On the evening of the day when Helena Crosby communicated her future prospects1 to Lady Isabel, the latter strolled out in the twilight2 and took her seat on a bench in an unfrequented part of the gardens, where she was fond of sitting. Now it occurred that Afy, some minutes afterwards, found herself in the same walk—and a very dull one, too, she was thinking.
“Who’s that?” quoth Afy to herself, her eyes falling upon Lady Isabel. “Oh, it’s that governess of the Crosby’s. She may be known, a half a mile off, by her grandmother’s bonnet4. I’ll go and have a chat with her.”
Accordingly Afy, who was never troubled with bashfulness, went up and seated herself beside Lady Isabel. “Good evening, Madame Vine,” cried she.
“Good evening,” replied Lady Isabel, courteously5, not having the least idea who Afy might be.
“You don’t know me, I fancy,” pursued Afy, so gathering6 from Lady Isabel’s looks. “I am companion to Mrs. Latimer; and she is spending the evening with Mrs. Crosby. Precious dull, this Stalkenberg.”
“Do you think so?”
“It is for me. I can’t speak German or French, and the upper attendants of families here can’t; most of them speak English. I’m sure I go about like an owl7, able to do nothing but stare. I was sick enough to come here, but I’d rather be back at West Lynne, quiet as it is.”
Lady Isabel had not been encouraging her companion, either by words or manner, but the last sentence caused her heart to bound within her. Control herself as she would, she could not quite hide her feverish8 interest.
“Do you come from West Lynne?”
“Yes. Horrid9 place. Mrs. Latimer took a house there soon after I went to live with her. I’d rather she’d taken it at Botany Bay.”
“Why do you not like it?”
“Because I don’t,” was Afy’s satisfactory answer.
“Do you know East Lynne?” resumed Lady Isabel, her heart beating and her brain whirling, as she deliberated how she could put all the questions she wished to ask.
“I ought to know it,” returned Afy. “My own sister, Miss Hallijohn, is head maid there. Why, do you know it, Madame Vine?”
Lady Isabel hesitated; she was deliberating upon her answer.
“Some years ago I was staying in the neighborhood for a little time,” she said. “I should like to hear of the Carlyles again; they were a nice family.”
Afy tossed her head.
“Ah! But there have been changes since that. I dare say you knew them in the time of Lady Isabel?”
Another pause.
“Lady Isabel? Yes she was Mr. Carlyle’s wife.”
“And a nice wife she made him!” ironically rejoined Afy. “You must have heard of it, Madame Vine, unless you lived in the wood. She elope—abandoned him and her children.”
“Are the children living?”
“Yes, poor things. But the one’s on the road to the churchyard—if ever I saw threatened consumption yet. Joyce, that’s my sister, is in a flaring11 temper when I say it. She thinks it will get strong again.”
Lady Isabel passed her handkerchief across her moist brow.
“Which of the children is it?” she faintly asked. “Isabel?”
“Isabel!” retorted Afy. “Who’s Isabel?”
“The eldest12 child, I mean; Miss Isabel Carlyle.”
“There’s no Isabel. There’s Lucy. She’s the only daughter.”
“When—when—I knew them, there was only one daughter; the other two were boys; I remember quite well that she was called Isabel.”
“Stay,” said Afy; “now you speak of it, what was it that I heard? It was Wilson told me, I recollect13—she’s the nurse. Why, the very night that his wife went away Mr. Carlyle gave orders that the child in future should be called Lucy, her second name. No wonder,” added Afy, violently indignant, “that he could no lager endure the sound of her mother’s or suffer the child to bear it.”
“No wonder,” murmured Lady Isabel. “Which child is it that’s ill?”
“It’s William, the eldest boy. He is not to say ill, but he is as thin as a herring, with an unnaturally14 bright look on his cheek, and a glaze15 upon his eye. Joyce says that his cheeks are no brighter than his mother’s were, but I know better. Folks in health don’t have those brilliant colors.”
“Did you ever see Lady Isabel?” she asked, in a low tone.
“Not I,” returned Afy; “I should have thought it demeaning. One does not care to be brought into contact with that sort of misdoing lot, you know, Madame Vine.”
“There as another one, a little boy—Archibald, I think, his name was. Is he well?”
“Oh, the troublesome youngster! He is as sturdy as a Turk. No fear of his going into consumption. He is the very image of Mr. Carlyle, is that child. I say though, madame,” continued Afy, changing the subject unceremoniously, “if you were stopping at West Lynne, perhaps you heard some wicked mischief-making stories concerning me?”
“I believe I did hear your name mentioned. I cannot charge my memory now with the particulars.”
“My father was murdered—you must have heard of that?”
“Yes, I recollect so far.”
“He was murdered by a chap called Richard Hare, who decamped instanter. Perhaps you know the Hares also? Well, directly after the funeral I left West Lynne; I could not bear the place, and I stopped away. And what do you suppose they said of me? That I had gone after Richard Hare. Not that I knew they were saying it, or I should pretty soon have been back and given them the length of my tongue. But now I just ask you, as a lady, Madame Vine, whether a more infamous16 accusation17 was ever pitched upon?”
“And you had not gone after him?”
“No; that I swear,” passionately19 returned Afy. “Make myself a companion of my father’s murderer! If Mr. Calcraft, the hangman, finished off a few of those West Lynne scandalmongers, it might be a warning to the others. I said so to Mr. Carlyle.
“To Mr. Carlyle?” repeated Lady Isabel, hardly conscious that she did repeat it.
“He laughed, I remember, and said that would not stop the scandal. The only one who did not misjudge me was himself; he did not believe that I was with Richard Hare, but he was ever noble-judging was Mr. Carlyle.”
“I suppose you were in a situation?”
Afy coughed.
“To be sure. More than one. I lived as companion with an old lady, who so valued me that she left me a handsome legacy20 in her will. I lived two years with the Countess of Mount Severn.”
“With the Countess of Mount Severn!” echoed Lady Isabel, surprised into the remark. “Why, she—she—was related to Mr. Carlyle’s wife. At least Lord Mount Severn was.”
“Of course; everybody knows that. I was living there at the time the business happened. Didn’t the countess pull Lady Isabel to pieces! She and Miss Levison used to sit, cant21, cant all day over it. Oh, I assure you I know all about it, just as much as Joyce did. Have you got that headache, that you are leaning on your hand?”
“Headache and heartache both,” she might have answered.
Miss Afy resumed.
“So, after the flattering compliment West Lynne had paid to me, you may judge I was in no hurry to go back to it, Madame Vine. And if I had not found that Mrs. Latimer’s promised to be an excellent place, I should have left it, rather than be marshaled there. But I have lived it down; I should like to hear any of them fibbing against me now. Do you know that blessed Miss Corny?”
“I have seen her.”
“She shakes her head and makes eyes at me still. But so she would at an angel; a cross-grained old cockatoo!”
“Is she still at East Lynne?”
“Not she, indeed. There would be drawn22 battles between her and Mrs. Carlyle, if she were.”
A dart23, as of an ice-bolt, seemed to arrest the blood in Lady Isabel’s veins24.
“Mrs. Carlyle,” she faltered25. “Who is Mrs. Carlyle?”
“Mr. Carlyle’s wife—who should she be?”
The rushing blood leaped on now fast and fiery26.
“I did not know he had married again.”
“He has been married now—oh, getting on for fifteen months; a twelvemonth last June. I went to the church to see them married. Wasn’t there a cram27! She looked beautiful that day.”
Lady Isabel laid her hand upon her breast. But for that delectable28 “loose jacket,” Afy might have detected her bosom29 rise and fall. She steadied her voice sufficiently30 to speak.
“Did he marry Barbara Hare?”
“You may take your oath of that,” said Afy. “If folks tell true, there was love scenes between them before he ever thought of Lady Isabel. I had that from Wilson, and she ought to know, for she lived at the Hares’. Another thing is said—only you must just believe one word of West Lynne talk, and disbelieve ten—that if Lady Isabel had not died, Mr. Carlyle never would have married again; he had scruples31. Half a dozen were given him by report; Louisa Dobede for one, and Mary Pinner for another. Such nonsense! Folks might have made sure it would be Barbara Hare. There’s a baby now.”
“Is there?” was the faint answer.
“A beautiful boy three or four months old. Mrs. Carlyle is not a little proud of him. She worships her husband.”
“Is she kind to the first children?”
“For all I know. I don’t think she has much to do with them. Archibald is in the nursery, and the other two are mostly with the governess.”
“I wonder,” cried the governess, “how the tidings of Lady Isabel’s death were received at East Lynne?”
“I don’t know anything about that. They held it as a jubilee32, I should say, and set all the bells in town to ring, and feasted the men upon legs of mutton and onion sauce afterward3. I should, I know. A brute33 animal, deaf and dumb, such as a cow or a goose, clings to its offspring, but she abandoned hers. Are you going in Madame Vine?”
“I must go in now. Good evening to you.”
She had sat till she could sit no longer; her very heartstrings were wrung34, and she might not rise up in defence of herself. Defence? Did she not deserve more, ten thousand times more reproach than had met her ears now? This girl did not say of her half what the world must say.
“There is a governess?”
“Nearly the first thing that Mr. Carlyle did, after his wife’s moonlight flitting, was to seek a governess, and she has been there ever since. She is going to leave now; to be married, Joyce told me.”
“Are you much at East Lynne?”
Afy shook her head. “I am not going much, I can tell you, where I am looked down upon. Mrs. Carlyle does not favor me. She knew that her brother Richard would have given his hand to marry me, and she resents it. Not such a great catch, I’m sure, that Dick Hare, even if he had gone on right,” continued Afy, somewhat after the example of the fox, looking at the unattainable grapes. “He had no brains to speak of; and what he had were the color of a peacock’s tail—green.”
To bed at the usual time, but not to sleep. What she had heard only increased her vain, insensate longing35. A stepmother at East Lynne, and one of her children gliding36 on to death! Oh! To be with them! To see them once again! To purchase that boon37, she would willingly forfeit38 all the rest of her existence.
Her frame was fevered; the bed was fevered; and she arose and paced the room. This state of mind would inevitably39 bring on bodily illness, possibly an attack of the brain. She dreaded41 that; for there was no telling what she might reveal in her delirium42. Her temples were throbbing43, her heart was beating, and she once more threw herself upon the bed, and pressed the pillow down upon her forehead. There is no doubt that the news of Mr. Carlyle’s marriage helped greatly the excitement. She did not pray to die, but she did wish that death might come to her.
What would have been the ending, it is impossible to say, but a strange turn in affairs came; one of those wonderful coincidences sometimes, but not often to be met with. Mrs. Crosby appeared in Madame Vine’s room after breakfast, and gave her an account of Helena’s projected marriage. She then apologized, the real object of her visit, for dispensing44 so summarily with madame’s services, but had reason to hope that she could introduce her to another situation. Would madame have any objection to take one in England? Madame was upon the point of replying that she should not choose to enter one in England, when Mrs. Crosby stopped her, saying that she would call in Mrs. Latimer, who could tell her about it better than she could.
Mrs. Latimer came in, all eagerness and volubility. “Ah, my dear madame,” she exclaimed, “you would be fortunate indeed if you were to get into this family. The nicest people they are; he so liked and respected; she so pretty and engaging. A most desirable situation, too, treated as a lady, and all things comfortable. There’s only one pupil, a girl; one of the little boys, I believe, goes in for an hour or two, but that’s not much; and the salary’s seventy guineas. They are friends of mine; the Carlyles; such a beautiful place they live at—East Lynne.”
The Carlyles! East Lynne! Go governess there? Lady Isabel’s breath was taken away.
“They are parting with their governess,” continued Mrs. Latimer, “and when I was there, a day or two before I started on my tour to Germany, Mrs. Carlyle said to me, ‘I suppose you could not pick us up a desirable governess for Lucy; one who is mistress of French and German.’ She spoke45 in a half joking tone, but I feel sure that were I to write word I had found one desirable, it would give her pleasure. Now, Mrs. Crosby tells me your French is quite that of a native, Madame Vine, that you read and speak German well, and that your musical abilities are excellent. I think you would be just the one to suit; and I have no doubt I could get you the situation. What do you say?”
What could she say? Her brain was in a whirl.
“I am anxious to find you one if I can,” put in Mrs. Crosby. “We have been much pleased with you, and I should like you to be desirably placed. As Mrs. Latimer is so kind as to interest herself, it appears to me an opportunity that should not be missed.”
“Shall I write to Mrs. Carlyle?” rejoined Mrs. Latimer.
Lady Isabel roused herself, and so far cleared her intellect as to understand and answer the question. “Perhaps you would kindly46 give me until tomorrow morning to consider on it? I had not intended to take a situation in England.”
A battle she had with herself that day. At one moment it seemed to her that Providence48 must have placed this opportunity in her way that she might see her children, in her desperate longing; at another, a voice appeared to whisper that it was a wily, dangerous temptation flung across her path, one which it was her duty to resist and flee from. Then came another phase of the picture—how should she bear to see Mr. Carlyle the husband of another—to live in the same house with them, to witness his attentions, possibly his caresses49? It might be difficult; but she could force and school her heart to endurance. Had she not resolved, in her first bitter repentance50, to take up her cross daily, and bear it? No, her own feelings, let them be wrung as they would, should not prove the obstacle.
Evening came, and she had not decided51. She passed another night of pain, of restlessness, of longing for her children; this intense longing appeared to be overmastering all her powers of mind and body. The temptation at length proved too strong; the project having been placed before her covetous52 eyes could not be relinquished53, and she finally consented to go. “What is it that would keep me away?” she argued. “The dread40 of discovery? Well if that comes it must; they could not hang me or kill me. Deeper humiliation54 than ever would be my portion when they drive me from East Lynne with abhorrence55 and ignominy, as a soldier is drummed out of his regiment56; but I could bear that as I must bear the rest and I can shrink under the hedge and lay myself down to die. Humiliation for me? No; I will not put that in comparison with seeing and being with my children.”
Mrs. Latimer wrote to Mrs. Carlyle. She had met with a governess; one desirable in every way who could not fail to suit her views precisely57. She was a Madame Vine, English by birth, but the widow of a Frenchman; a Protestant, a thorough gentlewoman, an efficient linguist58 and musician, and competent to her duties in all ways. Mrs. Crosby, with whom she had lived two years regarded her as a treasure, and would not have parted with her but for Helena’s marriage with a German nobleman. “You must not mind her appearance,” went on the letter. “She is the oddest-looking person; wears spectacles, caps, enormous bonnets59, and has a great scar on her mouth and chin; and though she can’t be more than thirty, her hair is gray; she is also slightly lame60. But, understand you, she is a lady, with it all, and looks one.”
When this description reached East Lynne, Barbara laughed at it as she read it aloud to Mr. Carlyle. He laughed also.
“It is well governesses are not chosen according to their looks,” he said, “or I fear Madame Vine would stand but a poor chance.”
They resolved to engage her, and word went back to that effect.
A strangely wild tumult61 filled Lady Isabel’s bosom. She first of all hunted her luggage over, her desk, everything belonging to her lest any mark on the linen62 might be there, which could give a clue to her former self. The bulk of her luggage remained in Paris, warehoused, where it had been sent ere she quitted Grenoble. She next saw to her wardrobe, making it still more unlike anything she had used to wear; her caps, save that they were simple, and fitted closely to the face, nearly rivaled those of Miss Carlyle. Her handwriting she had been striving for years to change the character of, and had so far succeeded that none would now take it for Lady Isabel Vane’s. But her hand shook as she wrote to Mrs. Carlyle—who had written to her. She—she writing to Mr. Carlyle’s wife! And in the capacity of a subordinate! How would she like to live with her as a subordinate, as servant—it may be said—where she had once reigned63, the idolized lady? She must bear that, as she must bear all else. Hot tears came into her eyes, with a gush64, as they fell on the signature, “Barbara Carlyle.”
All ready, she sat down and waited the signal of departure; but that was not to be yet. It was finally arranged that she should travel to England and to West Lynne with Mrs. Latimer, and that lady would not return until October. Lady Isabel could only fold her hands and strive for patience.
But the day did come—it actually did; and Mrs. Latimer, Lady Isabel, and Afy quitted Stalkenberg. Mrs. Latimer would only travel slowly, and the impatient, fevered woman thought the journey would never end.
“You have been informed, I think, of the position of these unhappy children that you are going to,” Mrs. Latimer observed to her one day. “You must not speak to them of their mother. She left them.”
“Yes.”
“It is never well to speak to children of a mother who has disgraced them. Mr. Carlyle would not like it; and I dare say they are taught to forget her, and to regard Mrs. Carlyle as their only mother.”
Her aching heart had to assent65 to all.
It was a foggy afternoon, gray with the coming twilight, when they arrived at West Lynne.
Mrs. Latimer believing the governess was a novice66 in England, kindly put her into a fly, and told the driver his destination. “Au revoir, madame,” she said, “and good luck to you.”
Once more she was whirling along the familiar road. She saw Justice Hare’s house, she saw other marks which she knew well; and once more she saw East Lynne, the dear old house, for the fly had turned into the avenue. Lights were moving in the windows; it looked gay and cheerful, a contrast to her. Her heart was sick with expectation, her throat was beating; and as the man thundered up with all the force of his one horse, and halted at the steps, her sight momentarily left her. Would Mr. Carlyle come to the fly to hand her out? She wished she had never undertaken the project, now, in the depth of her fear and agitation67. The hall door was flung open, and there gushed68 forth69 a blaze of light.
Two men-servants stood there. The one remained in the hall, the other advanced to the chaise. He assisted Lady Isabel to alight, and then busied himself with the luggage. As she ascended70 to the hall she recognized old Peter. Strange, indeed, did it seem not to say, “How are you, Peter?” but to meet him as a stranger. For a moment, she was at a loss for words; what should she say, or ask, coming to her own home? Her manner was embarrassed, her voice low.
“Is Mrs. Carlyle within?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At that moment Joyce came forward to receive her. “It is Madame Vine, I believe,” she respectfully said. “Please to step this way, madame.”
But Lady Isabel lingered in the hall, ostensibly to see that her boxes came in right—Stephen was bringing them up—in reality to gather a short respite71, for Joyce might be about to usher72 her into the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.
Joyce, however, did nothing of the sort. She merely conducted her to the gray parlor73. A fire was burning in the grate, looking cheerful on the autumn night.
“This is your sitting-room74, madame. What will you please to take? I will order it brought in while I show you your bed-chamber75.”
“A cup of tea,” answered Lady Isabel.
“Tea and some cold meat?” suggested Joyce. But Lady Isabel interrupted her.
“Nothing but tea and a little cold toast.”
Joyce rang the bell, ordered the refreshment76 to be made ready, and then preceded Lady Isabel upstairs. On she followed her heart palpitating; past the rooms that used to be hers, along the corridor, toward the second staircase. The door of her old dressing-room stood open, and she glanced in with a yearning77 look. No, never more, never more could it be hers; she had put it from her by her own free act and deed. Not less comfortable did it look now than in former days, but it had passed into another’s occupancy. The fire threw its blaze on the furniture. There were the little ornaments78 on the large dressing-table, as they used to be in her time; and the cut glass of crystal essence-bottles was glittering in the firelight. On the sofa lay a shawl and a book, and on the bed a silk dress, as thrown there after being taken off. No, those rooms were not for her now, and she followed Joyce up the other staircase. The bedroom she was shown to was commodious79 and well furnished. It was the one Miss Carlyle had occupied when she, Isabella, had been taken a bride to East Lynne, though that lady had subsequently quitted it for one on the lower floor. Joyce put down the waxlight she carried and looked round.
“Would you like a fire lighted here, madame, for to-night? Perhaps it will feel welcome after travelling.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” was the answer.
Stephen, with somebody to help him, was bringing up the luggage. Joyce directed him where to place it, telling him to uncord the boxes. That done, the man left the room, and Joyce turned to Lady Isabel, who had stood like a statue, never so much as attempting to remove her bonnet.
“Can I do anything for you, madame?” she asked.
Lady Isabel declined. In the first moments of her arrival she was dreading80 detection—how was it possible that she should not—and she feared Joyce’s keen eyes more, perhaps than she feared any others. She was only wishing that the girl would go down.
“Should you want anything, please to ring, and Hannah will come up,” said Joyce, preparing to retire. “She is the maid who waits upon the gray parlor, and will do anything you like up here.”
Joyce had quitted the room, and Lady Isabel had got her bonnet off, when the door opened again. She hastily thrust it on, somewhat after the fashion of Richard Hare’s rushing on his hat and false whiskers. It was Joyce.
“Do you think you shall find your way down alone, madame?”
“Yes, I can do that,” she answered. Find her way in that house!
Lady Isabel slowly took her things off. What was the use of lingering—she must meet their eyes, sooner or later. Though, in truth, there was little, if any, fear of her detection, so effectually was she disguised by nature’s altering hand, or by art’s. It was with the utmost difficulty she kept tranquil81. Had the tears once burst forth, they would have gone on to hysterics, without the possibility of control. The coming home again to East Lynne! Oh, it was indeed a time of agitation, terrible, painful agitation, and none can wonder at it. Shall I tell you what she did? Yes, I will at the expense of ridicule82. She knelt down by the bed and prayed for courage to go through the task she had undertaken; prayed for self-control—even she, the sinful, who had quitted that house under circumstances notorious. But I am not sure that this mode of return to it was an expedition precisely calculated to call down a blessing83.
There was no excuse for lingering longer, and she descended84, the waxlight in her hand. Everything was ready in the gray parlor—the tea-tray on the table, the small urn10 hissing85 away, the tea-caddy in proximity86 to it. A silver rack of dry toast, butter, and a hot muffin covered with a small silver cover. The things were to her sight as old faces—the rack, the small cover, the butter-dish, the tea-service—she remembered them all; not the urn—a copper87 one—she had no recollection of that. It had possibly been bought for the use of the governess, when a governess came into use at East Lynne. Could she have given herself leisure to reflect on the matter, she might have told, by the signs observable in the short period she had been in the house, that governesses of East Lynne were regarded as gentlewomen—treated well and liberally. Yes; for East Lynne owned Mr. Carlyle for its master.
She made the tea, and sat down with what appetite she might, her brain, her thoughts, all in a chaos88 together. She wondered whether Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle were at dinner—she wondered in what part of the house were the children. She heard bells ring now and then; she heard servants cross and recross the hall. Her meal over, she rang her own.
A neat-looking, good-tempered maid answered it, Hannah, who, as Joyce had informed her, waited upon the gray parlor, and was at her, the governess’s, especial command. She took away the things, and then Lady Isabel sat on alone. For how long, she scarcely knew, when a sound caused her heart to beat as if it would burst its bounds, and she started from her chair like one who has received an electric shock.
It was nothing to be startled at either—for ordinary people—for it was but the sound of children’s voices. Her children! Were they being brought in to her? She pressed her hand upon her heaving bosom.
No; they were but traversing the hall, and the voices faded away up the wide staircase. Perhaps they had been in to desert, as in the old times, and were now going up to bed. She looked at her new watch—half past seven.
Her new watch. The old one had been changed away for it. All her trinkets had been likewise parted with, sold or exchanged away, lest they should be recognized at East Lynne. Nothing whatever had she kept except her mother’s miniature and a small golden cross, set with its seven emeralds. Have you forgotten that cross? Francis Levison accidentally broke it for her, the first time they ever met. If she had looked upon the breaking of that cross which her mother had enjoined89 her to set such store by, as an evil omen47, at the time of the accident, how awfully90 had the subsequent events seemed to bear her fancy out! These two articles—the miniature and the cross—she could not bring her mind to part with. She had sealed them up, and placed them in the remotest spot of her dressing-case, away from all chance of public view. Peter entered.
“My mistress says, ma’am, she would be glad to see you, if you are not too tired. Will you please to walk into the drawing-room?”
A mist swam before her eyes. Was she about to enter the presence of Mrs. Carlyle? Had the moment really come? She moved to the door, which Peter held open. She turned her head from the man, for she could feel how ashy white were her face and lips.
“Is Mrs. Carlyle alone?” she asked, in a subdued91 voice. The most indirect way she could put the question, as to whether Mr. Carlyle was there.
“Quite alone, ma’am. My master is dining out today. Madame Vine, I think?” he added, waiting to announce her, as, the hall traversed, he laid his hand on the drawing-room door.
“Madame Vine,” she said, correcting him. For Peter had spoken the name, Vine, broadly, according to our English habitude; she set him right, and pronounced it a la mode Francaise.
“Madame Vine, ma’am,” quoth Peter to his mistress, as he ushered92 in Lady Isabel.
The old familiar drawing-room; its large handsome proportions, the well arranged furniture, its bright chandelier! It all came back to her with a heart-sickness. No longer her drawing-room, that she should take pride in it; she had flung it away from her when she flung away the rest.
Seated under the blaze of the chandelier was Barbara. Not a day older did she look than when Lady Isabel had first seen her at the churchyard gates, when she had inquired of her husband who was that pretty girl. “Barbara Hare,” he answered. Ay. She was Barbara Hare then, but now she was Barbara Carlyle; and she, she, who had been Isabel Carlyle, was Isabel Vane again! Oh, woe93! Woe!
Inexpressibly more beautiful, looked Barbara than Lady Isabel had ever seen her—or else she fancied it. Her evening dress was of pale sky-blue—no other color suited Barbara so well, and there was no other she was so fond of—and on her fair neck there was a gold chain, and on her arms were gold bracelets94. Her pretty features were attractive as ever; her cheeks were flushed; her blue eyes sparkled, and her light hair was rich and abundant. A contrast, her hair, to that of the worn woman opposite to her.
Barbara came forward, her hand stretched out with a kindly greeting. “I hope you are not very much tired after your journey?”
Lady Isabel murmured something—she did not know what—and pushed the chair set for her as much as possible into the shade.
“You are not ill, are you?” uttered Barbara, noting the intensely pale face—as much as could be seen of it for the cap and the spectacles.
“Not ill,” was the low answer; “only a little fatigued95.”
“Would you prefer that I spoke with you in the morning? You would like, possibly, to retire to bed at once.”
But Lady Isabel declined. Better get the interview over by candlelight than by daylight.
“You look so very pale, I feared you might be ill.”
“I am generally pale; sometimes remarkably96 so; but my health is good.”
“Mrs. Latimer wrote us word that you would be quite sure to suit us,” freely spoke Barbara. “I hope you will; and that you may find your residence here agreeable. Have you lived much in England?”
“In the early portion of my life.”
“And you have lost your husband and your children? Stay. I beg your pardon if I am making a mistake; I think Mrs. Latimer did mention children.”
“I have lost them,” was the faint, quiet response.
“Oh, but it must be terrible grief when children die!” exclaimed Barbara, clasping her hands in emotion. “I would not lose my babe for the world! I could not part with him.”
“Terrible grief, and hard to bear,” outwardly assented97 Lady Isabel. But in her heart she was thinking that death was not the worst kind of parting. There was another far more dreadful. Mrs. Carlyle began to speak of the children she was to take charge of.
“You are no doubt aware that they are not mine; Mrs. Latimer would tell you. They are the children of Mr. Carlyle’s first wife.”
“And Mr. Carlyle’s,” interrupted Lady Isabel. What in the world made her put in that? She wondered herself the moment the words were out of her mouth. A scarlet98 streak99 flushed her cheeks, and she remembered that there must be no speaking upon impulse at East Lynne.
“Mr. Carlyle’s, of course,” said Barbara, believing Madame Vine had asked the question. “Their position—the girl’s in particular—is a sad one, for their mother left them. Oh, it was a shocking business!”
“She is dead, I hear,” said Lady Isabel hoping to turn the immediate100 point of conversation. Mrs. Carlyle, however, continued as though she had not heard her.
“Mr. Carlyle married Lady Isabel Vane, the late Lord Mount Severn’s daughter. She was attractive and beautiful, but I do not fancy she cared very much for her husband. However that may have been, she ran away from him.”
“It was very sad,” observed Lady Isabel, feeling that she was expected to say something. Besides, she had her role to play.
“Sad? It was wicked—it was infamous!” returned Mrs. Carlyle, giving way to some excitement. “Of all men living, of all husbands, Mr. Carlyle least deserved such a requital101. You will say so when you come to know. And the affair altogether was a mystery; for it never was observed or suspected by any one that Lady Isabel entertained a liking102 for another. It was Francis Levison she eloped with—Sir Francis he is now. He had been staying at East Lynne, but no one detected any undue103 intimacy104 between them, not even Mr. Carlyle. To him, as others, her conduct must always remain a mystery.”
Madame appeared to be occupied with her spectacles, setting them straight. Barbara continued,—
“Of course the disgrace is reflected on the children, and always will be; the shame of having a divorced mother—”
“Is she not dead?” interrupted Lady Isabel.
“She is dead—oh, yes. But they will not be the less pointed105 at, the girl especially, as I say. They allude106 to their mother now and then in conversation, Wilson tells me; but I would recommend you, Madame Vine, not to encourage them in that. They had better forget her.”
“Mr. Carlyle would naturally wish them to do so.”
“Most certainly. There is little doubt that Mr. Carlyle would blot107 out the recollection of her, were it possible. But unfortunately she was the children’s mother, and, for that, there’s no help. I trust you will be able to instill principles into the little girl which will keep her from a like fate.”
“I will try,” answered Lady Isabel, with more fervor108 than she had yet spoken. “Do you have the children much with you, may I inquire?”
“No. I never was fond of being troubled with children. When my own grow up into childhood I shall deem the nursery and the schoolroom the fitter place for them. What I trust I shall never give up to another, will be the training of my children,” pursued Barbara. “Let the offices properly pertaining109 to a nurse be performed by the nurse—of course, taking care that she is thoroughly110 to be depended on. Let her have the trouble of the children, their noise, their romping111; in short, let the nursery be her place, and the children’s. But I hope that I shall never fail to gather my children round me daily, at stated and convenient periods, for higher purposes; to instill into them Christian112 and moral duties; to strive to teach them how best to fulfil the obligations of life. This is a mother’s task—as I understand the question—let her do this work well, and the nurse can attend to the rest. A child should never hear aught from his mother’s lips but persuasive113 gentleness; and this becomes impossible if she is very much with her children.”
Lady Isabel silently assented. Mrs. Carlyle’s views were correct ones.
“When I first came to East Lynne I found Miss Manning, the governess, was doing everything necessary for Mr. Carlyle’s children in the way of the training that I speak of,” resumed Barbara. “She had them with her for a short period every morning, even the little one; I saw that it was all right, therefore did not interfere114. Since she left—it is nearly a month now—I have taken them myself. We were sorry to part with Miss Manning; she suited very well. But she has been long engaged, it turns out, to an officer in the navy, and now they are to be married. You will have the entire charge of the little girl; she will be your companion out of school hours; did you understand that?”
“I am quite ready and willing to undertake it,” said Lady Isabel, her heart fluttering. “Are the children well? Do they enjoy good health?”
“Quite so. They had the measles115 in the spring, and the illness left a cough upon William, the eldest boy. Mr. Wainwright says he will outgrow116 it.”
“He has it still, then?”
“At night and morning. They went last week to spend the day with Miss Carlyle, and were a little late in returning home. It was foggy, and the boy coughed dreadfully after he came in. Mr. Carlyle was so concerned that he left the dinner table and went up to the nursery; he gave Joyce strict orders that the child should never again be out in the evening so long as the cough was upon him. We had never heard him cough like that.”
“Do you fear consumption?” asked Lady Isabel, in a low tone.
“I do not fear that, or any other incurable117 disease for them,” answered Barbara. “I think, with Mr. Wainwright, that time will remove the cough. The children come of a healthy stock on the father’s side; and I have no reason to think they do not on their mother’s. She died young you will say. Ay, but she did not die of disease; her death was the result of accident. Mrs. Latimer wrote us word you were of gentle birth and breeding,” she continued, changing the subject of conversation. “I am sure you will excuse my speaking of these particulars,” Barbara added, in a tone of apology, “but this is our first interview—our preliminary interview, it may in a measure be called, for we could not say much by letter.”
“I was born and reared a gentlewoman,” answered Lady Isabel.
“Yes, I am sure of it; there is no mistaking the tone of a gentlewoman,” said Barbara. “How sad it is when pecuniary118 reverses fall upon us! I dare say you never thought to go out as a governess.”
A half smile positively119 crossed her lips. She think to go out as a governess!—the Earl of Mount Severn’s only child! “Oh, no, never,” she said, in reply.
“Your husband, I fear, could not leave you well off. Mrs. Latimer said something to that effect.”
“When I lost him, I lost all,” was the answer. And Mrs. Carlyle was struck with the wailing120 pain betrayed in the tone. At that moment a maid entered.
“Nurse says the baby is undressed, and quite ready for you ma’am,” she said, addressing her mistress.
Mrs. Carlyle rose, but hesitated as she was moving away.
“I will have the baby here to-night,” she said to the girl. “Tell nurse to put a shawl round him and bring him down. It is the hour for my baby’s supper,” she smiled, turning to Lady Isabel. “I may as well have him here for once, as Mr. Carlyle is out. Sometimes I am out myself, and then he has to be fed.”
“You do not stay indoors for the baby, then?”
“Certainly not. If I and Mr. Carlyle have to be out in the evening, baby gives way. I should never give up my husband for my baby; never, never, dearly as I love him.”
The nurse came in-Wilson. She unfolded a shawl, and placed the baby on Mrs. Carlyle’s lap. A proud, fine, fair young baby, who reared his head and opened wide his great blue eyes, and beat his arms at the lights of the chandelier, as no baby of nearly six months ever did yet. So thought Barbara. He was in his clean white nightgown and nightcap, with their pretty crimped frills and border; altogether a pleasant sight to look upon. She had once sat in that very chair, with a baby as fair upon her own knee; but all that was past and gone. She leaned her hot head upon her hand, and a rebellious121 sigh of envy went forth from her aching heart.
Wilson, the curious, was devouring122 her with her eyes. Wilson was thinking she never saw such a mortal fright as the new governess. Them blue spectacles capped everything, she decided; and what on earth made her tie up her throat in that fashion? As well wear a man’s color and stock at once! If her teaching was no better than her looks, Miss Lucy might as well go to the parish charity school!
“Shall I wait, ma’am?” demurely123 asked Wilson, her investigation124 being concluded.
“No,” said Mrs. Carlyle. “I will ring.”
Baby was exceedingly busy taking his supper. And of course, according to all baby precedent125, he ought to have gone off into a sound sleep over it. But the supper concluded, and the gentleman seemed to have no more sleep in his eyes than he had before he began. He sat up, crowed at the lights, stretched out his hands for them, and set his mother at defiance126, absolutely refusing to be hushed up.
“Do you wish to keep awake all night, you rebel?” cried Barbara, fondly looking on him.
A loud crow, by way of answer. Perhaps it was intended to intimate he did. She clasped him to her with a sudden gesture of rapture127, a sound of love, and devoured128 his pretty face with kisses. Then she took him in her arms, putting him to sit upright, and approached Madame Vine.
“Did you ever see a more lovely child?”
“A fine baby, indeed,” she constrained129 herself to answer; and she could have fancied it her own little Archibald over again when he was a baby. “But he is not much like you.”
“He is the very image of my darling husband. When you see Mr. Carlyle—” Barbara stopped, and bent130 her ear, as listening.
“Mr. Carlyle is probably a handsome man!” said poor Lady Isabel, believing that the pause was made to give her an opportunity of putting in an observation.
“He is handsome: but that is the least good about him. He is the most noble man! Revered131, respected by everyone; I may say loved! The only one who could not appreciate him was his wife; and we must assume that she did not, by the ending that came. However she could leave him—how she could even look at another, after calling Mr. Carlyle husband—will always be a marvel132 to those who know him.”
A bitter groan—and it nearly escaped her lips.
“That certainly is the pony133 carriage,” cried Barbara, bending her ear again. “If so, how very early Mr. Carlyle is home! Yes, I am sure it is the sound of the wheels.”
How Lady Isabel sat she scarcely knew; how she concealed134 her trepidation135 she never would know. A pause: an entrance to the hall; Barbara, baby in arms, advanced to the drawing-room door, and a tall form entered. Once more Lady Isabel was in the presence of her sometime husband.
He did not perceive that any one was present, and he bent his head and fondly kissed his wife. Isabel’s jealous eyes were turned upon them. She saw Barbara’s passionate18, lingering kiss in return, she heard her fervent136, whispered greeting, “My darling!” and she watched him turn to press the same fond kisses on the rosy137 open lips of his child. Isabel flung her hand over her face. Had she bargained for this? It was part of the cross she had undertaken to carry, and she must bear it.
Mr. Carlyle came forward and saw her. He looked somewhat surprised. “Madame Vine,” said Barbara; and he held out his hand and welcomed her in the same cordial, pleasant manner that his wife had done. She put her shaking hand into his; there was no help for it. Little thought Mr. Carlyle that that hand had been tenderly clasped in his a thousand times—that it was the one pledged to him at the altar of Castle Marling.
She sat down on her chair again, unable to stand, feeling as though every drop of blood within her had left her body. It had certainly left her face. Mr. Carlyle made a few civil inquiries138 as to her journey, but she did not dare to raise her eyes to his, as she breathed forth the answers.
“You are at home soon, Archibald,” said Barbara, addressing him. “I did not expect you so early. I did not think you could get away. Do you know what I was wishing today?” she continued. “Papa is going to London with Squire139 Pinner to see those new agricultural implements—or whatever it is. They are sure to be away as much as three days. I was thinking if we could but persuade mamma to come to us for the time papa is to be away, it would be a delightful140 little change for her—a break in her monotonous141 life.”
“I wish you could,” warmly spoke Mr. Carlyle. “Her life, since you left, is a monotonous one; though, in her gentle patience, she will not say so. It is a happy thought, Barbara, and I only hope it may be carried out. Mrs. Carlyle’s mother is an invalid142, and lonely, for she has no child at home with her now,” he added, in a spirit of politeness, addressing himself to Madame Vine.
She simply bowed her head; trust herself to speak she did not. Mr. Carlyle scanned her face attentively143, as she sat, her spectacles bent downward. She did not appear inclined to be sociable144, and he turned to the baby, who was wider awake than ever.
“Young sir, I should like to know what brings you up, and here, at this hour.”
“You may well ask,” said Barbara. “I just had him brought down, as you were not here, thinking he would be asleep directly. And only look at him!—no more sleep in his eyes than there is in mine.”
She would have hushed him to her as she spoke, but the young gentleman stoutly145 repudiated146 it. He set up a half cry, and struggled his arms, and head free again, crowing the next moment most impudently147. Mr. Carlyle took him.
“It is no use, Barbara; he is beyond your coaxing148 this evening.” And he tossed the child in his strong arms, held him up to the chandelier, made him bob at the baby in the pier-glass, until the rebel was in an ecstacy of delight. Finally he smothered149 his face with kisses, as Barbara had done. Barbara rang the bell.
Oh! Can you imagine what it was for Lady Isabel? So had he tossed, so had he kissed her children, she standing150 by, the fond, proud, happy mother, as Barbara was standing now. Mr. Carlyle came up to her.
“Are you fond of these little troubles, Madame Vine? This one is a fine fellow, they say.”
“Very fine. What is his name?” she replied, by way of saying something.
“Arthur.”
“Arthur Archibald,” put in Barbara to Madame Vine. “I was vexed151 that his name could not be entirely152 Archibald, but that was already monopolized153. Is that you, Wilson? I don’t know what you’ll do with him, but he looks as if he would not be asleep by twelve o’clock.”
Wilson, with a fresh satisfying of her curiosity, by taking another prolonged stare from the corner of her eyes at Madame Vine, received the baby from Mr. Carlyle, and departed with him.
Madame Vine rose. “Would they excuse her?” she asked, in a low tone; “she was tired and would be glad to retire to rest.”
“Of course. And anything she might wish in the way of refreshment, would she ring for?” Barbara shook hands with her, in her friendly way; and Mr. Carlyle crossed the room to open the door for her, and bowed her out with a courtly smile.
She went up to her chamber at once. To rest? Well, what think you? She strove to say to her lacerated and remorseful154 heart that the cross—far heavier though it was proving than anything she had imagined or pictured—was only what she had brought upon herself, and must bear. Very true; but none of us would like such a cross to be upon our shoulders.
“Is she not droll155 looking?” cried Barbara, when she was alone with Mr. Carlyle. “I can’t think why she wears those blue spectacles; it cannot be for her sight, and they are very disfiguring.”
“She puts me in mind of—of——” began Mr. Carlyle, in a dreamy tone.
“Of whom?”
“Her face, I mean,” he said, still dreaming.
“So little can be seen of it,” resumed Mrs. Carlyle. “Of whom does she put you in mind?”
“I don’t know. Nobody in particular,” returned he, rousing himself. “Let us have tea in, Barbara.”
收听单词发音 |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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48
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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53
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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54
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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55
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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59
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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62
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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65
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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66
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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67
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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68
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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70
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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72
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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73
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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74
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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75
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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76
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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77
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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78
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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80
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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81
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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82
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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83
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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84
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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85
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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86
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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87
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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88
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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89
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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91
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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92
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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94
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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95
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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96
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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97
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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99
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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100
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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101
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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102
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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103
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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104
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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105
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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106
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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107
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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108
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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109
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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110
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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111
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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112
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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113
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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114
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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115
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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116
outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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117
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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118
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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119
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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120
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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121
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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122
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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123
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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124
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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125
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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126
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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127
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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128
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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129
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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130
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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131
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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133
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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134
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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135
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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136
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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137
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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138
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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139
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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140
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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141
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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142
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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143
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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144
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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145
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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146
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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147
impudently
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148
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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149
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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150
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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151
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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152
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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153
monopolized
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| v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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154
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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155
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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