignified proceeding143 on my part. I can only say it came naturally to me. I am not a dignified142 man; and, when a person means kindly toward me, I don’t ask myself whether that person is higher or lower, richer or poorer, than I am. We are, to my mind, on the same level when the same sympathy unites us. Matilda was sufficiently144 acquainted with all that had passed to foresee, as I did, that there would be certain reservations in Stella’s letters to me. “You shall have the whole truth from Me, sir, don’t doubt it,” she whispered. I believed her. When my heart is sore, give me a woman for my friend. Whether she is lady or lady’s-maid, she is equally precious to me.
Cowes, March 2.— I am in treaty with an agent for the hire of a yacht.
I must do something, and go somewhere. Returning to Beaupark is out of the question. People with tranquil71 minds can find pleasure in the society of their country neighbors. I am a miserable creature, with a mind in a state of incessant145 disturbance146. Excellent fathers of families talking politics to me; exemplary mothers of families offering me matrimonial opportunities with their daughters — that is what society means, if I go back to Devonshire. No. I will go for a cruise in the Mediterranean147; and I will take one friend with me whose company I never weary of — my dog.
The vessel148 is discovered — a fine schooner149 of three hundred tons, just returned from a cruise to Madeira. The sailing-master and crew only ask for a few days on shore. In that time the surveyor will have examined the vessel, and the stores will be on board.
March 3.— I have written to Stella, with a list of addresses at which letters will reach me; and I have sent another list to my faithful ally the maid. When we leave Gibraltar, our course will be to Naples — thence to Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Genoa, Marseilles. From any of those places, I am within easy traveling distance of St. Germain.
March 7. At Sea.— It is half-past six in the evening. We have just passed the Eddystone Lighthouse, with the wind abeam150. The log registers ten knots an hour.
Fourth Extract.
Naples, May 10.— The fair promise at the beginning of my voyage has not been fulfilled. Owing to contrary winds, storms, and delays at Cadiz in repairing damages, we have only arrived at Naples this evening. Under trying circumstances of all sorts, the yacht has behaved admirably. A stouter151 and finer sea-boat never was built.
We are too late to find the post-office open. I shall send ashore152 for letters the first thing tomorrow morning. My next movements will depend entirely on the news I get from St. Germain. If I remain for any length of time in these regions, I shall give my crew the holiday they have well earned at Civita Vecchia. I am never weary of Rome — but I always did, and always shall, dislike Naples.
May 11 —. My plans are completely changed. I am annoyed and angry; the further I get away from France, the better I shall be pleased.
I have heard from Stella, and heard from the maid. Both letters inform me that the child is born, and that it is a boy. Do they expect me to feel any interest in the boy? He is my worst enemy before he is out of his long-clothes.
Stella writes kindly enough. Not a line in her letter, however, invites me, or holds out the prospect98 of inviting me, to St. Germain. She refers to her mother very briefly, merely informing me that Mrs. Eyrecourt is well, and is already enjoying the gayeties of Paris. Three-fourths of the letter are occupied with the baby. When I wrote to her I signed myself “yours affectionately.” Stella signs “yours sincerely.” It is a trifle, I daresay — but I feel it, for all that.
Matilda is faithful to her engagement; Matilda’s letter tells me the truth.
“Since the birth of the baby,” she writes, “Mrs. Romayne has never once mentioned your name; she can talk of nothing, and think of nothing, but her child. I make every allowance, I hope, for a lady in her melancholy153 situation. But I do think it is not very grateful to have quite forgotten Mr. Winterfield, who has done so much for her, and who only asks to pass a few hours of his day innocently in her society. Perhaps, being a single woman, I write ignorantly about mothers and babies. But I have my feelings; and (though I never liked Mr. Romayne) I feel for you, sir — if you will forgive the familiarity. In my opinion this new craze about the baby will wear out. He is already a cause of difference of opinion. My good mistress, who possesses knowledge of the world, and a kind heart as well, advises that Mr. Romayne should be informed of the birth of a son and heir. Mrs. Eyrecourt says, most truly, that the hateful old priest will get possession of Mr. Romayne’s property, to the prejudice of the child, unless steps are taken to shame him into doing justice to his own son. But Mrs. Romayne is as proud as Lucifer; she will not hear of making the first advances, as she calls it. ‘The man who has deserted me,’ she says, ‘has no heart to be touched either by wife or child.’ My mistress does not agree with her. There have been hard words already, and the nice old French gentleman and his wife try to make peace. You will smile when I tell you that they offer sugar-plums as a sort of composing gift. My mistress accepts the gift, and has been to the theater at Paris, with Monsieur and Madame Villeray more than once already. To conclude, sir, if I might venture to advise you, I should recommend trying the effect on Mrs. R. of absence and silence.”
A most sensibly written letter. I shall certainly take Matilda’s advice. My name is never mentioned by Stella — and not a day has passed without my thinking of her!
Well, I suppose a man can harden his heart if he likes. Let me harden my heart, and forget her.
The crew shall have three days ashore at Naples, and then we sail for Alexandria. In that port the yacht will wait my return. I have not yet visited the cataracts154 of the Nile; I have not yet seen the magnificent mouse-colored women of Nubia. A tent in the desert, and a dusky daughter of Nature to keep house for me — there is a new life for a man who is weary of the vapid155 civilization of Europe! I shall begin by letting my beard grow.
Fifth Extract.
Civita Vecchia, February 28, 1863.— Back again on the coast of Italy — after an absence, at sea and ashore, of nine months!
What have my travels done for me? They have made me browner and thinner; they have given me a more patient mind, and a taste for mild tobacco. Have they helped me to forget Stella? Not the least in the world — I am more eager than ever to see her again. When I look back at my diary I am really ashamed of my own fretfulness and impatience156. What miserable vanity on my part to expect her to think of me, when she was absorbed in the first cares and joys of maternity157; especially sacred to her, poor soul, as the one consolation of her melancholy life! I withdraw all that I wrote about her — and from the bottom of my heart I forgive the baby.
Rome, March 1.— I have found my letters waiting for me at the office of my banker.
The latest news from St. Germain is all that I could wish. In acknowledging the receipt of my last letter from Cairo (I broke my rash vow158 of silence when we got into port, after leaving Naples) Stella sends me the long desired invitation. “Pray take care to return to us, dear Bernard, before the first anniversary of my boy’s birthday, on the twenty-seventh of March.” After those words she need feel no apprehension159 of my being late at my appointment. Traveler — the dog has well merited his name by this time — will have to bid good-by to the yacht (which he loves), and journey homeward by the railway (which he hates). No more risk of storms and delays for me. Good-by to the sea for one while.
I have sent the news of my safe return from the East, by telegraph. But I must not be in too great a hurry to leave Rome, or I shall commit a serious error — I shall disappoint Stella’s mother.
Mrs. Eyrecourt writes to me earnestly, requesting, if I return by way of Italy, that I will get her some information about Romayne. She is eager to know whether they have made him a priest yet. I am also to discover, if I can, what are his prospects — whether he is as miserable as he deserves to be — whether he has been disappointed in his expectations, and is likely to be brought back to his senses in that way — and, above all, whether Father Benwell is still at Rome with him. My idea is that Mrs. Eyrecourt has not given up her design of making Romayne acquainted with the birth of his son.
The right person to apply to for information is evidently my banker. He has been a resident in Rome for twenty years — but he is too busy a man to be approached, by an idler like myself, in business hours. I have asked him to dine with me to-morrow.
March 2.— My guest has just left me. I am afraid Mrs. Eyrecourt will be sadly disappointed when she hears what I have to tell her.
The moment I mentioned Romayne’s name, the banker looked at me with an expression of surprise. “The man most talked about in Rome,” he said; “I wonder you have not heard of him already.”
“Is he a priest?”
“Certainly! And, what is more, the ordinary preparations for the priesthood were expressly shortened by high authority on his account. The Pope takes the greatest interest in him; and as for the people, the Italians have already nicknamed him ‘the young cardinal160.’ Don’t suppose, as some of our countrymen do, that he is indebted to his wealth for the high position which he has already attained161. His wealth is only one of the minor162 influences in his favor. The truth is, he unites in himself two opposite qualities, both of the greatest value to the Church, which are very rarely found combined in the same man. He has already made a popular reputation here, as a most eloquent163 and convincing preacher —”
“A preacher!” I exclaimed. “And a popular reputation! How do the Italians understand him?”
The banker looked puzzled.
“Why shouldn’t they understand a man who addresses them in their own language?” he said. “Romayne could speak Italian when he came here — and since that time he has learned by constant practice to think in Italian. While our Roman season lasts, he preaches alternately in Italian and in English. But I was speaking of the two opposite accomplishments164 which this remarkable165 man possesses. Out of the pulpit, he is capable of applying his mind successfully to the political necessities of the Church. As I am told, his intellect has had severe practical training, by means of historical studies, in the past years of his life. Anyhow, in one of the diplomatic difficulties here between the Church and the State, he wrote a memorial on the subject, which the Cardinal–Secretary declared to be a model of ability in applying the experience of the past to the need of the present time. If he doesn’t wear himself out, his Italian nickname may prove prophetically true. We may live to see the new convert, Cardinal Romayne.”
“Are you acquainted with him yourself?” I asked.
“No Englishman is acquainted with him,” the banker answered. “There is a report of some romantic event in his life which has led to his leaving England, and which makes him recoil166 from intercourse167 with his own nation. Whether this is true or false, it is certain that the English in Rome find him unapproachable. I have even heard that he refuses to receive letters from England. If you wish to see him, you must do what I have done — you must go to church and look at him in the pulpit. He preaches in English — I think for the last time this season — on Thursday evening next. Shall I call here and take you to the church?”
If I had followed my inclinations168, I should have refused. I feel no sort of interest in Romayne — I might even say I feel a downright antipathy169 toward him. But I have no wish to appear insensible to the banker’s kindness, and my reception at St. Germain depends greatly on the attention I show to Mrs. Eyrecourt’s request. So it was arranged that I should hear the great preacher — with a mental reservation on my part, which contemplated170 my departure from the church before the end of his sermon.
But, before I see him, I feel assured of one thing — especially after what the banker has told me. Stella’s view of his character is the right one. The man who has deserted her has no heart to be touched by wife or child. They are separated forever.
March 3.— I have just seen the landlord of the hotel; he can help me to answer one of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s questions. A nephew of his holds some employment at the Jesuit headquarters here, adjoining their famous church Il Gesu. I have requested the young man to ascertain171 if Father Benwell is still in Rome — without mentioning me. It would be no small trial to my self-control if we met in the street.
March 4.— Good news this time for Mrs. Eyrecourt, as far as it goes. Father Benwell has long since left Rome, and has returned to his regular duties in England. If he exercises any further influence over Romayne, it must be done by letter.
March 5.— I have returned from Romayne’s sermon. This double renegade — has he not deserted his religion and his wife?— has failed to convince my reason. But he has so completely upset my nerves that I ordered a bottle of champagne172 (to the great amusement of my friend the banker) the moment we got back to the hotel.
We drove through the scantily173 lighted streets of Rome to a small church in the neighborhood of the Piazza174 Navona. To a more imaginative man than myself, the scene when we entered the building would have been too impressive to be described in words — though it might perhaps have been painted. The one light in the place glimmered175 mysteriously from a great wax candle, burning in front of a drapery of black cloth, and illuminating176 dimly a sculptured representation, in white marble, of the crucified Christ, wrought177 to the size of life. In front of this ghastly emblem178 a platform projected, also covered with black cloth. We could penetrate179 no further than to the space just inside the door of the church. Everywhere else the building was filled with standing, sitting and kneeling figures, shadowy and mysterious, fading away in far corners into impenetrable gloom. The only sounds were the low, wailing180 notes of the organ, accompanied at intervals181 by the muffled182 thump183 of fanatic worshipers penitentially beating their breasts. On a sudden the organ ceased; the self-inflicted blows of the penitents185 were heard no more. In the breathless silence that followed, a man robed in black mounted the black platform, and faced the congregation. His hair had become prematurely186 gray; his face was of the ghastly paleness of the great crucifix at his side. The light of the candle, falling on him as he slowly turned his head, cast shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, and glittered in his gleaming eyes. In tones low and trembling at first, he stated the subject of his address. A week since, two noteworthy persons had died in Rome on the same day. One of them was a woman of exemplary piety187, whose funeral obsequies had been celebrated in that church. The other was a criminal charged with homicide under provocation188, who had died in prison, refusing the services of the priest — impenitent189 to the last. The sermon followed the spirit of the absolved190 woman to its eternal reward in heaven, and described the meeting with dear ones who had gone before, in terms so devout191 and so touching192 that the women near us, and even some of the men, burst into tears. Far different was the effect produced when the preacher, filled with the same overpowering sincerity193 of belief which had inspired his description of the joys of heaven, traced the downward progress of the lost man, from his impenitent death-bed to his doom194 in hell. The dreadful superstition195 of everlasting196 torment197 became doubly dreadful in the priest’s fervent198 words. He described the retributive voices of the mother and the brother of the murdered man ringing incessantly199 in the ears of the homicide. “I, who speak to you, hear the voices,” he cried. “Assassin! assassin! where are you? I see him — I see the assassin hurled200 into his place in the sleepless201 ranks of the damned — I see him, dripping with the flames that burn forever, writhing202 under the torments203 that are without respite204 and without end.” The climax205 of this terrible effort of imagination was reached when he fell on his knees and prayed with sobs206 and cries of entreaty207 — prayed, pointing to the crucifix at his side — that he and all who heard him might die the death of penitent184 sinners, absolved in the divinely atoning208 name of Christ. The hysterical209 shrieks210 of women rang through the church. I could endure it no longer. I hurried into the street, and breathed again freely, when I looked up at the cloudless beauty of the night sky, bright with the peaceful radiance of the stars.
And this man was Romayne! I had last met with him among his delightful works of art; an enthusiast211 in literature; the hospitable212 master of a house filled with comforts and luxuries to its remotest corner. And now I had seen what Rome had made of him.
“Yes,” said my companion, “the Ancient Church not only finds out the men who can best serve it, but develops qualities in those men of which they have been themselves unconscious. The advance which Roman Catholic Christianity has been, and is still, making has its intelligible213 reason. Thanks to the great Reformation, the papal scandals of past centuries have been atoned214 for by the exemplary lives of servants of the Church, in high places and low places alike. If a new Luther arose among us, where would he now find abuses sufficiently wicked and widely spread to shock the sense of decency215 in Christendom? He would find them nowhere — and he would probably return to the respectable shelter of the Roman sheepfold.”
I listened, without making any remark. To tell the truth, I was thinking of Stella.
March 6.— I have been to Civita Vecchia, to give a little farewell entertainment to the officers and crew before they take the yacht back to England.
In a few words I said at parting, I mentioned that it was my purpose to make an offer for the purchase of the vessel, and that my guests should hear from me again on the subject. This announcement was received with enthusiasm. I really like my crew — and I don’t think it is vain in me to believe that they return the feeling, from the sailing-master to the cabin-boy. My future life, after all that has passed, is likely to be a roving life, unless — No! I may think sometimes of that happier prospect, but I had better not put my thoughts into words. I have a fine vessel; I have plenty of money; and I like the sea. There are three good reasons for buying the yacht.
Returning to Rome in the evening, I found waiting for me a letter from Stella.
She writes (immediately on the receipt of my telegram) to make a similar request to the request addressed to me by her mother. Now that I am at Rome, she too wants to hear news of a Jesuit priest. He is absent on a foreign mission, and his name is Penrose. “You shall hear what obligations I owe to his kindness,” she writes, “when we meet. In the meantime, I will only say that he is the exact opposite of Father Benwell, and that I should be the most ungrateful of women if I did not feel the truest interest in his welfare.”
This is strange, and, to my mind, not satisfactory. Who is Penrose? and what has he done to deserve such strong expressions of gratitude? If anybody had told me that Stella could make a friend of a Jesuit, I am afraid I should have returned a rude answer. Well, I must wait for further enlightenment, and apply to the landlord’s nephew once more.
March 7.— There is small prospect, I fear, of my being able to appreciate the merits of Mr. Penrose by personal experience. He is thousands of miles away from Europe, and he is in a situation of peril216, which makes the chance of his safe return doubtful in the last degree.
The Mission to which he is attached was originally destined217 to find its field of work in Central America. Rumors218 of more fighting to come, in that revolutionary part of the world, reached Rome before the missionaries219 had sailed from the port of Leghorn. Under these discouraging circumstances, the priestly authorities changed the destination of the Mission to the territory of Arizona, bordering on New Mexico, and recently purchased by the United States. Here, in the valley of Santa Cruz, the Jesuits had first attempted the conversion of the Indian tribes two hundred years since, and had failed. Their mission-house and chapel220 are now a heap of ruins, and the ferocious221 Apache Indians keep the fertile valley a solitude222 by the mere36 terror of their name. To this ill-omened place Penrose and his companions have made their daring pilgrimage; and they are now risking their lives in the attempt to open the hearts of these bloodthirsty savages223 to the influence of Christianity. Nothing has been yet heard of them. At the best, no trustworthy news is expected for months to come.
What will Stella say to this? Anyhow, I begin to understand her interest in Penrose now. He is one of a company of heroes. I am already anxious to hear more of him.
To-morrow will be a memorable225 day in my calendar. To-morrow I leave Rome for St. Germain.
If any further information is to be gained for Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter, I have made the necessary arrangements for receiving it. The banker has promised to write to me, if there is a change in Romayne’s life and prospects. And my landlord will take care that I hear of it, in the event of news reaching Rome from the Mission at Arizona.
Sixth Extract.
St. Germain, March 14.— I arrived yesterday. Between the fatigue226 of the journey and the pleasurable agitation caused by seeing Stella again, I was unfit to make the customary entry in my diary when I retired227 for the night.
She is more irresistibly228 beautiful than ever. Her figure (a little too slender as I remember it) has filled out. Her lovely face has lost its haggard, careworn229 look; her complexion has recovered its delicacy; I see again in her eyes the pure serenity230 of expression which first fascinated me, years since. It may be due to the consoling influence of the child — assisted, perhaps, by the lapse231 of time and the peaceful life which she now leads — but this at least is certain, such a change for the better I never could have imagined as the change I find in Stella after a year’s absence.
As for the baby, he is a bright, good-humored little fellow; and he has one great merit in my estimation — he bears no resemblance to his father. I saw his mother’s features when I first took him on my knee, and looked at his face, lifted to mine in grave surprise. The baby and I are certain to get on well together.
Even Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to have improved in the French air, and under the French diet. She has a better surface to lay the paint on; her nimble tongue runs faster than ever; and she has so completely recovered her good spirits, that Monsieur and Madame Villeray declare she must have French blood in her veins232. They were all so unaffectedly glad to see me (Matilda included), that it was really like returning to one’s home. As for Traveler, I must interfere38 (in the interests of his figure and his health) to prevent everybody in the house from feeding him with every eatable thing, from plain bread to pate234 de foie gras.
My experience of to-day will, as Stella tells me, be my general experience of the family life at St. Germain.
We begin the morning with the customary cup of coffee. At eleven o’clock I am summoned from my “pavilion” of three rooms to one of those delicious and artfully varied235 breakfasts which are only to be found in France and in Scotland. An interval of about three hours follows, during which the child takes his airing and his siesta236, and his elders occupy themselves as they please. At three o’clock we all go out — with a pony237 chaise which carries the weaker members of the household — for a ramble238 in the forest. At six o’clock we assemble at the dinner-table. At coffee time, some of the neighbors drop in for a game at cards. At ten, we all wish each other good-night.
Such is the domestic programme, varied by excursions in the country and by occasional visits to Paris. I am naturally a man of quiet stay-at-home habits. It is only when my mind is disturbed that I get restless and feel longings239 for change. Surely the quiet routine at St. Germain ought to be welcome to me now? I have been looking forward to this life through a long year of travel. What more can I wish for?
Nothing more, of course.
And yet — and yet — Stella has innocently made it harder than ever to play the part of her “brother.” The recovery of her beauty is a subject for congratulation to her mother and her friends. How does it affect Me?
I had better not think of my hard fate. Can I help thinking of it? Can I dismiss from memory the unmerited misfortunes which have taken from me, in the prime of her charms, the woman whom I love? At least I can try.
The good old moral must be my moral: “Be content with such things as ye have.”
March 15.— It is eight in the morning — and I hardly know how to employ myself. Having finished my coffee, I have just looked again at my diary.
It strikes me that I am falling into a bad habit of writing too much about myself. The custom of keeping a journal certainly has this drawback — it encourages egotism. Well, the remedy is easy. From this date, I lock up my book — only to open it again when some event has happened which has a claim to be recorded for its own sake. As for myself and my feelings, they have made their last appearance in these pages.
Seventh Extract.
June 7.— The occasion for opening my diary once more has presented itself this morning.
News has reached me of Romayne, which is too important to be passed over without notice. He has been appointed one of the Pope’s Chamberlains. It is also reported, on good authority, that he will be attached to a Papal embassy when a vacancy241 occurs. These honors, present and to come, seem to remove him further than ever from the possibility of a return to his wife and child.
June 8.— In regard to Romayne, Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to be of my opinion.
Being in Paris to-day, at a morning concert, she there met with her old friend, Doctor Wybrow. The famous physician is suffering from overwork, and is on his way to Italy for a few months of rest and recreation. They took a drive together, after the performance, in the Bois de Boulogne; and Mrs. Eyrecourt opened her mind to the doctor, as freely as usual, on the subject of Stella and the child. He entirely agreed (speaking in the future interests of the boy) that precious time has been lost in informing Romayne of the birth of an heir; and he has promised, no matter what obstacles may be placed in his way, to make the announcement himself, when he reaches Rome.
June 9.— Madame Villeray has been speaking to me confidentially242 on a very delicate subject.
I am pledged to discontinue writing about myself. But in these private pages I may note the substance of what my good friend said to me. If I only look back often enough at this little record, I may gather the resolution to profit by her advice. In brief, these were her words:
“Stella has spoken to me in confidence, since she met you accidentally in the garden yesterday. She cannot be guilty of the poor affectation of concealing243 what you must have already discovered for yourself. But she prefers to say the words that must be said to you, through me. Her husband’s conduct to her is an outrage244 that she can never forget. She now looks back with sentiments of repulsion, which she dare not describe, to that ‘love at first sight’ (as you call it in England), conceived on the day when they first met — and she remembers regretfully that other love, of years since, which was love of steadier and slower growth. To her shame she confesses that she failed to set you the example of duty and self-restraint when you two happened to be alone yesterday. She leaves it to my discretion245 to tell you that you must see her for the future, always in the presence of some other person. Make no reference to this when you next meet; and understand that she has only spoken to me instead of to her mother, because she fears that Mrs. Eyrecourt might use harsh words, and distress you again, as she once distressed you in England. If you will take my advice, you will ask permission to go away again on your travels.”
It matters nothing what I said in reply. Let me only relate that we were interrupted by the appearance of the nursemaid at the pavilion door.
She led the child by the hand. Among his first efforts at speaking, under his mother’s instruction, had been the effort to call me Uncle Bernard. He had now got as far as the first syllable246 of my Christian name, and he had come to me to repeat his lesson. Resting his little hands on my knees, he looked up at me with his mother’s eyes, and said, “Uncle Ber’.” A trifling247 incident, but, at that moment, it cut me to the heart. I could only take the boy in my arms, and look at Madame Villeray. The good woman felt for me. I saw tears in her eyes.
No! no more writing about myself. I close the book again.
Eighth Extract.
July 3.— A letter has reached Mrs. Eyrecourt this morning, from Doctor Wybrow. It is dated, “Castel Gandolpho, near Rome.” Here the doctor is established during the hot months — and here he has seen Romayne, in attendance on the “Holy Father,” in the famous summer palace of the Popes. How he obtained the interview Mrs. Eyrecourt is not informed. To a man of his celebrity248, doors are no doubt opened which remain closed to persons less widely known.
“I have performed my promise,” he writes “and I may say for myself that I spoke with every needful precaution. The result a little startled me. Romayne was not merely unprepared to hear of the birth of his child — he was physically249 and morally incapable250 of sustaining the shock of the disclosure. For the moment, I thought he had been seized with a fit of catalepsy. He moved, however, when I tried to take his hand to feel the pulse — shrinking back in his chair, and feebly signing to me to leave him. I committed him to the care of his servant. The next day I received a letter from one of his priestly colleagues, informing me that he was slowly recovering after the shock that I had inflicted, and requesting me to hold no further communication with him, either personally or by letter. I wish I could have sent you a more favorable report of my interference in this painful matter. Perhaps you or your daughter may hear from him.”
July 4–9.— No letter has been received. Mrs. Eyrecourt is uneasy. Stella, on the contrary, seems to be relieved.
July 10.— A letter has arrived from London, addressed to Stella by Romayne’s English lawyers. The income which Mrs. Romayne has refused for herself is to be legally settled on her child. Technical particulars follow, which it is needless to repeat here.
By return of post, Stella has answered the lawyers, declaring that, so long as she lives, and has any influence over her son, he shall not touch the offered income. Mrs. Eyrecourt, Monsieur and Madame Villeray — and even Matilda — entreated her not to send the letter. To my thinking, Stella acted with becoming spirit. Though there is no entail251, still Vange Abbey is morally the boy’s birthright — it is a cruel wrong to offer him anything else.
July 11.— For the second time I have proposed to leave St. Germain. The presence of the third person, whenever I am in her company, is becoming unendurable to me. She still uses her influence to defer252 my departure. “Nobody sympathizes with me,” she said, “but you.”
I am failing to keep my promise to myself, not to write about myself. But there is some little excuse this time. For the relief of my own conscience, I may surely place it on record that I have tried to do what is right. It is not my fault if I remain at St. Germain, insensible to Madame Villeray’s warning.
Ninth Extract.
September 13.— Terrible news from Rome of the Jesuit Mission to Arizona.
The Indians have made a night attack on the new mission-house. The building is burned to the ground, and the missionaries have been massacred — with the exception of two priests, carried away captive. The names of the priests are not known. News of the atrocity254 has been delayed four months on its way to Europe, owing partly to the civil war in the United States, and partly to disturbances255 in Central America.
Looking at the Times (which we receive regularly at St. Germain), I found this statement confirmed in a short paragraph — but here also the names of the two prisoners failed to appear.
Our one present hope of getting any further information seems to me to depend on our English newspaper. The Times stands alone as the one public journal which has the whole English nation for volunteer contributors. In their troubles at home, they appeal to the Editor. In their travels abroad, over civilized256 and savage224 regions alike, if they meet with an adventure worth mentioning they tell it to the Editor. If any one of our countrymen knows anything of this dreadful massacre253, I foresee with certainty where we shall find the information in print.
Soon after my arrival here, Stella had told me of her memorable conversation with Penrose in the garden at Ten Acres Lodge. I was well acquainted with the nature of her obligation to the young priest, but I was not prepared for the outbreak of grief which escaped her when she had read the telegram from Rome. She actually went the length of saying, “I shall never enjoy another happy moment till I know whether Penrose is one of the two living priests!”
The inevitable257 third person with us, this morning, was Monsieur Villeray. Sitting at the window with a book in his hand — sometimes reading, sometimes looking at the garden with the eye of a fond horticulturist — he discovered a strange cat among his flower beds. Forgetful of every other consideration, the old gentleman hobbled out to drive away the intruder, and left us together.
I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give everything I possess to recall. A detestable jealousy took possession of me. I meanly hinted that Penrose could claim no great merit (in the matter of Romayne’s conversion) for yielding to the entreaties258 of a beautiful woman who had fascinated him, though he might be afraid to own it. She protested against my unworthy insinuation — but she failed to make me ashamed of myself. Is a woman ever ignorant of the influence which her beauty exercises over a man? I went on, like the miserable creature that I was, from bad to worse.
“Excuse me,” I said, “if I have unintentionally made you angry. I ought to have known that I was treading on delicate ground. Your interest in Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of obligation.”
She turned away from me — sadly, not angrily — intending, as it appeared, to leave the room in silence. Arrived at the door, she altered her mind, and came back.
“Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it,” she said, very gently. “I once wronged you— I have no right to complain of your now wronging me. I will try to forget it.”
She held out her hand. She raised her eyes — and looked at me.
It was not her fault; I alone am to blame. In another moment she was in my arms. I held her to my breast — I felt the quick beating of her heart on me — I poured out the wild confession of my sorrow, my shame, my love — I tasted again and again and again the sweetness of her lips. She put her arms round my neck and drew her head back with a long sigh. “Be merciful to my weakness,” she whispered. “We must meet no more.”
She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the room.
I have broken my resolution not to write about myself — but there is no egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation259 in me, when I record this confession of misconduct. I can make but one atonement — I must at once leave St. Germain. Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant repression260 has been.
Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note, addressed in pencil. No answer was required.
The few lines were in Stella’s handwriting: “You must not leave us too suddenly, or you may excite my mother’s suspicions. Wait until you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext261 for your departure.— S.”
I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were wrong, I must obey her.
September 14.— The letters from England have arrived. One of them presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready made. My proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted. The sailing-master and crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for my orders. Here is an absolute necessity for my return to England.
The newspaper arrived with the letters. My anticipations262 have been realized. Yesterday’s paragraph has produced another volunteer contributor. An Englishman just returned from Central America, after traveling in Arizona, writes to the Times. He publishes his name and address — and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive priests.
The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it. He is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite — the well-known traveler in India, who discovered the lost diamond called “the Moonstone,” set in the forehead of a Hindoo idol263. He writes to the editor as follows:
“Sir — I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the sole survivors264 of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four months since.
“I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an Apache chief, bribed265 to show me his country and his nation (instead of cutting my throat and tearing off my scalp) by a present tribute of whisky and gunpowder266, and by the promise of more when our association came to an end.
“About twelve miles northward267 of the little silver-mining town of Tubac we came upon an Apache encampment. I at once discovered two white men among the Indians. These were the captive priests.
“One of them was a Frenchman, named L’Herbier. The other was an Englishman, named Penrose. They owed their lives to the influence of two powerful considerations among the Indians. Unhappy L’Herbier lost his senses under the horror of the night massacre. Insanity268, as you may have heard, is a sacred thing in the estimation of the American savages; they regard this poor madman as a mysteriously inspired person The other priest, Penrose, had been in charge of the mission medicine-chest, and had successfully treated cases of illness among the Apaches. As a ‘great medicine-man,’ he too is a privileged person — under the strong protection of their interest in their own health. The lives of the prisoners are in no danger, provided they can endure the hardship of their wandering existence among the Indians. Penrose spoke to me with the resignation of a true hero. ‘I am in the hands of God,’ he said; ‘and if I die, I die in God’s service.’
“I was entirely unprovided with the means of ransoming269 the missionaries — and nothing that I could say, or that I could promise, had the smallest effect on the savages. But for severe and tedious illness, I should long since have been on my way back to Arizona with the necessary ransom270. As it is, I am barely strong enough to write this letter. But I can head a subscription271 to pay expenses; and I can give instructions to any person who is willing to attempt the deliverance of the priests.”
So the letter ended.
Before I had read it, I was at a loss to know where to go, or what to do, when I leave St. Germain. I am now at no loss. I have found an object in life, and a means of making atonement to Stella for my own ungracious and unworthy words. Already I have communicated by telegraph with Mr. Murthwaite and with my sailing-master. The first is informed that I hope to be with him, in London, to-morrow morning. The second is instructed to have the yacht fitted out immediately for a long voyage. If I can save these men — especially Penrose — I shall not have lived in vain.
London, September 15.— No. I have resolution enough to go to Arizona, but I have no courage to record the parting scene when it was time to say good-by.
I had intended to keep the coming enterprise a secret, and only to make the disclosure in writing when the vessel was ready to sail. But, after reading the letter to the Times, Stella saw something in my face (as I suppose) that betrayed me. Well, it’s over now. I do my best to keep myself from thinking of it — and, for this reason, I abstain272 from dwelling273 on the subject here.
Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructions — he has provided me with letters of introduction to persons in office, and to the padres (or priests) in Mexico, which will be of incalculable use in such an expedition as mine. In the present disturbed condition of the United States, he recommends me to sail for a port on the eastern coast of Mexico, and then to travel northward overland, and make my first inquiries274 in Arizona at the town of Tubac. Time is of such importance, in his opinion, that he suggests making inquiries in London and Liverpool for a merchant vessel under immediate sailing orders for Vera Cruz or Tampico. The fitting out of the yacht cannot be accomplished275, I find, in less than a fortnight or three weeks. I have therefore taken Mr. Murthwaite’s advice.
September 16.— No favorable answer, so far as the port of London is concerned. Very little commerce with Mexico, and bad harbors in that country when you do trade. Such is the report.
September 17.— A Mexican brig has been discovered at Liverpool, under orders for Vera Cruz. But the vessel is in debt, and the date of departure depends on expected remittances276! In this state of things I may wait, with my conscience at ease, to sail in comfort on board my own schooner.
September 18–30.— I have settled my affairs; I have taken leave of my friends (good. Mr. Murthwaite included); I have written cheerfully to Stella; and I sail from Portsmouth to-morrow, well provided with the jars of whisky and the kegs of gunpowder which will effect the release of the captives.
It is strange, considering the serious matters I have to think of, but it is also true, that I feel out of spirits at the prospect of leaving England without my traveling companion, the dog. I am afraid to take the dear old fellow with me, on such a perilous277 expedition as mine may be. Stella takes care of him — and, if I don’t live to return, she will never part with him, for his master’s sake. It implies a childish sort of mind, I suppose — but it is a comfort to me to remember that I have never said a hard word to Traveler, and never lifted my hand on him in anger.
All this about a dog! And not a word about Stella? Not a word. Those thoughts are not to be written.
I have reached the last page of my diary. I shall lock it, and leave it in charge of my bankers, on my way to the Portsmouth train. Shall I ever want a new diary? Superstitious people might associate this coming to the end of the book with coming to an end of another kind. I have no imagination, and I take my leap in the dark hopefully — with Byron’s glorious lines in my mind:
“Here’s a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those that hate;
And whatever sky’s above met
Here’s heart for every fate.”
(An inclosure is inserted here, marking a lapse of seven months, before the entries in the diary are resumed. It consists of two telegrams, dispatched respectively on the 1st and 2d of May, 1864.)
1. “From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth, England. To Mrs. Romayne care of M. Villeray, St. Germain, near Paris.— Penrose is safe on board my yacht. His unfortunate companion has died of exhaustion278, and he is himself in a feeble state of health. I at once take him with me to London for medical advice. We are eager for news of you. Telegraph to Derwent’s Hotel.”
2. “From Mrs. Eyrecourt, St. Germain. To Bernard Winterfield, Derwent’s Hotel, London.— Your telegram received with joy, and sent on to Stella in Paris. All well. But strange events have happened. If you cannot come here at once, go to Lord Loring. He will tell you everything.”
Tenth Extract.
London, 2d May, 1864.— Mrs. Eyrecourt’s telegram reached me just after Doctor Wybrow had paid his first professional visit to Penrose, at the hotel. I had hardly time to feel relieved by the opinion of the case which he expressed, before my mind was upset by Mrs. Eyrecourt. Leaving Penrose under the charge of our excellent landlady279, I hurried away to Lord Loring.
It was still early in the day: his lordship was at home. He maddened me with impatience by apologizing at full length for “the inexcusable manner in which he had misinterpreted my conduct on the deplorable occasion of the marriage ceremony at Brussels.” I stopped his flow of words (very earnestly spoken, it is only right to add), and entreated him to tell me, in the first place, what Stella was doing in Paris.
“Stella is with her husband,” Lord Loring replied.
My head turned giddy, my heart beat furiously. Lord Loring looked at me — ran to the luncheon280 table in the next room — and returned with a glass of wine. I really don’t know whether I drank the wine or not. I know I stammered281 out another inquiry282 in one word.
“Reconciled?” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Winterfield — reconciled, before he dies.”
We were both silent for a while.
What was he thinking of? I don’t know. What was I thinking of? I daren’t write it down.
Lord Loring resumed by expressing some anxiety on the subject of my health. I made the best excuse for myself that I could, and told him of the rescue of Penrose. He had heard of my object in leaving England, and heartily283 congratulated me. “This will be welcome news indeed,” he said, “to Father Benwell.”
Even the name of Father Benwell now excites my distrust. “Is he in Paris too?” I inquired.
“He left Paris last night,” Lord Loring answered; “and he is now in London, on important business (as I understand) connected with Romayne’s affairs.”
I instantly thought of the boy.
“Is Romayne in possession of his faculties284?” I asked.
“In complete possession.”
“While justice is in his power, has he done justice to his son?”
Lord Loring looked a little confused. “I have not heard,” was all he said in reply.
I was far from satisfied. “You are one of Romayne’s oldest friends,” I persisted. “Have you not seen him yourself?”
“I have seen him more than once. But he has never referred to his affairs.” Having said this he hastily changed the subject. “Is there any other information that I can give you?” he suggested.
I had still to learn under what circumstances Romayne had left Italy for France, and how the event of his illness in Paris had been communicated to his wife. Lord Loring had only to draw on his own recollections to enlighten me.
“Lady Loring and I passed the last winter in Rome,” he said. “And, there, we saw Romayne. You look surprised. Perhaps you are aware that we had offended him, by advice which we thought it our duty to offer to Stella before her marriage?”
I was certainly thinking of what Stella had said of the Lorings on the memorable day when she visited me at the hotel.
“Romayne would probably have refused to receive us,” Lord Loring resumed, “but for the gratifying circumstance of my having been admitted to an interview with the Pope. The Holy Father spoke of him with the most condescending285 kindness; and, hearing that I had not yet seen him, gave instructions, commanding Romayne to present himself. Under these circumstances it was impossible for him to refuse to receive Lady Loring and myself on a later occasion. I cannot tell you how distressed we were at the sad change for the worse in his personal appearance. The Italian physician, whom he occasionally consulted, told me that there was a weakness in the action of his heart, produced, in the first instance, by excessive study and the excitement of preaching, and aggravated286 by the further drain on his strength due to insufficient287 nourishment288. He would eat and drink just enough to keep him alive, and no more; and he persistently289 refused to try the good influence of rest and change of scene. My wife, at a later interview with him, when they were alone, induced him to throw aside the reserve which he had maintained with me, and discovered another cause for the deterioration290 in his health. I don’t refer to the return of a nervous misery291, from which he has suffered at intervals for years past; I speak of the effect produced on his mind by the announcement — made no doubt with best intentions by Doctor Wybrow — of the birth of his child. This disclosure (he was entirely ignorant of his wife’s situation when he left her) appears to have affected233 him far more seriously than the English doctor supposed. Lady Loring was so shocked at what he said to her on the subject, that she has only repeated it to me with a certain reserve. ‘If I could believe I did wrong,’ he said, ‘in dedicating myself to the service of the Church, after the overthrow292 of my domestic happiness, I should also believe that the birth of this child was the retributive punishment of my sin, and the warning of my approaching death. I dare not take this view. And yet I have it not in me, after the solemn vows293 by which I am bound, to place any more consoling interpretation294 on an event which, as a priest, it disturbs and humiliates295 me even to think of.’ That one revelation of his tone of thought will tell you what is the mental state of this unhappy man. He gave us little encouragement to continue our friendly intercourse with him. It was only when we were thinking of our return to England that we heard of his appointment to the vacant place of first attache to the Embassy at Paris. The Pope’s paternal296 anxiety on the subject of Romayne’s health had chosen this wise and generous method of obliging him to try a salutary change of air as well as a relaxation297 from his incessant employments in Rome. On the occasion of his departure we met again. He looked like a worn-out old man. We could now only remember his double claim on us — as a priest of our religion, and as a once dear friend — and we arranged to travel with him. The weather at the time was mild; our progress was made by easy stages. We left him at Paris, apparently298 the better for his journey.”
I asked if they had seen Stella on that occasion.
“No,” said Lord Loring. “We had reason to doubt whether Stella would be pleased to see us, and we felt reluctant to meddle299, unasked, with a matter of extreme delicacy. I arranged with the Nuncio (whom I have the honor to know) that we should receive written information of Romayne’s state of health, and on that understanding we returned to England. A week since, our news from the Embassy was so alarming that Lady Loring at once returned to Paris. Her first letter informed me that she had felt it her duty to tell Stella of the critical condition of Romayne’s health. She expressed her sense of my wife’s kindness most gratefully and feelingly and at once removed to Paris, to be on the spot if her husband expressed a wish to see her. The two ladies are now staying at the same hotel. I have thus far been detained in London by family affairs. But, unless I hear of a change for the better before evening, I follow Lady Loring to Paris by the mail train.”
It was needless to trespass300 further on Lord Loring’s time. I thanked him, and returned to Penrose. He was sleeping when I got to the hotel.
On the table in the sitting-room I found a telegram waiting for me. It had been sent by Stella, and it contained these lines:
“I have just returned from his bedside, after telling him of the rescue of Penrose. He desires to see you. There is no positive suffering — he is sinking under a complete prostration301 of the forces of life. That is what the doctors tell me. They said, when I spoke of writing to you, ‘Send a telegram; there is no time to lose.’”
Toward evening Penrose awoke. I showed him the telegram. Throughout our voyage, the prospect of seeing Romayne again had been the uppermost subject in his thoughts. In the extremity302 of his distress, he declared that he would accompany me to Paris by the night train. Remembering how severely he had felt the fatigue of the short railway journey from Portsmouth, I entreated him to let me go alone. His devotion to Romayne was not to be reasoned with. While we were still vainly trying to convince each other, Doctor Wybrow came in.
To my amazement303 he sided with Penrose.
“Oh, get up by all means,” he said; “we will help you to dress.” We took him out of bed and put on his dressing-gown. He thanked us; and saying he would complete his toilet by himself, sat down in an easy chair. In another moment he was asleep again, so soundly asleep that we put him back in his bed without waking him. Doctor Wybrow had foreseen this result: he looked at the poor fellow’s pale peaceful face with a kindly smile.
“There is the treatment,” he said, “that will set our patient on his legs again. Sleeping, eating, and drinking — let that be his life for some weeks to come, and he will be as good a man as ever. If your homeward journey had been by land, Penrose would have died on the way. I will take care of him while you are in Paris.”
At the station I met Lord Loring. He understood that I too had received bad news, and gave me a place in the coupe carriage which had been reserved for him. We had hardly taken our seats when we saw Father Benwell among the travelers on the platform, accompanied by a gray-haired gentleman who was a stranger to both of us. Lord Loring dislikes strangers. Otherwise, I might have found myself traveling to Paris with that detestable Jesuit for a companion.
Paris, May 3.— On our arrival at the hotel I was informed that no message had yet been received from the Embassy.
We found Lady Loring alone at the breakfast-table, when we had rested after our night journey.
“Romayne still lives,” she said. “But his voice has sunk to a whisper, and he is unable to breathe if he tries to rest in bed. Stella has gone to the Embassy; she hopes to see him to-day for the second time.”
“Only for the second time!” I exclaimed.
“You forget, Mr. Winterfield, that Romayne is a priest. He was only consecrated304 on the customary condition of an absolute separation from his wife. On her side — never let her know that I told you this — Stella signed a formal document, sent from Rome, asserting that she consented of her own free will to the separation. She was relieved from the performance of another formality (which I need not mention more particularly) by a special dispensation. Under these circumstances — communicated to me while Stella and I have been together in this house — the wife’s presence at the bedside of her dying husband is regarded by the other priests at the Embassy as a scandal and a profanation305. The kind-hearted Nuncio is blamed for having exceeded his powers in yielding (even under protest) to the last wishes of a dying man. He is now in communication with Rome, waiting for the final instructions which are to guide him.”
“Has Romayne seen his child?” I asked.
“Stella has taken the child with her to-day. It is doubtful in the last degree whether the poor little boy will be allowed to enter his father’s room. That complication is even more serious than the other. The dying Romayne persists in his resolution to see the child. So completely has his way of thinking been altered by the approach of death, and by the closing of the brilliant prospect which was before him, that he even threatens to recant, with his last breath, if his wishes are not complied with. How it will end I cannot even venture to guess.
“Unless the merciful course taken by the Nuncio is confirmed,” said Lord Loring, “it may end in a revival306 of the protest of the Catholic priests in Germany against the prohibition307 of marriage to the clergy308. The movement began in Silesia in 1826, and was followed by unions (or Leagues, as we should call them now) in Baden, Wurtemburg, Bavaria, and Rhenish Prussia. Later still, the agitation spread to France and Austria. It was only checked by a papal bull issued in 1847, reiterating309 the final decision of the famous Council of Trent in favor of the celibacy310 of the priesthood. Few people are aware that this rule has been an institution of slow growth among the clergy of the Church of Rome. Even as late as the twelfth century, there were still priests who set the prohibition of marriage at defiance.”
I listened, as one of the many ignorant persons alluded to by Lord Loring. It was with difficulty that I fixed311 my attention on what he was saying. My thoughts wandered to Stella and to the dying man. I looked at the clock.
Lady Loring evidently shared the feeling of suspense312 that had got possession of me. She rose and walked to the window.
“Here is the message!” she said, recognizing her traveling servant as he entered the hotel door.
The man appeared, with a line written on a card. I was requested to present the card at the Embassy, without delay.
May 4.— I am only now able to continue my record of the events of yesterday.
A silent servant received me at the Embassy, looked at the card, and led the way to an upper floor of the house. Arrived at the end of a long passage, he opened a door, and retired.
As I crossed the threshold Stella met me. She took both my hands in hers and looked at me in silence. All that was true and good and noble expressed itself in that look.
The interval passed, and she spoke — very sadly, very quietly.
“One more work of mercy, Bernard. Help him to die with a heart at rest.”
She drew back — and I approached him.
He reclined, propped313 up with pillows, in a large easy-chair; it was the one position in which he could still breathe with freedom. The ashy shades of death were on his wasted face. In the eyes alone, as they slowly turned on me, there still glimmered the waning314 light of life. One of his arms hung down over the chair; the other was clasped round his child, sitting on his knee. The boy looked at me wonderingly, as I stood by his father. Romayne signed to me to stoop, so that I might hear him.
“Penrose?” he asked, faintly whispering. “Dear Arthur! Not dying, like me?”
I quieted that anxiety. For a moment there was even the shadow of a smile on his face, as I told him of the effort that Penrose had vainly made to be the companion of my journey. He asked me, by another gesture, to bend my ear to him once more.
“My last grateful blessing to Penrose. And to you. May I not say it? You have saved Arthur”— his eyes turned toward Stella —“you have been her best friend.” He paused to recover his feeble breath; looking round the large room, without a creature in it but ourselves. Once more the melancholy shadow of a smile passed over his face — and vanished. I listened, nearer to him still.
“Christ took a child on His knee. The priests call themselves ministers of Christ. They have left me, because of this child, here on my knee. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Winterfield, Death is a great teacher. I know how I have erred53 — what I have lost. Wife and child. How poor and barren all the rest of it looks now!”
He was silent for a while. Was he thinking? No: he seemed to be listening — and yet there was no sound in the room. Stella, anxiously watching him, saw the listening expression as I did. Her face showed anxiety, but no surprise.
“Does it torture you still?” she asked.
“No,” he said; “I have never heard it plainly, since I left Rome. It has grown fainter and fainter from that time. It is not a Voice now. It is hardly a whisper: my repentance315 is accepted, my release is coming.— Where is Winterfield?”
She pointed118 to me.
“I spoke of Rome just now. What did Rome remind me of?” He slowly recovered the lost recollection. “Tell Winterfield,” he whispered to Stella, “what the Nuncio said when he knew that I was going to die. The great man reckoned up the dignities that might have been mine if I had lived. From my place here in the Embassy —”
“Let me say it,” she gently interposed, “and spare your strength for better things. From your place in the Embassy you would have mounted a step higher to the office of Vice–Legate. Those duties wisely performed, another rise to the Auditorship of the Apostolic Chamber240. That office filled, a last step upward to the highest rank left, the rank of a Prince of the Church.”
“All vanity!” said the dying Romayne. He looked at his wife and his child. “The true happiness was waiting for me here. And I only know it now. Too late. Too late.”
He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his weary eyes. We thought he was composing himself to sleep. Stella tried to relieve him of the boy. “No,” he whispered; “I am only resting my eyes to look at him again.” We waited. The child stared at me, in infantine curiosity. His mother knelt at his side, and whispered in his ear. A bright smile irradiated his face; his clear brown eyes sparkled; he repeated the forgotten lesson of the bygone time, and called me once more, “Uncle Ber’.”
Romayne heard it. His heavy eyelids316 opened again. “No,” he said. “Not uncle. Something better and dearer. Stella, give me your hand.”
Still kneeling, she obeyed him. He slowly raised himself on the chair. “Take her hand,” he said to me. I too knelt. Her hand lay cold in mine. After a long interval he spoke to me. “Bernard Winterfield,” he said, “love them, and help them, when I am gone.” He laid his weak hand on our hands, clasped together. “May God protect you! may God bless you!” he murmured. “Kiss me, Stella.”
I remember no more. As a man, I ought to have set a better example; I ought to have preserved my self-control. It was not to be done. I turned away from them — and burst out crying.
The minutes passed. Many minutes or few minutes, I don’t know which.
A soft knock at the door aroused me. I dashed away the useless tears. Stella had retired to the further end of the room. She was sitting by the fireside, with the child in her arms. I withdrew to the same part of the room, keeping far enough away not to disturb them.
Two strangers came in and placed themselves on either side of Romayne’s chair. He seemed to recognize them unwillingly317. From the manner in which they examined him, I inferred that they were medical men. After a consultation318 in low tones, one of them went out.
He returned again almost immediately, followed by the gray-headed gentleman whom I had noticed on the journey to Paris — and by Father Benwell.
The Jesuit’s vigilant319 eyes discovered us instantly, in our place near the fireside. I thought I saw suspicion as well as surprise in his face. But he recovered himself so rapidly that I could not feel sure. He bowed to Stella. She made no return; she looked as if she had not even seen him.
One of the doctors was an Englishman. He said to Father Benwell: “Whatever your business may be with Mr. Romayne, we advise you to enter on it without delay. Shall we leave the room?”
“Certainly not,” Father Benwell answered. “The more witnesses are present, the more relieved I shall feel.” He turned to his traveling companion. “Let Mr. Romayne’s lawyer,” he resumed, “state what our business is.”
The gray-headed gentleman stepped forward.
“Are you able to attend to me, sir?” he asked.
Romayne, reclining in his chair, apparently lost to all interest in what was going on, heard and answered. The weak tones of his voice failed to reach my ear at the other end of the room. The lawyer, seeming to be satisfied so far, put a formal question to the doctors next. He inquired if Mr. Romayne was in full possession of his faculties.
Both the physicians answered without hesitation in the affirmative. Father Benwell added his attestation320. “Throughout Mr. Romayne’s illness,” he said firmly, “his mind has been as clear as mine is.”
While this was going on, the child had slipped off his mother’s lap, with the natural restlessness of his age. He walked to the fireplace and stopped — fascinated by the bright red glow of the embers of burning wood. In one corner of the low fender lay a loose little bundle of sticks, left there in case the fire might need relighting. The boy, noticing the bundle, took out one of the sticks and threw it experimentally into the grate. The flash of flame, as the stick caught fire, delighted him. He went on burning stick after stick. The new game kept him quiet: his mother was content to be on the watch, to see that no harm was done.
In the meantime, the lawyer briefly stated his case.
“You remember, Mr. Romayne, that your will was placed, for safe keeping, in our office,” he began. “Father Benwell called upon us, and presented an order, signed by yourself, authorizing321 him to convey the will from London to Paris. The object was to obtain your signature to a codicil322, which had been considered a necessary addition to secure the validity of the will.— Are you favoring me with your attention, sir?”
Romayne answered by a slight bending of his head. His eyes were fixed on the boy — still absorbed in throwing his sticks, one by one, into the fire.
“At the time when your will was executed,” the lawyer went on, “Father Benwell obtained your permission to take a copy of it. Hearing of your illness, he submitted the copy to a high legal authority. The written opinion of this competent person declares the clause, bequeathing the Vange estate to Father Benwell, to be so imperfectly expressed, that the will might be made a subject of litigation after the testator’s death. He has accordingly appended a form of codicil amending323 the defect, and we have added it to the will. I thought it my duty, as one of your legal advisers325, to accompany Father Benwell on his return to Paris in charge of the will — in case you might feel disposed to make any alteration326.” He looked toward Stella and the child as he completed that sentence. The Jesuit’s keen eyes took the same direction. “Shall I read the will, sir?” the lawyer resumed; “or would you prefer to look at it yourself?”
Romayne held out his hand for the will, in silence. He was still watching his son. There were but few more sticks now left to be thrown in the fire.
Father Benwell interfered327, for the first time.
“One word, Mr. Romayne, before you examine that document,” he said. “The Church receives back from you (through me) the property which was once its own. Beyond that it authorizes328 and even desires you to make any changes which you or your trusted legal adviser324 may think right. I refer to the clauses of the will which relate to the property you have inherited from the late Lady Berrick — and I beg the persons present to bear in memory the few plain words that I have now spoken.”
He bowed with dignity and drew back. Even the lawyer was favorably impressed. The doctors looked at each other with silent approval. For the first time, the sad repose329 of Stella’s face was disturbed — I could see that it cost her an effort to repress her indignation. The one unmoved person was Romayne. The sheet of paper on which the will was written lay unregarded upon his lap; his eyes were still riveted330 on the little figure at the fireplace.
The child had thrown his last stick into the glowing red embers. He looked about him for a fresh supply, and found nothing. His fresh young voice rose high through the silence of the room.
“More!” he cried. “More!”
His mother held up a warning finger. “Hush!” she whispered. He shrank away from her as she tried to take him on her knee, and looked across the room at his father. “More!” he burst out louder than ever. Romayne beckoned331 to me, and pointed to the boy.
I led him across the room. He was quite willing to go with me — he reiterated332 his petition, standing at his father’s knees.
“Lift him to me,” said Romayne.
I could barely hear the words: even his strength to whisper seemed to be fast leaving him. He kissed his son — with a panting fatigue under that trifling exertion333, pitiable to see. As I placed the boy on his feet again, he looked up at his dying father, with the one idea still in his mind.
“More, papa! More!”
Romayne put the will into his hand.
The child’s eyes sparkled. “Burn?” he asked, eagerly.
“Yes!”
Father Benwell sprang forward with outstretched hands. I stopped him. He struggled with me. I forgot the privilege of the black robe. I took him by the throat.
The boy threw the will into the fire. “Oh!” he shouted, in high delight, and clapped his chubby334 hands as the bright little blaze flew up the chimney. I released the priest.
In a frenzy335 of rage and despair, he looked round at the persons in the room. “I take you all to witness,” he cried; “this is an act of madness!”
“You yourself declared just now,” said the lawyer, “that Mr. Romayne was in perfect possession of his faculties.”
The baffled Jesuit turned furiously on the dying man. They looked at each other.
For one awful moment Romayne’s eyes brightened, Romayne’s voice rallied its power, as if life was returning to him. Frowning darkly, the priest put his question.
“What did you do it for?”
Quietly and firmly the answer came:
“Wife and child.”
The last long-drawn sigh rose and fell. With those sacred words on his lips, Romayne died.
London, 6th May.— At Stella’s request, I have returned to Penrose — with but one fellow-traveler. My dear old companion, the dog, is coiled up, fast asleep at my feet, while I write these lines. Penrose has gained strength enough to keep me company in the sitting-room. In a few days more he will see Stella again.
What instructions reached the Embassy from Rome — whether Romayne received the last sacrament at the earlier period of his illness — we never heard. No objection was made, when Lord Loring proposed to remove the body to England, to be buried in the family vault336 at Vange Abbey.
I had undertaken to give the necessary directions for the funeral, on my arrival in London. Returning to the hotel, I met Father Benwell in the street. I tried to pass on. He deliberately stopped me.
“How is Mrs. Romayne?” he asked, with that infernal suavity337 which he seems always to have at command. “Fairly well I hope? And the boy? Ah, he little thought how he was changing his prospects for the better, when he made that blaze in the fire! Pardon me, Mr. Winterfield, you don’t seem to be quite so cordial as usual. Perhaps you are thinking of your inconsiderate assault on my throat? Let us forgive and forget. Or, perhaps, you object to my having converted poor Romayne, and to my being ready to accept from him the restoration of the property of the Church. In both cases I only did my duty as a priest. You are a liberal-minded man. Surely I deserve a favorable construction of my conduct?”
I really could not endure this. “I have my own opinion of what you deserve,” I answered. “Don’t provoke me to mention it.”
He eyed me with a sinister338 smile.
“I am not so old as I look,” he said; “I may live another twenty years!”
“Well?” I asked.
“Well,” he answered, “much may happen in twenty years!”
With that he left me. If he means any further mischief339, I can tell him this — he will find Me in his way.
To turn to a more pleasant subject. Reflecting on all that had passed at my memorable interview with Romayne, I felt some surprise that one of the persons present had made no effort to prevent the burning of the will. It was not to be expected of Stella — or of the doctors, who had no interest in the matter — but I was unable to understand the passive position maintained by the lawyer. He enlightened my ignorance in two words.
“The Vange property and the Berrick property were both absolutely at the disposal of Mr. Romayne,” he said. “If he died without leaving a will, he knew enough of the law to foresee that houses, lands, and money would go to his ‘nearest of kin8.’ In plainer words, his widow and his son.”
When Penrose can travel, he accompanies me to Beaupark. Stella and her little son and Mrs. Eyrecourt will be the only other guests in my house. Time must pass, and the boy will be older, before I may remind Stella of Romayne’s last wishes on that sad morning when we two knelt on either side of him. In the meanwhile, it is almost happiness enough for me to look forward to the day —
The End
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1 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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2 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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3 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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4 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
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5 slander | |
n./v.诽谤,污蔑 | |
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6 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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7 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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8 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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9 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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10 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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11 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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12 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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13 obituary | |
n.讣告,死亡公告;adj.死亡的 | |
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14 omen | |
n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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15 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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16 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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17 fetters | |
n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 );束缚v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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18 subtleties | |
细微( subtlety的名词复数 ); 精细; 巧妙; 细微的差别等 | |
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19 enumerate | |
v.列举,计算,枚举,数 | |
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20 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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21 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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22 stipulated | |
vt.& vi.规定;约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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23 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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24 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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25 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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26 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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27 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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28 conversion | |
n.转化,转换,转变 | |
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29 conversions | |
变换( conversion的名词复数 ); (宗教、信仰等)彻底改变; (尤指为居住而)改建的房屋; 橄榄球(触地得分后再把球射中球门的)附加得分 | |
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30 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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31 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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32 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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33 probation | |
n.缓刑(期),(以观后效的)察看;试用(期) | |
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34 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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35 inveterate | |
adj.积习已深的,根深蒂固的 | |
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36 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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37 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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38 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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39 intelligibly | |
adv.可理解地,明了地,清晰地 | |
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40 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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41 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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42 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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43 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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44 slovenly | |
adj.懒散的,不整齐的,邋遢的 | |
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45 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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46 estrangement | |
n.疏远,失和,不和 | |
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47 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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48 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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49 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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50 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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51 fanatic | |
n.狂热者,入迷者;adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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52 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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53 erred | |
犯错误,做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54 lodge | |
v.临时住宿,寄宿,寄存,容纳;n.传达室,小旅馆 | |
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55 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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57 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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58 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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59 scruples | |
n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 );顾虑,顾忌v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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60 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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61 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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62 betrothal | |
n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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63 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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64 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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65 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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66 vindictively | |
adv.恶毒地;报复地 | |
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67 entreat | |
v.恳求,恳请 | |
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68 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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70 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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71 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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72 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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73 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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74 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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75 electrified | |
v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 );使兴奋 | |
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76 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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77 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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78 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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79 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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80 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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81 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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82 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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83 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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84 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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85 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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86 amendment | |
n.改正,修正,改善,修正案 | |
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87 drooped | |
弯曲或下垂,发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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89 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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90 inviting | |
adj.诱人的,引人注目的 | |
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91 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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92 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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93 infamously | |
不名誉地 | |
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94 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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95 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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96 persuasions | |
n.劝说,说服(力)( persuasion的名词复数 );信仰 | |
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97 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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98 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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99 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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100 conceited | |
adj.自负的,骄傲自满的 | |
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101 envious | |
adj.嫉妒的,羡慕的 | |
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102 detest | |
vt.痛恨,憎恶 | |
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103 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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104 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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105 bishops | |
(基督教某些教派管辖大教区的)主教( bishop的名词复数 ); (国际象棋的)象 | |
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106 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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107 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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108 registrar | |
n.记录员,登记员;(大学的)注册主任 | |
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109 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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110 impudent | |
adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
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111 aggression | |
n.进攻,侵略,侵犯,侵害 | |
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112 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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113 throttled | |
v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 );勒死;使窒息;压制 | |
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114 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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115 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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116 renounced | |
v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 );宣布放弃;宣布与…决裂;宣布摒弃 | |
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117 jealousies | |
n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 );妒羡 | |
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118 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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119 amends | |
n. 赔偿 | |
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120 restitution | |
n.赔偿;恢复原状 | |
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121 conjugal | |
adj.婚姻的,婚姻性的 | |
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122 judicial | |
adj.司法的,法庭的,审判的,明断的,公正的 | |
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123 abject | |
adj.极可怜的,卑屈的 | |
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124 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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125 retirement | |
n.退休,退职 | |
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126 postscript | |
n.附言,又及;(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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127 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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128 irritably | |
ad.易生气地 | |
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129 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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130 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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131 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132 condoling | |
v.表示同情,吊唁( condole的现在分词 ) | |
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133 spacious | |
adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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134 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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135 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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136 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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137 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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138 tenant | |
n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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139 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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140 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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141 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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142 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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143 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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144 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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145 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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146 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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147 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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148 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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149 schooner | |
n.纵帆船 | |
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150 abeam | |
adj.正横着(的) | |
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151 stouter | |
粗壮的( stout的比较级 ); 结实的; 坚固的; 坚定的 | |
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152 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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153 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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154 cataracts | |
n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 );白内障 | |
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155 vapid | |
adj.无味的;无生气的 | |
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156 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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157 maternity | |
n.母性,母道,妇产科病房;adj.孕妇的,母性的 | |
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158 vow | |
n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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159 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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160 cardinal | |
n.(天主教的)红衣主教;adj.首要的,基本的 | |
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161 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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162 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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163 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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164 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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165 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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166 recoil | |
vi.退却,退缩,畏缩 | |
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167 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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168 inclinations | |
倾向( inclination的名词复数 ); 倾斜; 爱好; 斜坡 | |
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169 antipathy | |
n.憎恶;反感,引起反感的人或事物 | |
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170 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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171 ascertain | |
vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
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172 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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173 scantily | |
adv.缺乏地;不充足地;吝啬地;狭窄地 | |
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174 piazza | |
n.广场;走廊 | |
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175 glimmered | |
v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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177 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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178 emblem | |
n.象征,标志;徽章 | |
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179 penetrate | |
v.透(渗)入;刺入,刺穿;洞察,了解 | |
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180 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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181 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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182 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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183 thump | |
v.重击,砰然地响;n.重击,重击声 | |
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184 penitent | |
adj.后悔的;n.后悔者;忏悔者 | |
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185 penitents | |
n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 );忏悔者 | |
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186 prematurely | |
adv.过早地,贸然地 | |
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187 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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188 provocation | |
n.激怒,刺激,挑拨,挑衅的事物,激怒的原因 | |
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189 impenitent | |
adj.不悔悟的,顽固的 | |
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190 absolved | |
宣告…无罪,赦免…的罪行,宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 ); 不受责难,免除责任 [义务] ,开脱(罪责) | |
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191 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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192 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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193 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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194 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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195 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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196 everlasting | |
adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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197 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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198 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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199 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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200 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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201 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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202 writhing | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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203 torments | |
(肉体或精神上的)折磨,痛苦( torment的名词复数 ); 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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204 respite | |
n.休息,中止,暂缓 | |
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205 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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206 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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207 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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208 atoning | |
v.补偿,赎(罪)( atone的现在分词 );补偿,弥补,赎回 | |
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209 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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210 shrieks | |
n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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211 enthusiast | |
n.热心人,热衷者 | |
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212 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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213 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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214 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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215 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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216 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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217 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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218 rumors | |
n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 );[古]名誉;咕哝;[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 );[古]名誉;咕哝;[古]喧嚷 | |
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219 missionaries | |
n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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220 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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221 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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222 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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223 savages | |
未开化的人,野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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224 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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225 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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226 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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227 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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228 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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229 careworn | |
adj.疲倦的,饱经忧患的 | |
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230 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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231 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
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232 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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233 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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234 pate | |
n.头顶;光顶 | |
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235 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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236 siesta | |
n.午睡 | |
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237 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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238 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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239 longings | |
渴望,盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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240 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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241 vacancy | |
n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
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242 confidentially | |
ad.秘密地,悄悄地 | |
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243 concealing | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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244 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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245 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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246 syllable | |
n.音节;vt.分音节 | |
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247 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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248 celebrity | |
n.名人,名流;著名,名声,名望 | |
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249 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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250 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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251 entail | |
vt.使承担,使成为必要,需要 | |
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252 defer | |
vt.推迟,拖延;vi.(to)遵从,听从,服从 | |
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253 massacre | |
n.残杀,大屠杀;v.残杀,集体屠杀 | |
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254 atrocity | |
n.残暴,暴行 | |
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255 disturbances | |
n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 );打扰;困扰;障碍 | |
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256 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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257 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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258 entreaties | |
n.恳求,乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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259 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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260 repression | |
n.镇压,抑制,抑压 | |
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261 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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262 anticipations | |
预期( anticipation的名词复数 ); 预测; (信托财产收益的)预支; 预期的事物 | |
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263 idol | |
n.偶像,红人,宠儿 | |
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264 survivors | |
幸存者,残存者,生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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265 bribed | |
v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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266 gunpowder | |
n.火药 | |
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267 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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268 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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269 ransoming | |
付赎金救人,赎金( ransom的现在分词 ) | |
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270 ransom | |
n.赎金,赎身;v.赎回,解救 | |
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271 subscription | |
n.预订,预订费,亲笔签名,调配法,下标(处方) | |
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272 abstain | |
v.自制,戒绝,弃权,避免 | |
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273 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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274 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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275 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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276 remittances | |
n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 );汇款,汇款额 | |
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277 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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278 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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279 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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280 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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281 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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282 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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283 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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284 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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285 condescending | |
adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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286 aggravated | |
使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 ); 使更严重; 激怒; 使恼火 | |
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287 insufficient | |
adj.(for,of)不足的,不够的 | |
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288 nourishment | |
n.食物,营养品;营养情况 | |
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289 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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290 deterioration | |
n.退化;恶化;变坏 | |
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291 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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292 overthrow | |
v.推翻,打倒,颠覆;n.推翻,瓦解,颠覆 | |
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293 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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294 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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295 humiliates | |
使蒙羞,羞辱,使丢脸( humiliate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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296 paternal | |
adj.父亲的,像父亲的,父系的,父方的 | |
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297 relaxation | |
n.松弛,放松;休息;消遣;娱乐 | |
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298 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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299 meddle | |
v.干预,干涉,插手 | |
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300 trespass | |
n./v.侵犯,闯入私人领地 | |
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301 prostration | |
n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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302 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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303 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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304 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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305 profanation | |
n.亵渎 | |
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306 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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307 prohibition | |
n.禁止;禁令,禁律 | |
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308 clergy | |
n.[总称]牧师,神职人员 | |
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309 reiterating | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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310 celibacy | |
n.独身(主义) | |
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311 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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312 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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313 propped | |
支撑,支持,维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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314 waning | |
adj.(月亮)渐亏的,逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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315 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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316 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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317 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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318 consultation | |
n.咨询;商量;商议;会议 | |
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319 vigilant | |
adj.警觉的,警戒的,警惕的 | |
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320 attestation | |
n.证词 | |
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321 authorizing | |
授权,批准,委托( authorize的现在分词 ) | |
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322 codicil | |
n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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323 amending | |
改良,修改,修订( amend的现在分词 ); 改良,修改,修订( amend的第三人称单数 )( amends的现在分词 ) | |
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324 adviser | |
n.劝告者,顾问 | |
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325 advisers | |
顾问,劝告者( adviser的名词复数 ); (指导大学新生学科问题等的)指导教授 | |
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326 alteration | |
n.变更,改变;蚀变 | |
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327 interfered | |
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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328 authorizes | |
授权,批准,委托( authorize的名词复数 ) | |
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329 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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330 riveted | |
铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 ); 把…固定住; 吸引; 引起某人的注意 | |
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331 beckoned | |
v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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332 reiterated | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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333 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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334 chubby | |
adj.丰满的,圆胖的 | |
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335 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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336 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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337 suavity | |
n.温和;殷勤 | |
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338 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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339 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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