It was a balmy April afternoon, and she and Julie were floating through a scene enchanted1, incomparable. When spring descends2 upon the shores of the Lago di Como, she brings with her all the graces, all the beauties, all the fine, delicate, and temperate3 delights of which earth and sky are capable, and she pours them forth4 upon a land of perfect loveliness. Around the shores of other lakes--Maggiore, Lugano, Garda--blue mountains rise, and the vineyards spread their green and dazzling terraces to the sun. Only Como can show in unmatched union a main composition, incomparably grand and harmonious5, combined with every jewelled, or glowing, or exquisite6 detail. Nowhere do the mountains lean towards each other in such an ordered splendor7 as that which bends round the northern shores of Como. Nowhere do buttressed8 masses rise behind each other, to right and left of a blue water-way, in lines statelier or more noble than those kept by the mountains of the Lecco Lake, as they marshal themselves on either hand, along the approaches to Lombardy and Venetia; bearing aloft, as though on the purple pillars of some majestic10 gateway11, the great curtain of dazzling cloud which, on a sunny day, hangs over the Brescian plain--a glorious drop-scene, interposed between the dwellers12 on the Como Mountains, and those marble towns, Brescia, Verona, Padua, which thread the way to Venice.
And within this divine frame-work, between the glistening13 snows which still, in April, crown and glorify14 the heights, and those reflections of them which lie encalmed in the deep bosom15 of the lake, there's not a foot of pasture, not a shelf of vineyard, not a slope of forest where the spring is not at work, dyeing the turf with gentians, starring it with narcissuses, or drawing across it the first golden net-work of the chestnut16 leaves; where the mere17 emerald of the grass is not in itself a thing to refresh the very springs of being; where the peach-blossom and the wild-cherry and the olive are not perpetually weaving patterns on the blue, which ravish the very heart out of your breast. And already the roses are beginning to pour over the walls; the wistaria is climbing up the cypresses18; a pomp of camellias and azaleas is in all the gardens; while in the grassy19 bays that run up into the hills the primrose20 banks still keep their sweet austerity, and the triumph of spring over the just banished21 winter is still sharp and new.
And in the heart and sense of Julie Le Breton, as she sat beside the Duchess, listening absently to the talk of the old boatman, who, with his oars23 resting idly in his hands, was chattering25 to the ladies, a renewing force akin26 to that of the spring was also at its healing and life-giving work. She had still the delicate, tremulous look of one recovering from a sore wrestle27 with physical ill; but in her aspect there were suggestions more intimate, more moving than this. Those who have lain down and risen up with pain; those who have been face to face with passion and folly28 and self-judgment; those who have been forced to seek with eagerness for some answer to those questions which the majority of us never ask, "Whither is my life leading me--and what is it worth to me or to any other living soul?"--these are the men and women who now and then touch or startle us with the eyes and the voice of Julie, if, at least, we have the capacity that responds. Sir Wilfrid Bury, for instance, prince of self-governed and reasonable men, was not to be touched by Julie. For him, in spite of her keen intelligence, she was the type passionné, from which he instinctively29 recoiled--the Duke of Crowborough the same. Such men feel towards such women as Julie Le Breton hostility30 or satire31; for what they ask, above all, of the women of their world is a kind of simplicity32, a kind of lightness which makes life easier for men.
But for natures like Evelyn Crowborough--or Meredith--or Jacob Delafield--the Julie-type has perennial33 attractions. For these are all children of feeling, allied34 in this, however different in intelligence or philosophy. They are attracted by the storm-tossed temperament35 in itself; by mere sensibility; by that which, in the technical language of Catholicism, suggests or possesses "the gift of tears." At any rate, pity and love for her poor Julie--however foolish, however faulty--lay warm in Evelyn Crowborough's breast; they had brought her to Como; they kept her now battling on the one hand with her husband's angry letters and on the other with the melancholy36 of her most perplexing, most appealing friend.
"I had often heard" [wrote the sore-tried Duke] "of the ravages37 wrought38 in family life by these absurd and unreasonable39 female friendships, but I never thought that it would be you, Evelyn, who would bring them home to me. I won't repeat the arguments I have used a hundred times in vain. But once again I implore40 and demand that you should find some kind, responsible person to look after Miss Le Breton--I don't care what you pay--and that you yourself should come home to me and the children and the thousand and one duties you are neglecting.
"As for the spring month in Scotland, which I generally enjoy so much, that has been already entirely41 ruined. And now the season is apparently42 to be ruined also. On the Shropshire property there is an important election coming on, as I am sure you know; and the Premier43 said to me only yesterday that he hoped you were already up and doing. The Grand Duke of C---- will be in London within the next fortnight. I particularly want to show him some civility. But what can I do without you--and how on earth am I to explain your absence?
"Once more, Evelyn, I beg and I demand that you should come home."
To which the Duchess had rushed off a reply without a post's delay.
"Oh, Freddie, you are such a wooden-headed darling! As if I hadn't explained till I'm black in the face. I'm glad, anyway, you didn't say command; that would really have made difficulties.
"As for the election, I'm sure if I was at home I should think it very good fun. Out here I am extremely doubtful whether we ought to do such things as you and Lord M---- suggest. A duke shouldn't interfere44 in elections. Anyway, I'm sure it's good for my character to consider it a little--though I quite admit you may lose the election.
"The Grand Duke is a horrid45 wretch46, and if he wasn't a grand duke you'd be the first to cut him. I had to spend a whole dinner-time last year in teaching him his proper place. It was very humiliating, and not at all amusing. You can have a men's dinner for him. That's all he's fit for.
"And as for the babies, Mrs. Robson sends me a telegram every morning. I can't make out that they have had a finger-ache since I went away, and I am sure mothers are entirely superfluous47. All the same, I think about them a great deal, especially at night. Last night I tried to think about their education--if only I wasn't such a sleepy creature! But, at any rate, I never in my life tried to think about it at home. So that's so much to the good.
"Indeed, I'll come back to you soon, you poor, forsaken48, old thing! But Julie has no one in the world, and I feel like a Newfoundland dog who has pulled some one out of the water. The water was deep; and the life's only just coming back; and the dog's not much good. But he sits there, for company, till the doctor comes, and that's just what I'm doing.
"I know you don't approve of the notions I have in my head now. But that's because you don't understand. Why don't you come out and join us? Then you'd like Julie as much as I do; everything would be quite simple; and I shouldn't be in the least jealous.
"Dr. Meredith is coming here, probably to-night, and Jacob should arrive to-morrow on his way to Venice, where poor Chudleigh and his boy are."
The breva, or fair-weather wind, from the north was blowing freshly yet softly down the lake. The afternoon sun was burning on Bellaggio, on the long terrace of the Melzi villa49, on the white mist of fruit-blossom that lay lightly on the green slopes above San Giovanni.
Suddenly the Duchess and the boatman left the common topics of every day by which the Duchess was trying to improve her Italian--such as the proposed enlargement of the Bellevue Hotel, the new villas50 that were springing up, the gardens of the Villa Carlotta, and so forth. Evelyn had carelessly asked the old man whether he had been in any of the fighting of '59, and in an instant, under her eyes, he became another being. Out rolled a torrent51 of speech; the oars lay idly on the water; and through the man's gnarled and wrinkled face there blazed a high and illumining passion. Novara and its beaten king, in '49; the ten years of waiting, when a whole people bode52 its time, in a gay, grim silence; the grudging53 victory of Magenta54; the fivefold struggle that wrenched55 the hills of San Martino from the Austrians; the humiliations and the rage of Villafranca--of all these had this wasted graybeard made a part. And he talked of them with the Latin eloquence56 and facility, as no veteran of the north could have talked; he was in a moment the equal of these great affairs in which he had mingled57; so that one felt in him the son of a race which had been rolled and polished--a pebble58, as it were, from rocks which had made the primeval frame-work of the world--in the main course and stream of history.
Then from the campaign of '59 he fell back on the Five Days of Milan in '48--the immortal59 days, when a populace drove out an army, and what began almost in jest ended in a delirium60, a stupefaction of victory. His language was hot, broken, confused, like the street fighting it chronicled. Afterwards--a further sharpening and blanching61 of the old face--and he had carried them deep into the black years of Italy's patience and Austria's revenge. Throwing out a thin arm, he pointed62 towards town after town on the lake shores, now in the brilliance63 of sunset, now in the shadow of the northern slope--Gravedona, Varenna, Argegno--towns which had each of them given their sons to the Austrian bullet and the Austrian lash64 for the ransom65 of Italy.
He ran through the sacred names--Stazzonelli, Riccini, Crescieri, Ronchetti, Ceresa, Previtali--young men, almost all of them, shot for the possession of a gun or a knife, for helping66 their comrades in the Austrian army to desert, for "insulting conduct" towards an Austrian soldier or officer.
Of one of these executions, which he had himself witnessed at Varese--the shooting of a young fellow of six-and-twenty, his own friend and kinsman--he gave an account which blanched67 the Duchess's cheeks and brought the big tears into her eyes. Then, when he saw the effect he had produced, the old man trembled.
"Ah, eccellenza," he cried, "but it had to be! The Italians had to show they knew how to die; then God let them live. Ecco, eccellenza!"
And he drew from his breast-pocket, with shaking hands, an old envelope tied round with string. When he had untied68 it, a piece of paper emerged, brown with age and worn with much reading. It was a rudely printed broadsheet containing an account of the last words and sufferings of the martyrs69 of Mantua--those conspirators70 of 1852--from whose graves and dungeons71 sprang, tenfold renewed, the regenerating72 and liberating73 forces which, but a few years later, drove out the Austrian with the Bourbon, together.
"See here, eccellenza," he said, as he tenderly spread out its tattered74 folds and gave it into the Duchess's hand. "Have the goodness to look where is that black mark. There you will find the last words of Don Enrico Tazzoli, the half-brother of my father. He was a priest, eccellenza. Ah, it was not then as it is now! The priests were then for Italy. They hanged three of them at Mantua alone. As for Don Enrico, first they stripped him of his priesthood, and then they hanged him. And those were his last words, and the last words of Scarsellini also, who suffered with him. Veda eccellenza! As for me, I know them from a boy."
And while the Duchess read, the old man repeated tags and fragments under his breath, as he once more resumed the oars and drove the boat gently towards Menaggio.
"The multitude of victims has not robbed us of courage in the past, nor will it so rob us in the future--till victory dawns. The cause of the people is like the cause of religion--it triumphs only through its martyrs.... You--who survive--will conquer, and in your victory we, the dead, shall live....
"Take no thought for us; the blood of the forerunners75 is like the seed which the wise husbandman scatters76 on the fertile ground.... Teach our young men how to adore and how to suffer for a great idea. Work incessantly77 at that; so shall our country come to birth; and grieve not for us!... Yes, Italy shall be one! To that all things point. WORK! There is no obstacle that cannot be overcome, no opposition78 that cannot be destroyed. The HOW and the WHEN only remain to be solved. You, more fortunate than we, will find the clew to the riddle79, when all things are accomplished80, and the times are ripe.... Hope!--my parents, and my brothers--hope always!--waste no time in weeping."
The Duchess read aloud the Italian, and Julie stooped over her shoulder to follow the words.
"Marvellous!" said Julie, in a low voice, as she sank back into her place. "A youth of twenty-seven, with the rope round his neck, and he comforts himself with 'Italy.' What's 'Italy' to him, or he to 'Italy'?" Not even an immediate81 paradise. "Is there anybody capable of it now?"
Her face and attitude had lost their languor82. As the Duchess returned his treasure to the old man she looked at Julie with joy. Not since her illness had there been any such sign of warmth and energy.
And, indeed, as they floated on, past the glow of Bellaggio, towards the broad gold and azure83 of the farther lake, the world-defying passion that breathed from these words of dead and murdered Italians played as a bracing84 and renewing power on Julie's still feeble being. It was akin to the high snows on those far Alps that closed in the lake--to the pure wind that blew from them--to the "gleam, the shadow, and the peace supreme," amid which their little boat pressed on towards the shore.
"What matter," cried the intelligence, but as though through sobs85--"what matter the individual struggle and misery86? These can be lived down. The heart can be silenced--nerves steadied--strength restored. Will and idea remain--the eternal spectacle of the world, and the eternal thirst of man to see, to know, to feel, to realize himself, if not in one passion, then in another. If not in love, then in patriotism87--art--thought."
The Duchess and Julie landed presently beneath the villa of which they were the passing tenants88. The Duchess mounted the double staircase where the banksia already hung in a golden curtain over the marble balustrade. Her face was thoughtful. She had to write her daily letter to the absent and reproachful Duke.
Julie parted from her with a caress89, and paused awhile to watch the small figure till it mounted out of sight. Her friend had become very dear to her. A new humility90, a new gratitude91 filled her heart. Evelyn should not sacrifice herself much longer. When she had insisted on carrying her patient abroad, Julie had neither mind nor will wherewith to resist. But now--the Duke should soon come to his own again.
She herself turned inland for that short walk by which each day she tested her returning strength. She climbed the winding92 road to Criante, the lovely village above Cadenabbia; then, turning to the left, she mounted a path that led to the woods which overhang the famous gardens of the Villa Carlotta.
Such a path! To the left hand, and, as it seemed, steeply beneath her feet, all earth and heaven--the wide lake, the purple mountains, the glories of a flaming sky. On the calm spaces of water lay a shimmer93 of crimson94 and gold, repeating the noble splendor of the clouds; the midgelike boats crept from shore to shore; and, midway between Bellaggio and Cadenabbia, the steam-boat, a white speck95, drew a silver furrow96. To her right a green hill-side--each blade of grass, each flower, each tuft of heath, enskied, transfigured, by the broad light that poured across it from the hidden west. And on the very hill-top a few scattered97 olives, peaches, and wild cherries scrawled98 upon the blue, their bare, leaning stems, their pearly whites, their golden pinks and feathery grays all in a glory of sunset that made of them things enchanted, aerial, fantastical, like a dance of Botticelli angels on the height.
And presently a sheltered bank in a green hollow, where Julie sat down to rest. But nature, in this tranquil99 spot, had still new pageants100, new sorceries wherewith to play upon the nerves of wonder. Across the hollow a great crag clothed in still leafless chestnut-trees reared itself against the lake. The innumerable lines of stem and branch, warm brown or steely gray, were drawn101 sharp on silver air, while at the very summit of the rock one superb tree with branching limbs, touched with intense black, sprang high above the rest, the proud plume102 or ensign of the wood. Through the trunks the blaze of distant snow and the purples of craggy mountains; in front the glistening spray of peach or cherry blossom, breaking the still wintry beauty of that majestic grove103. And in all the air, dropping from the heaven, spread on the hills, or shimmering104 on the lake, a diffusion105 of purest rose and deepest blue, lake and cloud and mountain each melting into the other, as though heaven and earth conspired106 merely to give value and relief to the year's new birth, to this near sparkle of young leaf and blossom which shone like points of fire on the deep breast of the distance.
On the green ledge107 which ran round the hollow were children tugging108 at a goat. Opposite was a contadino's house of gray stone. A water-wheel turned beside it, and a stream, brought down from the hills, ran chattering past, a white and dancing thread of water. Everything was very still and soft. The children and the river made their voices heard; and there were nightingales singing in the woods below. Otherwise all was quiet. With a tranquil and stealthy joy the spring was taking possession. Nay--the Angelus! It swung over the lake and rolled from village to village....
The tears were in Julie's eyes. Such beauty as this was apt now to crush and break her. All her being was still sore, and this appeal of nature was sometimes more than she could bear.
Only a few short weeks since Warkworth had gone out of her life--since Delafield at a stroke had saved her from ruin--since Lord Lackington had passed away.
One letter had reached her from Warkworth, a wild and incoherent letter, written at night in a little room of a squalid hotel near the Gare de Sceaux. Her telegram had reached him, and for him, as for her, all was over.
But the letter was by no means a mere cry of baffled passion. There was in it a new note of moral anguish109, as fresh and startling in her ear, coming from him, as the cry of passion itself. In the language of religion, it was the utterance110 of a man "convicted of sin."
/# "How long is it since that man gave me your telegram? I was pacing up and down the departure platform, working myself into an agony of nervousness and anxiety as the time went by, wondering what on earth had happened to you, when the chef de gare came up: 'Monsieur attend une dépêche?' There were some stupid formalities--at last I got it. It seemed to me I had already guessed what it contained.
"So it was Delafield who met you--Delafield who turned you back?
"I saw him outside the hotel yesterday, and we exchanged a few words. I have always disliked his long, pale face and his high and mighty111 ways--at any rate, towards plain fellows, who don't belong to the classes, like me. Yesterday I was more than usually anxious to get rid of him.
"So he guessed?
"It can't have been chance. In some way he guessed. And you have been torn from me. My God! If I could only reach him--if I could fling his contempt in his face! And yet--
"I have been walking up and down this room all night. The longing112 for you has been the sharpest suffering I suppose that I have ever known. For I am not one of the many people who enjoy pain. I have kept as free of it as I could. This time it caught and gripped me. Yet that isn't all. There has been something else.
"What strange, patched creatures we are! Do you know, Julie, that by the time the dawn came I was on my knees--thanking God that we were parted--that you were on your way home--safe--out of my reach? Was I mad, or what? I can't explain it. I only know that one moment I hated Delafield as a mortal enemy--whether he was conscious of what he had done or no--and the next I found myself blessing113 him!
"I understand now what people mean when they talk of conversion114. It seems to me that in the hours I have just passed through things have come to light in me that I myself never suspected. I came of an Evangelical stock--I was brought up in a religious household. I suppose that one can't, after all, get away from the blood and the life that one inherits. My poor, old father--I was a bad son, and I know I hastened his death--was a sort of Puritan saint, with very stern ideas. I seem to have been talking with him this night, and shrinking under his condemnation116. I could see his old face, as he put before me the thoughts I had dared to entertain, the risks I had been ready to take towards the woman I loved--the woman to whom I owed a deep debt of eternal gratitude.
"Julie, it is strange how this appointment affects me. Last night I saw several people at the Embassy--good fellows--who seemed anxious to do all they could for me. Such men never took so much notice of me before. It is plain to me that this task will make or mar9 me. I may fail. I may die. But if I succeed England will owe me something, and these men at the top of the tree--
"Good God! how can I go on writing this to you? It's because I came back to the hotel and tossed about half the night brooding over the difference between what these men--these honorable, distinguished117 fellows--were prepared to think of me, and the blackguard I knew myself to be. What, take everything from a woman's hand, and then turn and try and drag her in the mire--propose to her what one would shoot a man for proposing to one's sister! Thief and cur.
"Julie--kind, beloved Julie--forget it all! For God's sake, let's cast it all behind us! As long as I live, your name, your memory will live in my heart. We shall not meet, probably, for many years. You'll marry and be happy yet. Just now I know you're suffering. I seem to see you in the train--on the steamer--your pale face that has lighted up life for me--your dear, slender hands that folded so easily into one of mine. You are in pain, my darling. Your nature is wrenched from its natural supports. And you gave me all your fine, clear mind, and all your heart. I ought to be damned to the deepest hell!
"Then, again, I say to myself, if only she were here! If only I had her here, with her arms round my neck, surely I might have found the courage and the mere manliness118 to extricate119 both herself and me from these entanglements120. Aileen might have released and forgiven one.
"No, no! It's all over! I'll go and do my task. You set it me. You sha'n't be ashamed of me there.
"Good-bye, Julie, my love--good-bye--forever!" #/
These were portions of that strange document composed through the intervals121 of a long night, which showed in Warkworth's mind the survival of a moral code, inherited from generations of scrupulous122 and God-fearing ancestors, overlaid by selfish living, and now revived under the stress, the purification partly of deepening passion, partly of a high responsibility. The letter was incoherent, illogical; it showed now the meaner, now the nobler elements of character; but it was human; it came from the warm depths of life, and it had exerted in the end a composing and appeasing123 force upon the woman to whom it was addressed. He had loved her--if only at the moment of parting--he had loved her! At the last there had been feeling, sincerity124, anguish, and to these all things may be forgiven.
And, indeed, what in her eyes there was to forgive, Julie had long forgiven. Was it his fault if, when they met first, he was already pledged--for social and practical reasons which her mind perfectly125 recognized and understood--to Aileen Moffatt? Was it his fault if the relations between herself and him had ripened126 into a friendship which in its turn could only maintain itself by passing into love? No! It was she, whose hidden, insistent127 passion--nourished, indeed, upon a tragic128 ignorance--had transformed what originally he had a perfect right to offer and to feel.
So she defended him; for in so doing she justified129 herself. And as to the Paris proposal, he had a right to treat her as a woman capable of deciding for herself how far love should carry her; he had a right to assume that her antecedents, her training, and her circumstances were not those of the ordinary sheltered girl, and that for her love might naturally wear a bolder and wilder aspect than for others. He blamed himself too severely130, too passionately132; but for this very blame her heart remembered him the more tenderly. For it meant that his mind was torn and in travail133 for her, that his thoughts clung to her in a passionate131 remorse134; and again she felt herself loved, and forgave with all her heart.
All the same, he was gone out of her life, and through the strain and the unconscious progress to other planes and phases of being, wrought by sickness and convalescence135, her own passion for him even was now a changed and blunted thing.
Was she ashamed of the wild impulse which had carried her to Paris? It is difficult to say. She was often seized with the shuddering137 consciousness of an abyss escaped, with wonder that she was still in the normal, accepted world, that Evelyn might still be her companion, that Thérèse still adored her more fervently138 than any saint in the calendar. Perhaps, if the truth were known, she was more abased139 in her own eyes by the self-abandonment which had preceded the assignation with Warkworth. She had much intellectual arrogance140, and before her acquaintance with Warkworth she had been accustomed to say and to feel that love was but one passion among many, and to despise those who gave it too great a place. And here she had flung herself into it, like any dull or foolish girl for whom a love affair represents the only stirring in the pool of life that she is ever likely to know.
Well, she must recapture herself and remake her life. As she sat there in the still Italian evening she thought of the old boatman, and those social and intellectual passions to which his burst of patriotism had recalled her thoughts. Society, literature, friends, and the ambitions to which these lead--let her go back to them and build her days afresh. Dr. Meredith was coming. In his talk and companionship she would once more dip and temper the tools of mind and taste. No more vain self-arraignment, no more useless regrets. She looked back with bitterness upon a moment of weakness when, in the first stage of convalescence, in mortal weariness and loneliness, she had slipped one evening into the Farm Street church and unburdened her heart in confession141. As she had told the Duchess, the Catholicism instilled142 into her youth by the Bruges nuns143 still laid upon her at times its ghostly and compelling hand. Now in her renewed strength she was inclined to look upon it as an element of weakness and disintegration144 in her nature. She resolved, in future, to free herself more entirely from a useless Aberglaube.
But Meredith was not the only visitor expected at the villa in the next few days. She was already schooling145 herself to face the arrival of Jacob Delafield.
It was curious how the mere thought of Delafield produced an agitation146, a shock of feeling, which seemed to spread through all the activities of being. The faint, renascent147 glamour149 which had begun to attach to literature and social life disappeared. She fell into a kind of brooding, the sombre restlessness of one who feels in the dark the recurrent presence of an attacking and pursuing power, and is in a tremulous uncertainty150 where or how to meet it.
The obscure tumult151 within her represented, in fact, a collision between the pagan and Christian152 conceptions of life. In self-dependence, in personal pride, in her desire to refer all things to the arbitrament of reason, Julie, whatever her practice, was theoretically a stoic153 and a pagan. But Delafield's personality embodied154 another "must," another "ought," of a totally different kind. And it was a "must" which, in a great crisis of her life, she also had been forced to obey. There was the thought which stung and humiliated155. And the fact was irreparable; nor did she see how she was ever to escape from the strange, silent, penetrating156 relation it had established between her and the man who loved her and had saved her, against her will.
During her convalescence at Crowborough House, Delafield had been often admitted. It would have been impossible to exclude him, unless she had confided157 the whole story of the Paris journey to the Duchess. And whatever Evelyn might tremblingly guess, from Julie's own mouth she knew nothing. So Delafield had come and gone, bringing Lord Lackington's last words, and the account of his funeral, or acting158 as intermediary in business matters between Julie and the Chantrey brothers. Julie could not remember that she had ever asked him for these services. They fell to him, as it were, by common consent, and she had been too weak to resist.
At first, whenever he entered the room, whenever he approached her, her sense of anger and resentment159 had been almost unbearable160. But little by little his courtesy, tact161, and coolness had restored a relation between them which, if not the old one, had still many of the outward characters of intimacy162. Not a word, not the remotest allusion163 reminded her of what had happened. The man who had stood before her transfigured on the deck of the steamer, stammering164 out, "I thank God I had the courage to do it!"--it was often hard for her to believe, as she stole a look at Delafield, chatting or writing in the Duchess's drawing-room, that such a scene had ever taken place.
The evening stole on. How was it that whenever she allowed the thought of Delafield to obtain a real lodgment in the mind, even the memory of Warkworth was for the time effaced165? Silently, irresistibly166, a wild heat of opposition would develop within her. These men round whom, as it were, there breathes an air of the heights; in whom one feels the secret guard that religion keeps over thoughts and words and acts--her passionate yet critical nature flung out against them. How are they better than others, after all? What right have they over the wills of others?
Nevertheless, as the rose of evening burned on the craggy mountain face beyond Bellaggio, retreating upward, step by step, till the last glorious summit had died into the cool and already starlit blues167 of night, Julie, held, as it were, by a reluctant and half-jealous fascination168, sat dreaming on the hill-side, not now of Warkworth, not of the ambitions of the mind, or society, but simply of the goings and comings, the aspects and sayings of a man in whose eyes she had once read the deepest and sternest things of the soul--a condemnation and an anguish above and beyond himself.
Dr. Meredith arrived in due time, a jaded169 Londoner athirst for idleness and fresh air. The Duchess and Julie carried him hither and thither170 about the lake in the four-oar24 boat which had been hired for the Duchess's pleasure. Here, enthroned between the two ladies, he passed luxurious171 hours, and his talk of politics, persons, and books brought just that stimulus172 to Julie's intelligence and spirits for which the Duchess had been secretly longing.
A first faint color returned to Julie's cheeks. She began to talk again; to resume certain correspondences; to show herself once more--at any rate intermittently--the affectionate, sympathetic, and beguiling173 friend.
As for Meredith, he knew little, but he suspected a good deal. There were certain features in her illness and convalescence which suggested to him a mental cause; and if there were such a cause, it must, of course, spring from her relations to Warkworth.
The name of that young officer was never mentioned. Once or twice Meredith was tempted174 to introduce it. It rankled175 in his mind that Julie had never been frank with him, freely as he had poured his affection at her feet. But a moment of languor or of pallor disarmed176 him.
"She is better," he said to the Duchess one day, abruptly177. "Her mind is full of activity. But why, at times, does she still look so miserable178--like a person without hope or future?"
The Duchess looked pensive179. They were sitting in the corner of one of the villa's terraced walks, amid a scented180 wilderness181 of flowers. Above them was a canopy182 of purple and yellow--rose and wistaria; while through the arches of the pergola which ran along the walk gleamed all those various blues which make the spell of Como--the blue and white of the clouds, the purple of the mountains, the azure of the lake.
"Well, she was in love with him. I suppose it takes a little time," said the Duchess, sighing.
"Why was she in love with him?" said Meredith, impatiently. "As to the Moffatt engagement, naturally, she was kept in the dark?"
"At first," said the Duchess, hesitating. "And when she knew, poor dear, it was too late!"
"Too late for what?"
"Well, when one falls in love one doesn't all at once shake it off because the man deceives you."
"One should," said Meredith, with energy. "Men are not worth all that women spend upon them."
"Oh, that's true!" cried the Duchess--"so dreadfully true! But what's the good of preaching? We shall go on spending it to the end of time."
"Well, at any rate, don't choose the dummies183 and the frauds."
"Ah, there you talk sense," said the Duchess. "And if only we had the French system in England! If only one could say to Julie: 'Now look here, there's your husband! It's all settled--down to plate and linen--and you've got to marry him!' how happy we should all be."
Dr. Meredith stared.
"You have the man in your eye," he said.
The Duchess hesitated.
"Suppose you come a little walk with me in the wood," she said, at last, gathering184 up her white skirts.
Meredith obeyed her. They were away for half an hour, and when they returned the journalist's face, flushed and furrowed185 with thought, was not very easy to read.
Nor was his temper in good condition. It required a climb to the very top of Monte Crocione to send him back, more or less appeased186, a consenting player in the Duchess's game. For if there are men who are flirts187 and egotists--who ought to be, yet never are, divined by the sensible woman at a glance--so also there are men too well equipped for this wicked world, too good, too well born, too desirable.
It was in this somewhat flinty and carping mood that Meredith prepared himself for the advent188 of Jacob Delafield.
But when Delafield appeared, Meredith's secret antagonisms189 were soon dissipated. There was certainly no challenging air of prosperity about the young man.
At first sight, indeed, he was his old cheerful self, always ready for a walk or a row, on easy terms at once with the Italian servants or boatmen. But soon other facts emerged--stealthily, as it were, from the concealment190 in which a strong man was trying to keep them.
"That young man's youth is over," said Meredith, abruptly, to the Duchess one evening. He pointed to the figure of Delafield, who was pacing, alone with his pipe, up and down one of the lower terraces of the garden.
The Duchess showed a teased expression.
"It's like something wearing through," she said, slowly. "I suppose it was always there, but it didn't show."
"Name your 'it.'"
"I can't." But she gave a little shudder136, which made Meredith look at her with curiosity.
"You feel something ghostly--unearthly?"
She nodded assent191; crying out, however, immediately afterwards, as though in compunction, that he was one of the dearest and best of fellows.
"Of course he is," said Meredith. "It is only the mystic in him coming out. He is one of the men who have the sixth sense."
"Well, all I know is, he has the oddest power over people," said Evelyn, with another shiver. "If Freddie had it, my life wouldn't be worth living. Thank goodness, he hasn't a vestige192!"
"At bottom it's the power of the priest," said Meredith. "And you women are far too susceptible193 towards it. Nine times out of ten it plays the mischief194."
The Duchess was silent a moment. Then she bent195 towards her companion, finger on lip, her charming eyes glancing significantly towards the lower terrace. The figures on it were now two. Julie and Delafield paced together.
"But this is the tenth!" she said, in an eager whisper.
Meredith smiled at her, then flung her a dubious196 "Chi sa?" and changed the subject.
Delafield, who was a fine oar, had soon taken command of the lake expeditions; and by the help of two stalwart youths from Tremezzo, the four-oar was in use from morning till night. Through the broad lake which lies between Menaggio and Varenna it sped northward197 to Gravedona; or beneath the shadowy cliffs of the Villa Serbelloni it slipped over deep waters, haunted and dark, into the sunny spaces of Lecco; or it coasted along the steep sides of Monte Primo, so that the travellers in it might catch the blue stain of the gentians on the turf, where it sloped into the lucent wave below, or watch the fishermen on the rocks, spearing their prey198 in the green or golden shallows.
The weather was glorious--a summer before its time. The wild cherries shook down their snow upon the grass; but the pears were now in bridal white, and a warmer glory of apple-blossom was just beginning to break upon the blue. The nights were calm and moonlit; the dawns were visions of mysterious and incredible beauty, wherein mountain and forest and lake were but the garments, diaphanous199, impalpable, of some delicate, indwelling light and fire spirit, which breathed and pulsed through the solidity of rock, no less visibly than through the crystal leagues of air or the sunlit spaces of water.
Yet presently, as it were, a hush200 of waiting, of tension, fell upon their little party. Nature offered her best; but there was only an apparent acceptance of her bounties201. Through the outward flow of talk and amusement, of wanderings on lake or hill, ugly hidden forces of pain and strife202, regret, misery, resistance, made themselves rarely yet piercingly felt.
Julie drooped203 again. Her cheeks were paler even than when Meredith arrived. Delafield, too, began to be more silent, more absent. He was helpful and courteous204 as ever, but it began to be seen that his gayety was an effort, and now and then there were sharp or bitter notes in voice or manner, which jarred, and were not soon forgotten.
Presently, Meredith and the Duchess found themselves looking on, breathless and astonished, at the struggle of two personalities205, the wrestle between two wills. They little knew that it was a renewed struggle--second wrestle. But silently, by a kind of tacit agreement, they drew away from Delafield and Julie. They dimly understood that he pursued and she resisted; and that for him life was becoming gradually absorbed into the two facts of her presence and her resistance.
"On ne s'appuie que sur ce qui résiste." For both of them these words were true. Fundamentally, and beyond all passing causes of grief and anger, each was fascinated by the full strength of nature in the other. Neither could ever forget the other. The hours grew electric, and every tiny incident became charged with spiritual meaning.
Often for hours together Julie would try to absorb herself in talk with Meredith. But the poor fellow got little joy from it. Presently, at a word or look of Delafield's she would let herself be recaptured, as though with a proud reluctance206; they wandered away together; and once more Meredith and the Duchess became the merest by-standers.
The Duchess shrugged207 her shoulders over it, and, though she laughed, sometimes the tears were in her eyes. She felt the hovering208 of passion, but it was no passion known to her own blithe209 nature.
And if only this strange state of things might end, one way or other, and set her free to throw her arms round her Duke's neck, and beg his pardon for all these weeks of desertion! She said to herself, ruefully, that her babies would indeed have forgotten her.
Yet she stood stoutly210 to her post, and the weeks passed quickly by. It was the dramatic energy of the situation--so much more dramatic in truth than either she or Meredith suspected--that made it such a strain upon the onlookers211.
One evening they had left the boat at Tremezzo, that they might walk back along that most winning of paths that skirts the lake between the last houses of Tremezzo and the inn at Cadenabbia. The sunset was nearly over, but the air was still suffused212 with its rose and pearl, and fragrant213 with the scent148 of flowering laurels214. Each mountain face, each white village, either couched on the water's edge or grouped about its slender campanile on some shoulder of the hills, each house and tree and figure seemed still penetrated215 with light, the glorified216 creatures of some just revealed and already fading world. The echoes of the evening bell were floating on the lake, and from a boat in front, full of peasant-folk, there rose a sound of singing, some litany of saint or virgin217, which stole in harmonies, rudely true, across the water.
"They have been to the pilgrimage church above Lenno," said Julie, pointing to the boat, and in order to listen to the singing, she found a seat on a low wall above the lake.
There was no reply, and, looking round her, she saw with a start that only Delafield was beside her, that the Duchess and Meredith had already rounded the corner of the Villa Carlotta and were out of sight.
Delafield's gaze was fixed218 upon her. He was very pale, and suddenly Julie's breath seemed to fail her.
"I don't think I can bear it any longer," he said, as he came close to her.
"Bear what?"
"That you should look as you do now."
Julie made no reply. Her eyes, very sad and bitter, searched the blue dimness of the lake in silence.
Delafield sat down on the wall beside her. Not a soul was in sight. At the Cadenabbia Hotel, the table d'h?te had gathered in the visitors; a few boats passed and repassed in the distance, but on land all was still.
Suddenly he took her hand with a firm grasp.
"Are you never going to forgive me?" he said, in a low voice.
"I suppose I ought to bless you."
Her face seemed to him to express the tremulous misery of a heart deeply, perhaps irrevocably, wounded. Emotion rose in a tide, but he crushed it down.
He bent over her, speaking with deliberate tenderness.
"Julie, do you remember what you promised Lord Lackington when he was dying?"
"Oh!" cried Julie.
She sprang to her feet, speechless and suffocated219. Her eyes expressed a mingled pride and terror.
He paused, confronting her with a pale resolution.
"You didn't know that I had seen him?"
"Know!"
She turned away fiercely, choking with sobs she could hardly control, as the memory of that by-gone moment returned upon her.
"I thought as much," said Delafield, in a low voice. "You hoped never to hear of your promise again."
She made no answer; but she sank again upon the seat beside the lake, and supporting herself on one delicate hand, which clung to the coping of the wall, she turned her pale and tear-stained face to the lake and the evening sky. There was in her gesture an unconscious yearning220, a mute and anguished221 appeal, as though from the oppressions of human character to the broad strength of nature, that was not lost on Delafield. His mind became the centre of a swift and fierce debate. One voice said: "Why are you persecuting222 her? Respect her weakness and her grief." And another replied: "It is because she is weak that she must yield--must allow herself to be guided and adored."
He came close to her again. Any passer-by might have supposed that they were both looking at the distant boat and listening to the pilgrimage chant.
"Do you think I don't understand why you made that promise?" he said, very gently, and the mere self-control of his voice and manner carried a spell with it for the woman beside him. "It was wrung223 out of you by kindness for a dying man. You thought I should never know, or I should never claim it. Well, I am selfish. I take advantage. I do claim it. I saw Lord Lackington only a few hours before his death. 'She mustn't be alone,' he said to me, several times. And then, almost at the last, 'Ask her again. She'll consider it--she promised.'"
Julie turned impetuously.
"Neither of us is bound by that--neither of us."
Delafield smiled.
"Does that mean that I am asking you now because he bade me?"
A pause. Julie must needs raise her eyes to his. She flushed red and withdrew them.
"No," he said, with a long breath, "you don't mean that, and you don't think it. As for you--yes, you are bound! Julie, once more I bring you my plea, and you must consider it."
"How can I be your wife?" she said, her breast heaving. "You know all that has happened. It would be monstrous224."
"Not at all," was his quiet reply. "It would be natural and right. Julie, it is strange that I should be talking to you like this. You're so much cleverer than I--in some ways, so much stronger. And yet, in others--you'll let me say it, won't you?--I could help you. I could protect you. It's all I care for in the world."
"How can I be your wife?" she repeated, passionately, wringing225 her hands.
"Be what you will--at home. My friend, comrade, housemate. I ask nothing more--nothing." His voice dropped, and there was a pause. Then he resumed. "But, in the eyes of the world, make me your servant and your husband!"
"I can't condemn115 you to such a fate," she cried. "You know where my heart is."
Delafield did not waver.
"I know where your heart was," he said, with firmness. "You will banish22 that man from your thoughts in time. He has no right to be there. I take all the risks--all."
"Well, at least for you, I am no hypocrite," she said, with a quivering lip. "You know what I am."
"Yes, I know, and I am at your feet."
The tears dropped from Julie's eyes. She turned away and hid her face against one of the piers226 of the wall.
Delafield attempted no caress. He quietly set himself to draw the life that he had to offer her, the comradeship that he proposed to her. Not a word of what the world called his "prospects227" entered in. She knew very well that he could not bring himself to speak of them. Rather, a sort of ascetic228 and mystical note made itself heard in all he said of the future, a note that before now had fascinated and controlled a woman whose ambition was always strangely tempered with high, poetical229 imagination.
Yet, ambitious she was, and her mind inevitably230 supplied what his voice left unsaid.
"He will have to fill his place whether he wishes it or no," she said to herself. "And if, in truth, he desires my help--"
Then she shrank from her own wavering. Look where she would into her life, it seemed to her that all was monstrous and out of joint231.
"You don't realize what you ask," she said, at last, in despair. "I am not what you call a good woman--you know it too well. I don't measure things by your standards. I am capable of such a journey as you found me on. I can't find in my own mind that I repent232 it at all. I can tell a lie--you can't. I can have the meanest and most sordid233 thoughts--you can't. Lady Henry thought me an intriguer--I am one. It is in my blood. And I don't know whether, in the end, I could understand your language and your life. And if I don't, I shall make you miserable."
She looked up, her slender frame straightening under what was, in truth, a noble defiance234.
Delafield bent over her and took both her hands forcibly in his own.
"If all that were true, I would rather risk it a thousand times over than go out of your life again--a stranger. Julie, you have done mad things for love--you should know what love is. Look in my face--there--your eyes in mine! Give way! The dead ask it of you--and it is God's will."
And as, drawn by the last, low-spoken words, Julie looked up into his face, she felt herself enveloped235 by a mystical and passionate tenderness that paralyzed her resistance. A force, superhuman, laid its grasp upon her will. With a burst of tears, half in despair, half in revolt, she submitted.
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收听单词发音
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1
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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2
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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3
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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4
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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6
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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7
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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12
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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13
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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14
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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15
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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16
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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17
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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18
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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19
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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21
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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23
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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25
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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26
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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30
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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31
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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32
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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34
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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36
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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37
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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38
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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39
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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40
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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41
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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42
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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43
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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44
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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45
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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46
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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47
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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48
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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49
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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50
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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51
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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52
bode
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| v.预示 | |
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53
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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54
magenta
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| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
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55
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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56
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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57
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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58
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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59
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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60
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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61
blanching
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| adj.漂白的n.热烫v.使变白( blanch的现在分词 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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62
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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63
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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64
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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65
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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66
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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67
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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68
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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69
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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70
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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71
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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72
regenerating
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的现在分词 )；正反馈 | |
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73
liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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74
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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75
forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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76
scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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77
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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78
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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79
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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80
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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81
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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82
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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83
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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84
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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85
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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86
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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87
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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88
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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89
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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90
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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91
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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92
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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93
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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94
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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95
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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96
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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97
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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98
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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100
pageants
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| n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 )；穿古代服装的游行；再现历史场景的娱乐活动；盛会 | |
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101
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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102
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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103
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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104
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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105
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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106
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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107
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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108
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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109
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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110
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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111
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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112
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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113
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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114
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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115
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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116
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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117
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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118
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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119
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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120
entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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121
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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122
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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123
appeasing
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的现在分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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124
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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125
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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126
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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128
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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129
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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130
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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131
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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132
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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133
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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134
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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135
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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136
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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137
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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138
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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139
abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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140
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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141
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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142
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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144
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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145
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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146
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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147
renascent
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| adj.新生的 | |
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148
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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149
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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150
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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151
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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152
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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153
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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154
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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155
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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156
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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157
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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158
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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159
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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160
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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161
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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162
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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163
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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164
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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165
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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166
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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167
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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168
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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169
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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170
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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171
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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172
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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173
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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174
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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175
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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177
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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178
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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179
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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180
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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181
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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182
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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183
dummies
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| n.仿制品( dummy的名词复数 )；橡皮奶头；笨蛋；假传球 | |
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184
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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185
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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187
flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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188
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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189
antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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190
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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191
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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192
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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193
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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194
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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195
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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196
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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197
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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198
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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199
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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200
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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201
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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202
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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203
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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205
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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206
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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207
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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208
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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209
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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210
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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211
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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212
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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214
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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215
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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216
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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217
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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218
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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219
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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220
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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221
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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222
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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223
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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224
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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225
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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226
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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227
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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228
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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229
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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230
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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231
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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232
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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233
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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234
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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235
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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