So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it, or be rid on’t.”
“When once sordid1 interest seizes on the heart, it freezes up the source of every warm and liberal feeling; it is an enemy alike to virtue2 and to taste — this it perverts3, and that it annihilates4. The time may come, my friend, when death shall dissolve the sinews of avarice5, and justice be permitted to resume her rights.”
Such were the words of the Advocate Nemours to Pierre de la Motte, as the latter stept at midnight into the carriage which was to bear him far from Paris, from his creditors6 and the persecution7 of the laws. De la Motte thanked him for this last instance of his kindness; the assistance he had given him in escape; and, when the carriage drove away, uttered a sad adieu! The gloom of the hour, and the peculiar8 emergency of his circumstances, sunk him in silent reverie.
Whoever has read Guyot de Pitaval, the most faithful of those writers who record the proceedings10 in the Parliamentary Courts of Paris, during the seventeenth century, must surely remember the striking story of Pierre de la Motte, and the Marquis Phillipe de Montalt: let all such, therefore, be informed, that the person here introduced to their notice was that individual Pierre de la Motte.
As Madame de la Motte leaned from the coach window, and gave a last look to the walls of Paris — Paris, the scene of her former happiness, and the residence of many dear friends — the fortitude11, which had till now supported her, yielded to the force of grief. “Farewell all!” sighed she, “this last look and we are separated for ever!” Tears followed her words, and, sinking back, she resigned herself to the stillness of sorrow. The recollection of former times pressed heavily upon her heart: a few months before and she was surrounded by friends, fortune, and consequence; now she was deprived of all, a miserable12 exile from her native place, without home, without comfort — almost without hope. It was not the least of her afflictions that she had been obliged to quit Paris without bidding adieu to her only son, who was now on duty with his regiment13 in Germany: and such had been the precipitancy of this removal, that had she even known where he was stationed, she had no time to inform him of it, or of the alteration14 in his father’s circumstances.
Pierre de la Motte was a gentleman, descended15 from an ancient house of France. He was a man whose passions often overcame his reason, and, for a time, silenced his conscience; but, through the image of virtue, which Nature had impressed upon his heart, was sometimes obscured by the passing influence of vice16, it was never wholly obliterated17. With strength of mind sufficient to have withstood temptation, he would have been a good man; as it was, he was always a weak, and sometimes a vicious member of society: yet his mind was active, and his imagination vivid, which, co-operating with the force of passion, often dazzled his judgement and subdued19 principle. Thus he was a man, infirm in purpose and visionary in virtue: in a word, his conduct was suggested by feeling, rather than principle; and his virtue, such as it was, could not stand the pressure of occasion.
Early in life he had married Constance Valentia, a beautiful and elegant woman, attached to her family and beloved by them. Her birth was equal, her fortune superior to his; and their nuptials20 had been celebrated21 under the auspices22 of an approving and flattering world. Her heart was devoted23 to La Motte, and, for some time, she found in him an affectionate husband; but, allured24 by the gaieties of Paris, he was soon devoted to its luxuries, and in a few years his fortune and affection were equally lost in dissipation. A false pride had still operated against his interest, and withheld25 him from honourable26 retreat while it was yet in his power: the habits, which he had acquired, enchained him to the scene of his former pleasure; and thus he had continued an expensive stile of life till the means of prolonging it were exhausted27. He at length awoke from this lethargy of security; but it was only to plunge28 into new error, and to attempt schemes for the reparation of his fortune, which served to sink him deeper in destruction. The consequence of a transaction, in which he thus engaged, now drove him, with the small wreck29 of his property, into dangerous and ignominious30 exile.
It was his design to pass into one of the Southern Provinces, and there seek, near the borders of the kingdom, an asylum31 in some obscure village. His family consisted of his wife, and two faithful domestics, a man and woman, who followed the fortunes of their master.
The night was dark and tempestuous32, and, at about the distance of three leagues from Paris, Peter, who now acted as postillion, having drove for some time over a wild heath where many ways crossed, stopped, and acquainted De la Motte with his perplexity. The sudden stopping of the carriage roused the latter from his reverie, and filled the whole party with the terror of pursuit; he was unable to supply the necessary direction, and the extreme darkness made it dangerous to proceed without one. During this period of distress33, a light was perceived at some distance, and after much doubt and hesitation34, La Motte, in the hope of obtaining assistance, alighted and advanced towards it; he proceeded slowly, from the fear of unknown pits. The light issued from the window of a small and ancient house, which stood alone on the heath, at the distance of half a mile.
Having reached the door, he stopped for some moments, listening in apprehensive35 anxiety — no sound was heard but that of the wind, which swept in hollow gusts36 over the waste. At length he ventured to knock, and, having waited sometime, during which he indistinctly heard several voices in conversation, some one within inquired what he wanted? La Motte answered, that he was a traveller who had lost his way, and desired to be directed to the nearest town.
“That,” said the person, “is seven miles off, and the road bad enough, even if you could see it: if you only want a bed, you may have it here, and had better stay.”
“The “pitiless pelting” of the storm, which, at this time, beat with increasing fury upon La Motte, inclined him to give up the attempt of proceeding9 farther till day-light; but, desirous of seeing the person with whom he conversed37, before he ventured to expose his family by calling up the carriage, he asked to be admitted. The door was now opened by a tall figure with a light, who invited La Motte to enter. He followed the man through a passage into a room almost unfurnished, in one corner of which a bed was spread upon the floor. The forlorn and desolate38 aspect of this apartment made La Motte shrink involuntarily, and he was turning to go out when the man suddenly pushed him back, and he heard the door locked upon him: his heart failed, yet he made a desperate, though vain, effort to force the door, and called loudly for release. No answer was returned; but he distinguished39 the voices of men in the room above, and, not doubting but their intention was to rob and murder him, his agitation40, at first, overcame his reason. By the light of some almost-expiring embers, he perceived a window, but the hope, which this discovery revived, was quickly lost, when he found the aperture41 guarded by strong iron bars. Such preparation for security surprized him, and confirmed his worst apprehensions43. — Alone, unarmed — beyond the chance of assistance, he saw himself in the power of people, whose trade was apparently44 rapine! — murder their means! — After revolving45 every possibility of escape, he endeavoured to await the event with fortitude; but La Motte could boast of no such virtue.
The voices had ceased, and all remained still for a quarter of an hour, when, between the pauses of the wind, he thought he distinguished the sobs46 and moaning of a female; he listened attentively47 and became confirmed in his conjecture48; it was too evidently the accent of distress. At this conviction, the remains49 of his courage forsook50 him, and a terrible surmise51 darted52, with the rapidity of lightning, cross his brain. It was probable that his carriage had been discovered by the people of the house, who, with a design of plunder53, had secured his servant, and brought hither Madame de la Motte. he was the more inclined to believe this, by the stillness which had, for sometime, reigned54 in the house, previous to the sounds he now heard. Or it was possible that the inhabitants were not robbers, but persons to whom he had been betrayed by his friend or servant, and who were appointed to deliver him into the hands of justice. Yet he hardly dared to doubt the integrity of his friend, who had been entrusted55 with the secret of his flight and the plan of his route, and had procured56 him the carriage in which he had escaped. “Such depravity,” exclaimed La Motte, “cannot surely exist in human nature; much less in the heart of Nemours!”
This ejaculation was interrupted by a noise in the passage leading to the room: it approached — the door was unlocked — and the man who had admitted La Motte into the house entered, leading, or rather forcibly dragging along, a beautiful girl, who appeared to be about eighteen. Her features were bathed in tears, and she seemed to suffer the utmost distress. The man fastened the lock and put the key in his pocket. He then advanced to La Motte, who had before observed other persons in the passage, and pointing a pistol to his breast, “You are wholly in our power,” said he, “no assistance can reach you: if you wish to save your life, swear that you will convey this girl where I may never see her more; or rather consent to take her with you, for your oath I would not believe, and I can take care you shall not find me again. — Answer quickly, you have no time to lose.”
He now seized the trembling hand of the girl, who shrunk aghast with terror, and hurried her towards La Motte, whom surprize still kept silent. She sunk at his feet, and with supplicating57 eyes, that streamed with tears, implored58 him to have pity on her. Notwithstanding his present agitation, he found it impossible to contemplate59 the beauty and distress of the object before him with indifference60. Her youth, her apparent innocence61 — the artless energy of her manner forcibly assailed62 his heart, and he was going to speak, when the ruffian, who mistook the silence of astonishment63 for that of hesitation, prevented him. “I have a horse ready to take you from hence,” said he, “and I will direct you over the heath. If you return within an hour, you die: after then, you are at liberty to come here when you please.”
La Motte, without answering, raised the lovely girl from the floor, and was so much relieved from his own apprehensions, that he had leisure to attempt dissipating hers. “Let us be gone,” said the ruffian, “and have no more of this nonsense; you may think yourself well off it’s no worse. I’ll go and get the horse ready.”
The last words roused La Motte, and perplexed64 him with new fears; he dreaded65 to discover his carriage, left its appearance might tempt18 the banditti to plunder; and to depart on horseback with this man might produce a consequence yet more to be dreaded. Madame La Motte, wearied with apprehension42, would, probably, send for her husband to the house, when all the former danger would be incurred66, with the additional evil of being separated from his family, and the chance of being detected by the emissaries of justice in endeavouring to recover them. As these reflections passed over his mind in tumultuous rapidity, a noise was again heard in the passage, an uproar68 and scuffle ensued, and in the same moment he could distinguish the voice of his servant, who had been sent by Madame La Motte in search of him. Being now determined69 to disclose what could not long be concealed70, he exclaimed aloud, that a horse was unnecessary, that he had a carriage at some distance which would convey them from the heath, the man, who was seized, being his servant.
The ruffian, speaking through the door, bid him be patient awhile and he should hear more from him. La Motte now turned his eyes upon his unfortunate companion, who, pale and exhausted, leaned for support against the wall. Her features, which were delicately beautiful, had gained from distress an expression of captivating sweetness: she had
“An eye
As when the blue sky trembles thro’ a cloud
Of purest white.”
A habit of grey camlet, with short flashed sleeves, shewed, but did not adorn71, her figure: it was thrown open at the bosom72, upon which part of her hair had fallen in disorder73, while the light veil hastily thrown on, had, in her confusion, been suffered to fall back. Every moment of farther observation heightened the surprize of La Motte, and interested him more warmly in her favour. Such elegance74 and apparent resinement, contrasted with the desolation of the house, and the savage75 manners of its inhabitants, seemed to him like a romance of imagination, rather than an occurrence of real life. He endeavoured to comfort her, and his sense of compassion76 was too sincere to be misunderstood. Her terror gradually subsided77 into gratitude79 and grief. “Ah, Sir,” said she, “Heaven has sent you to my relief, and will surely reward you for your protection: I have no friend in the world, if I do not find one in you.”
La Motte assured her of his kindness, when he was interrupted by the entrance of the ruffian. He desired to be conducted to his family. “All in good time,” replied the latter; “I have taken care of one of them, and will of you, please St. Peter; so be comforted.” These comfortable words renewed the terror of La Motte, who now earnestly begged to know if his family were safe. “O! as for that matter they are safe enough, and you will be with them presently; but don’t stand parlying here all night. Do you chuse to go or stay? you know the conditions.” They now bound the eyes of La Motte and of the young lady, whom terror had hitherto kept silent, and then placing them on two horses, a man mounted behind each, and they immediately gallopped off. They had proceeded in this way near half an hour, when La Motte entreated80 to know wither81 he was going? “You will know that bye and bye,” said the ruffian, “so be at peace.” Finding interrogatories useless, La Motte resumed silence till the horses stopped. His conductor then hallooed, and being answered by voices at some distance, in a few moments the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and, presently after, the words of a man directing Peter which way to drive. As the carriage approached, La Motte called, and, to his inexpressible joy, was answered by his wife.
“You are now beyond the borders of the heath, and may go which way you will,” said the ruffian; “if you return within an hour, you will be welcomed by a brace82 of bullets.” This was a very unnecessary caution to La Motte, whom they now released. The young stranger sighed deeply, as she entered the carriage; and the ruffian, having bestowed83 upon Peter some directions and more threats, waited to see him drive off. They did not wait long.
La Motte immediately gave a short relation of what had passed at the house, including an account of the manner in which the young stranger had been introduced to him. During this narrative84, her deep convulsive sighs frequently drew the attention of Madame La Motte, whose compassion became gradually interested in her behalf, and who now endeavoured to tranquillize her spirits. The unhappy girl answered her kindness in artless and simple expressions, and then relapsed into tears and silence. Madame forbore for the present to ask any questions that might lead to a discovery of her connections, or seem to require an explanation of the late adventure, which now furnishing her with a new subject of reflection, the sense of her own misfortunes pressed less heavily upon her mind. The distress of La Motte was even for a while suspended; he ruminated86 on the late scene, and it appeared like a vision, or one of those improbable fictions that sometimes are exhibited in a romance: he could reduce it to no principles of probability, or render it comprehensible by any endeavour to analize it. The present charge, and the chance of future trouble brought upon him by this adventure, occasioned some dissatisfaction; but the beauty and seeming innocence of Adeline, united with the pleadings of humanity in her favour, and he determined to protect her.
The tumult67 of emotions which had passed in the bosom of Adeline, began now to subside78; terror was softened88 into anxiety, and despair into grief. The sympathy so evident in the manners of her companions, particularly in those of Madame La Motte, soothed90 her heart and encouraged her to hope for better days.
Dismally91 and silently the night passed on, for the minds of the travellers were too much occupied by their several sufferings to admit of conversation. The dawn, so anxiously watched for at length appeared, and introduced the strangers more fully92 to each other. Adeline derived93 comfort from the looks of Madame La Motte, who gazed frequently and attentively at her, and thought she had seldom seen a countenance94 so interesting, or a form so striking. The languor95 of sorrow threw a melancholy96 grace upon her features, that appealed immediately to the heart; and there was a penetrating97 sweetness in her blue eyes, which indicated an intelligent and amiable98 mind.
La Motte now looked anxiously from the coach window, that he might judge of their situation, and observe whether he was followed. The obscurity of the dawn confined his views, but no person appeared. The sun at length tinted99 the eastern clouds and the tops of the highest hills, and soon after burst in full splendour on the scene. The terrors of La Motte began to subside, and the griefs of Adeline to soften87. They entered upon a lane confined by high banks and overarched by trees, on whose branches appeared the first green buds of spring glittering with dews. The fresh breeze of the morning animated100 the spirits of Adeline, whose mind was delicately sensible to the beauties of nature. As she viewed the flowery luxuriance of the turf, and the tender green of the trees, or caught, between the opening banks, a glimpse of the varied101 landscape, rich with wood, and fading into blue and distant mountains, her heart expanded in momentary102 joy. With Adeline the charms of external nature were heightened by those of novelty: she had seldom seen the grandeur103 of an extensive prospect104, or the magnificence of a wide horizon — and not often the picturesque105 beauties of more confined scenery. Her mind had not lost by long oppression that elastic106 energy, which resists calamity107; else, however susceptible108 might have been her original taste, the beauties of nature would no longer have charmed her thus easily even to temporary repose109.
The road, at length, wound down the side of a hill, and La Motte, again looking anxiously from the window, saw before him an open champaign country, through which the road, wholly unsheltered from observation, extended almost in a direct line. The danger of these circumstances alarmed him, for his flight might, without difficulty, be traced for many leagues from the hills he was now descending110. Of the first peasant that passed, he inquired for a road among the hills, but heard of none. La Motte now sunk into his former terrors. Madame, notwithstanding her own apprehensions, endeavoured to re-assure him, but, finding her efforts ineffectual, she also retired111 to the contemplation of her misfortunes. Often, as they went on, did La Motte look back upon the country they had passed, and often did imagination suggest to him the sounds of distant pursuits.
The travellers stopped to breakfast in a village, where the road was at length obscured by woods, and La Motte’s spirits again revived. Adeline appeared more tranquil85 than she had yet been, and La Motte now asked for an explanation of the scene he had witnessed on the preceding night. The inquiry112 renewed all her distress, and with tears she entreated for the present to be spared on the subject. La Motte pressed it no farther, but he observed that for the greater part of the day she seemed to remember it in melancholy and dejection. They now travelled among the hills and were, therefore, in less danger of observation; but La Motte avoided the great towns, and stopped in obscure ones no longer than to refresh the horses. About two hours after noon, the road wound into a deep valley, watered by a rivulet113, and overhung with wood. La Motte called to Peter, and ordered him to drive to a thickly embowered spot, that appeared on the left. Here he alighted with his family, and Peter having spread the provisions on the turf, they seated themselves and partook of a repast, which, in other circumstances, would have been thought delicious. Adeline endeavoured to smile, but the languor of grief was now heightened by indisposition. The violent agitation of mind, and fatigue114 of body, which she had suffered for the last twenty-four hours, had overpowered her strength, and, when La Motte led her back to the carriage, her whole frame trembled with illness. But she uttered no complaint, and, having long observed the dejection of her companions, she made a feeble effort to enliven them.
They continued to travel throughout the day without any accident or interruption, and, about three hours after sunset, arrived at Monville, a small town where La Motte determined to pass the night. Repose was, indeed, necessary to the whole party, whose pale and haggard looks, as they alighted from the carriage, were but too obvious to pass unobserved by the people of the inn. As soon as beds could be prepared, Adeline withdrew to her chamber115, accompanied by Madame La Motte, whose concern for the fair stranger made her exert every effort to soothe89 and console her. Adeline wept in silence, and taking the hand of Madame, pressed it to her bosom. These were not merely tears of grief — they were mingled116 with those which flow from the grateful heart, when, unexpectedly, it meets with sympathy. Madame La Motte understood them. After some momentary silence, she renewed her assurances of kindness, and entreated Adeline to confide117 in her friendship; but she carefully avoided any mention of the subject, which had before so much affected118 her. Adeline at length found words to express her sense of this goodness, which she did in a manner so natural and sincere, that Madame, finding herself much affected, took leave of her for the night.
In the morning, La Motte rose at an early hour, impatient to be gone. Every thing was prepared for his departure, and the breakfast had been waiting some time, but Adeline did not appear. Madame La Motte went to her chamber, and found her sunk in a disturbed slumber119. Her breathing was short and irregular — she frequently started, or sighed, and sometimes she muttered an incoherent sentence. While Madame gazed with concern upon her languid countenance, she awoke, and, looking up, gave her hand to Madame La Motte, who found it burning with fever. She had passed a restless night, and, as she now attempted to rise, her head, which beat with intense pain, grew giddy, her strength failed, and she sunk back.
Madame was much alarmed, being at once convinced that it was impossible she could travel, and that a delay might prove fatal to her husband. She went to inform him of the truth, and his distress may be more easily imagined than described. He saw all the inconvenience and danger of delay, yet he could not so far divest120 himself of humanity, as to abandon Adeline to the care, or rather, to the neglect of strangers. He sent immediately for a physician, who pronounced her to be in a high fever, and said, a removal in her present state must be fatal. La Motte now determined to wait the event, and endeavoured to calm the transports of terror, which, at times, assailed him. In the mean while, he took such precautions as his situation admitted of, passing the greater part of the day out of the village, in a spot from whence he had a view of the road for some distance; yet to be exposed to destruction by the illness of a girl, whom he did not know, and who had actually been forced upon him, was a misfortune, to which La Motte had not philosophy enough to submit with composure.
Adeline’s fever continued to increase during the whole day, and at night, when the physician took his leave, he told La Motte, the event would very soon be decided121. La Motte received this intelligence with real concern. The beauty and innocence of Adeline had overcome the disadvantageous circumstances under which she had been introduced to him, and he now gave less consideration to the inconvenience she might hereafter occasion him, than to the hope of her recovery.
Madame La Motte watched over her with tender anxiety, and observed with admiration122, her patient sweetness and mild resignation. Adeline amply repaid her, though she thought she could not. “Young as I am,” she would say, “and deserted123 by those upon whom I have a claim for protection, I can remember no connection to make me regret life so much, as that I hoped to form with you. If I live, my conduct will best express my sense of your goodness; — words are but seeble testimonies124.”
The sweetness of her manners so much attracted Madame La Motte, that she watched the crisis of her disorder, with a solicitude126 which precluded127 every other interest. Adeline passed a very disturbed night, and, when the physician appeared in the morning, he gave orders that she should be indulged with whatever she liked, and answered the inquiries128 of La Motte with a frankness that left him nothing to hope.
In the mean time, his patient, after drinking profusely129 of some mild liquids, fell asleep, in which she continued for several hours, and so profound was her repose, that her breath alone gave sign of existence. She awoke free from fever, and with no other disorder than weakness, which, in a few days, she overcame so well, as to be able to set out with La Motte for B — a village out of the great road, which he thought it prudent130 to quit. There they passed the following night, and early the next morning commenced their journey upon a wild and woody tract125 of country. They stopped about noon at a solitary131 village, where they took refreshments132, and obtained directions for passing the vast forest of Fontanville, upon the borders of which they now were. La Motte wished at first to take a guide, but he apprehended133 more evil from the discovery he might make of his route, than he hoped for benefit from assistance in the wilds of this uncultivated tract.
La Motte now designed to pass on to Lyons, where he could either seek concealment134 in its neighbourhood, or embark135 on the Rhone for Geneva, should the emergency of his circumstances hereafter require him to leave France. It was about twelve o’clock at noon, and he was desirous to hasten forward, that he might pass the forest of Fontanville, and reach the town on its opposite borders, before night fall. Having deposited a fresh stock of provisions in the carriage, and received such directions as were necessary concerning the roads, they again set forward, and in a short time entered upon the forest. It was now the latter end of April, and the weather was remarkably136 temperate137 and fine. The balmy freshness of the air, which breathed the first pure essence of vegetation; and the gentle warmth of the sun, whose beams vivified every hue138 of nature, and opened every floweret of spring, revived Adeline, and inspired her with life and health. As she inhaled139 the breeze, her strength seemed to return, and, as her eyes wandered through the romantic glades140 that opened into the forest, her heart was gladdened with complacent141 delight: but when from these objects she turned her regard upon Monsieur and Madame La Motte, to whose tender attentions she owed her life, and in whose looks she now read esteem142 and kindness, her bosom glowed with sweet affections, and she experienced a force of gratitude which might be called sublime143.
For the remainder of the day they continued to travel, without seeing a hut, or meeting a human being. It was now near sun-set, and, the prospect being closed on all sides by the forest, La Motte began to have apprehensions that his servant had mistaken the way. The road, if a road it could be called, which afforded only a slight track upon the grass, was sometimes over-run by luxuriant vegetation, and sometimes obscured by the deep shades, and Peter at length stopped uncertain of the way. La Motte, who dreaded being benighted144 in a scene so wild and solitary as this forest, and whose apprehensions of banditti were very sanguine145, ordered him to proceed at any rate, and, if he found no track, to endeavour to gain a more open part of the forest. With these orders, Peter again set forwards, but having proceeded some way, and his views being still confined by woody glades and forest walks, he began to despair of extricating146 himself, and stopped for further orders. The sun was now set, but, as La Motte looked anxiously from the window, he observed upon the vivid glow of the western horison, some dark towers rising from among the trees at a little distance, and ordered Peter to drive towards them. “If they belong to a monastery,” said he, “we may probably gain admittance for the night.”
The carriage drove along under the shade of “melancholy boughs,” through which the evening twilight147, which yet coloured the air, diffused148 a solemnity that vibrated in thrilling sensations upon the hearts of the travellers. Expectation kept them silent. The present scene recalled to Adeline a remembrance of the late terrific circumstances, and her mind responded but too easily to the apprehension of new misfortunes. La Motte alighted at the foot of a green knoll149, where the trees again opening to light, permitted a nearer, though imperfect, view of the edifice150.
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1
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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2
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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3
perverts
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| n.性变态者( pervert的名词复数 )v.滥用( pervert的第三人称单数 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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4
annihilates
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| n.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的名词复数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的第三人称单数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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5
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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6
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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7
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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8
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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9
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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10
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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11
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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12
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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17
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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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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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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21
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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22
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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23
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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26
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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27
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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28
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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29
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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30
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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31
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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32
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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33
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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34
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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35
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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36
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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37
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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38
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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39
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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40
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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41
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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42
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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43
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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44
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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45
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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46
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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47
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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48
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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49
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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50
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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51
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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52
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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53
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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54
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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55
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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57
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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58
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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60
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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61
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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62
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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63
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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64
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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65
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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66
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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67
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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68
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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69
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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70
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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71
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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72
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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73
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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74
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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75
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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76
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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77
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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78
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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79
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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80
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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82
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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83
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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85
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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86
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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87
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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88
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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89
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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90
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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91
dismally
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|
| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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92
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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93
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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94
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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95
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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96
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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97
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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98
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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99
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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100
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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101
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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102
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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103
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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104
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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105
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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106
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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107
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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108
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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109
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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110
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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111
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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112
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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113
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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114
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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115
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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116
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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117
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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118
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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119
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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120
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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121
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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122
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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123
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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124
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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125
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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126
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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127
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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128
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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129
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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130
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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131
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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132
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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133
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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134
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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135
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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136
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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137
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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138
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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139
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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141
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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142
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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143
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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144
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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145
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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146
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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147
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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148
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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149
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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150
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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