Soon they emerge again on flat meadows, mountain-cradled; and the grave of the mythic greyhound, and the fair old church, shrouded5 in tall trees; and last, but not least, at the famous Leek6 Hotel, where ruleth Mrs. Lewis, great and wise, over the four months' Babylon of guides, cars, chambermaids, tourists, artists, and reading-parties, camp-stools, telescopes, poetry-books, blue uglies, red petticoats, and parasols of every hue8.
There they settle down in the best rooms in the house, and all goes as merrily as it can, while the horrors which they have left behind them hang, like a black background, to all their thoughts. However, both Scoutbush and Campbell send as cheerful reports as they honestly can; and gradually the exceeding beauty of the scenery, and the amusing bustle9 of the village, make them forget, perhaps, a good deal which they ought to have remembered.
As for poor Lucia, no one will complain of her for being happy; for feeling that she has got a holiday, the first for now four years, and trying to enjoy it to the utmost. She has no household cares. Mr. Bowie manages everything, and does so, in order to keep up the honour of the family, on a somewhat magnificent scale. The children, in that bracing10 air, are better than she has ever seen them. She has Valencia all to herself; and Elsley, in spite of the dark fancies over which he has been brooding, is better behaved, on the whole, than usual.
He has escaped—so he considers—escaped from Campbell, above all from Thurnall. From himself, indeed, he has not escaped; but the company of self is, on the whole, more pleasant to him than otherwise just now. For though he may turn up his nose at tourists and reading-parties, and long for contemplative solitude11, yet there is a certain pleasure to some people, and often strongest in those who pretend most shyness, in the "digito monstrari, et diceri, hic est:" in taking for granted that everybody has read his poems; that everybody is saying in their hearts, "There goes Mr. Vavasour the distinguished12 poet. I wonder what he is writing now? I wonder where he has been to-day, and what he has been thinking of."
So Elsley went up Hebog, and looked over the glorious vista13 of the vale, over the twin lakes, and the rich sheets of woodland, with Aran and Moel Meirch guarding them right and left, and the greystone glaciers14 of the Glyder walling up the valley miles above. And they went up Snowdon, too, and saw little beside fifty fog-blinded tourists, five-and-twenty dripping ponies15, and five hundred empty porter-bottles; wherefrom they returned, as do many, disgusted, and with great colds in their heads. But most they loved to scramble16 up the crags of Dinas Emrys, and muse17 over the ruins of the old tower, "where Merlin taught Vortigern the courses of the stars;" till the stars set and rose as they had done for Merlin and his pupil, behind the four great peaks of Aran, Siabod, Cnicht, and Hebog, which point to the four quarters of the heavens: or to lie by the side of the boggy18 spring, which once was the magic well of the magic castle, till they saw in fancy the white dragon and the red rise from its depths once more, and fight high in air the battle which foretold19 the fall of the Cymry before the Sassenach invader20.
One thing, indeed, troubled Elsley,—that Claude was his only companion; for Valencia avoided carefully any more tête-à-tête walks with him. She had found out her mistake, and devoted21 herself now to Lucia. She had a fair excuse enough, for Lucia was not just then in a state for rambles22 and scrambles23; and of that Elsley certainly had no right to complain; so that he was forced to leave them both at home, with as good grace as he could muster24, and to wander by himself, scribbling26 his fancies, while they lounged and worked in the pleasant garden of the hotel, with Bowie fetching and carrying for them all day long, and intimating pretty roundly to Miss Clara his "opeeenion," that he "was very proud and thankful of the office: but he did think that he had to do a great many things for Mrs. Vavasour every day which would come with a much better grace from Mr. Vavasour himself: and that, when he married, he should not leave his wife to be nursed by other men." Which last words were spoken with an ulterior object, well understood by the hearer; for between Clara and Bowie there was one of those patient and honourable28 attachments29 so common between worthy30 servants. They had both "kept company," though only by letter, for the most part, for now five years; they had both saved a fair sum of money; and Clara might have married Bowie when she chose, had she not thought it her duty to take care of her mistress; while Bowie considered himself equally indispensable to the welfare of that "puir feckless laddie," his master.
So they waited patiently, amusing the time by little squabbles of jealousy31, real or pretended; and Bowie was faithful, though Clara was past thirty now, and losing her good looks.
"So ye'll see your lassie, Mr. Bowie!" said Sergeant32 MacArthur, his intimate, when he started for Aberalva that summer. "I'm thinking ye'd better put her out of her pain soon. Five years is ower lang courting, and she's na pullet by now, saving your pardon."
"Hoooo—," says Bowie; "leave the green gooseberries to the lads, and gi' me the ripe fruit, Sergeant."
However, he found love-making in his own fashion so pleasant, that, not content with carrying Mrs. Vavasour's babies about all day long, he had several times to be gently turned out of the nursery, where he wanted to assist in washing and dressing34 them, on the ground that an old soldier could turn his hand to anything.
So slipped away a fortnight and more, during which Valencia was the cynosure35 of all eyes, and knew it also: for Claude Mellot, half to amuse her, and half to tease Elsley, made her laugh many a time by retailing36 little sayings and doings in her praise and dispraise, picked up from rich Manchester gentlemen, who would fain have married her without a penny, and from strong-minded Manchester ladies, who envied her beauty a little, and set her down, of course, as an empty-minded worldling, and a proud aristocrat37. The majority of the reading-parties, meanwhile, thought a great deal more about Valencia than about their books. The Oxford38 men, it seemed, though of the same mind as the Cambridge men in considering her the model of all perfection, were divided as to their method of testifying the same. Two or three of them, who were given to that simpering and flirting39 tone with young ladies to which Oxford would-be-fine gentlemen are so pitiably prone40, hung about the inn-door to ogle41 her: contrived42 always to be walking in the garden when she was there, dressed out as if for High Street at four o'clock on a May afternoon; tormented43 Claude by fruitless attempts to get from him an introduction, which he had neither the right nor the mind to give; and at last (so Bowie told Claude one night, and Claude told the whole party next morning) tried to bribe45 and flatter Valencia's maid into giving them a bit of ribbon, or a cast-off glove, which had belonged to the idol46. Whereon that maiden47, in virtuous48 indignation, told Mr. Bowie, and complained moreover (as maids are bound to do to valets for whom they have a penchant), of their having dared to compliment her on her own good looks: by which act she succeeded, of course, in making Mr. Bowie understand that other people still thought her pretty, if he did not; and also in arousing in him that jealousy which is often the best helpmate of sweet love. So Mr. Bowie went forth49 in his might that very evening, and finding two of the Oxford men, informed them in plain Scotch50, that, "Gin he caught them, or any ither such skellums, philandering51 after his leddies, or his leddies' maids, he'd jist knock their empty pows togither." To which there was no reply but silence; for Mr. Bowie stood six feet four without his shoes, and had but the week before performed, for the edification of the Cambridge men, who held him in high honour, a few old Guards' feats52; such, as cutting in two at one sword-blow a suspended shoulder of mutton; lifting a long table by his teeth; squeezing a quart pewter pot flat between his fingers; and other little recreations of those who are "born unto Rapha."
But the Cantabs, and a couple of gallant53 Oxford boating men who had fraternised with them, testified their admiration54 in their simple honest way, by putting down their pipes whenever they saw Valencia coming, and just lifting their hats when they met her close. It was taking a liberty, no doubt. "But I tell you, Mellot," said Wynd, as brave and pure-minded a fellow as ever pulled in the University eight, "the Arabs, when they see such a creature, say, 'Praise Allah for beautiful women,' and quite right; they may remind some fellows of worse things, but they always remind me of heaven and the angels; and my hat goes off to her by instinct, just as it does when I go into a church."
That was all; simple chivalrous55 admiration, and delight in her loveliness, as in that of a lake, or a mountain sunset; but nothing more. The good fellows had no time, indeed, to fancy themselves in love with her, or her with them, for every day was too short for them; what with reading all the morning, and starting out in the afternoon in strange garments (which became shabbier and more ragged56 very rapidly as the weeks slipped on) upon all manner of desperate errands; walking unheard-of-distances, and losing their way upon the mountains; scrambling57 cliffs and now and then falling down them; camping all night by unpronounceable lakes, in the hope of catching58 mythical59 trout60; trying in all ways how hungry, thirsty, dirty, and tired a man could make himself, and how far he could go without breaking his neck, any approach to which catastrophe61 was hailed (as were all other mishaps) as "all in the day's work," and "the finest fun in the world," by that unconquerable English "lebensglückseligkeit," which is a perpetual wonder to our sober German cousins. Ah, glorious twenty-one, with your inexhaustible powers of doing and enjoying, eating and hungering, sleeping and sitting up, reading and playing! Happy are those who still possess you, and can take their fill of your golden cup, steadied, but not saddened, by the remembrance, that for all things a good and loving God will bring them into judgment62. Happier still those who (like a few) retain in body and soul the health and buoyancy of twenty-one on to the very verge63 of forty, and seeming to grow younger-hearted as they grow older-headed, can cast off care and work at a moment's warning, laugh and frolic now as they did twenty years ago, and say with Wordsworth—
"So was it when I was a boy,
So let it be when I am old,
Or let me die!"
Unfortunately, as will appear hereafter, Elsley's especial bêtes noirs were this very Wynd and his inseparable companion, Naylor, who happened to be not only the best men of the set, but Mellot's especial friends. Both were Rugby men, now reading for their degree. Wynd was a Shropshire squire's son, a lissom64 fair-haired man, the handiest of boxers65, rowers, riders, shots, fishermen, with a noisy superabundance of animal spirits, which maddened Elsley. Yet Wynd had sentiment in his way, though he took good care never to show it Elsley; could repeat Tennyson from end to end; spouted66 the Mort d'Arthur up hill and down dale, and chaunted rapturously, "Come into the garden, Maud!" while he expressed his opinion of Maud's lover in terms more forcible than delicate. Naylor, fidus Achates, was a Gloucestershire parson's son, a huge heavy-looking man, with a thick curling lip, and a sleepy eye; but he had brains enough to become a first-rate classic; and in that same sleepy eye and heavy lip lay an infinity67 of quiet humour; racy old country stories, quaint68 scraps69 of out-of-the-way learning, jovial70 old ballads71, which he sang with the mellowest72 of voices, and a slang vocabulary, which made him the dread73 of all bargees from Newnham pool to Upware. Him also Elsley hated, because Naylor looked always as if he was laughing at him, which indeed he was.
And the worst was, that Elsley had always to face them both at once. If Wynd vaulted75 over a gate into his very face, with a "How de' do, Mr. Vavasour? Had any verses this morning?" in the same tone as if he had asked, "Had any sport?" Naylor's round face was sure to look over the stone-wall, pipe in mouth, with a "Don't disturb the gentleman, Tom; don't you see he's a composing of his rhymes!" in a strong provincial76 dialect put on for the nonce. In fact, the two young rogues77, having no respect whatsoever78 for genius, perhaps because they had each of them a little genius of their own, made a butt79 of the poet, as soon as they found out that he was afraid of them.
But worse bêtes noirs than either Wynd or Naylor were on their way to fill up the cup of Elsley's discomfort80. And at last, without a note of warning, appeared in Beddgelert a phenomenon which rejoiced some hearts, but perturbed81 also the spirits not only of the Oxford "philanderers," but those of Elsley Vavasour, and, what is more, of Valencia herself.
She was sitting one evening at the window with Lucia, looking out into the village and the pleasure-grounds before the hotel. They were both laughing and chatting over the groups of tourists in their pretty Irish way, just as they had done when they were girls; for Lucia's heart was expanding under the quiet beauty of the place, the freedom from household care, and what was more, from money anxieties; for Valencia had slipped into her hand a cheque for fifty pounds from Scoutbush, and assured her that he would be quite angry if she spoke27 of paying the rent of the rooms; Elsley was mooning down the river by himself; Claude was entertaining his Cambridge acquaintances, as he did every night, with his endless fun and sentiment. Gradually the tourists slipt in one by one, as the last rays of the sun faded off the peaks of Aran, and the mist settled down upon the dark valley beneath, and darkness fell upon that rock-girdled paradise; when up to the door below there drove a car, at sight whereof out rushed, not waiters only and landlady82, but Mr. Bowie himself, who helped out a very short figure in a pea-jacket and a shining boating hat, and then a very tall one in a wild shooting-coat and a military cap.
"My brother, and mon Saint Père! Lucia! too delightful83! This is why they did not write." And Valencia sprang up, and was going to run down stairs to them, when she paused at Lucia's call.
"Who have they with them'? Val,—come and look! who can it be?"
Campbell and Bowie were helping84 out carefully a tall man, covered up in many wrappers. It was too dark to see the face; but a fancy crossed Valencia's mind which made her look grave, in spite of her pleasure.
He was evidently weak, as from recent illness; for his two supporters led him up the steps, and Scoutbush seemed full of directions and inquiries86, and fussed about with the landlady, till she was tired of curtseying to "my lord."
A minute afterwards Bowie threw open the door grandly. "My lord, my ladies!" and in trotted87 Scoutbush, and began kissing them fiercely, and then dancing about.
"Oh my dears! Here at last—out of that horrid88 city of the plague! Such sights as I have seen—" and then he paused. "Do you know, Val and Lucia, I'm glad I've seen it: I don't know, but I feel as if I should be a better man all my life; and those poor people, how well they did behave! And the Major, he's an angel! And so's that brick of a doctor, and the mad schoolmistress, and the curate. Everybody, I think, but me. Hang it, Val! but your words shan't come true! I will be of some use yet before I die! But I've—" and Valencia went up to him and kissed him, while he ran on, and Lucia said,—
"You have been of use already, dear Fred. You have sent me and the dear children to this sweet place, where we have been safer and happier than—" (she checked herself); "and your generous present too. I feel quite a girl again, thanks to you. Val and I have done nothing but laugh all day long;" and she began kissing him too.
"'How happy could I be with either,
Were t'other dear charmer away!'"
broke out Scoutbush. "What a pity it is now, that I should have two such sweet creatures making love to me, and can't marry either of them? Why did ye go and be my father's daughters, mavourneen? I'd have made a peeress of the one of ye, if ye'd had the sense to be anybody else's sisters."
At which they all laughed, and laughed, and chattered89 broad Irish together as they used to do for fun in old Kilanbaggan Castle, before Lucia was a weary wife, and Valencia a worldly fine lady, and Scoutbush a rackety guardsman, breaking half of the ten commandments every week, rather from ignorance than vice90.
"Well, I'm glad ye're pleased with me, asthore," said he at last to
Lucia; "but I've done another little good deed, I flatter myself; for
I've brought away the poor spalpeen of a priest, and have got him safe
in the house."
Valencia stopped short in her fun.
"Why, what have ye to say against that, Miss Val?"
"Why, won't he be a little in the way?" said Valencia, not knowing what to say.
"Faith, he needn't trouble you; and I shall take very good care—I wonder when the supper is coming—that neither he nor any else troubles me. But really," said he, in his natural voice, and with some feeling, "I was ashamed to go away and leave him there. He would have died if we had. He worked day and night. Talk of saints and martyrs91! Campbell himself said he was an idler by the side of him."
"Oh! I hope Major Campbell has not over-exerted himself!"
"He? nothing hurts him. He's as hard as his own sword. But the poor curate worked on till he got the cholera92 himself. He always expected it, longed for it; Campbell said—wanted to die. Some love affair, I suppose, poor fellow?—and a terrible bout33 he had for eight-and-forty hours. Thurnall thought him gone again and again; but he pulled the poor fellow through, after all, and we got some one (that is, Campbell did) to take his duty; and brought him away, after a good deal of persuasion93; for he would not move as long as there was a fresh case in the town; that is why we never wrote. We did not know till the last hour when we should start; and we expected to be with you in two days, and give you a pleasant surprise. He was half dead when we got him on board; but the week's sea-air helped him through; so I must not grumble94 at these northerly breezes. 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody good,' they say!"
Valencia heard all this as in a dream; and watched her chattering95 brother with a stupefied air. She comprehended all now; and bitterly she blamed herself. He had really loved her, then; set himself manfully to die at his post, that he might forget her in a better world. How shamefully96 she had trifled with that noble heart! How should she ever meet—how have courage to look him in the face? And not love, or anything like love, but sacred pity and self-abasement filled her heart, as his fair, delicate face rose up before her, all wan25 and shrunken, with sad upbraiding97 eyes; and round it such a halo, pure and pale, as crowns, in some old German picture, a martyr's head.
"He has had the cholera! he has been actually dying?" asked she at last, with that strange wish to hear over again bad news, which one knows too well already.
"Of course he has. Why, you are not going away, Valencia? You need not be afraid of infection. Campbell, and Thurnall, too, says that's all nonsense; and they must know, having seen it so often. Here comes Bowie at last with supper!"
"Has Mr. Headley had anything to eat?" asked Valencia, who longed to run away to her own room, but dared not.
"He is eating now like any ged, ma'am; and Major Campbell's making him eat too."
"He must be very ill," thought she, "for mon Saint Père never to have come near us yet:" and then she thought with terror that her Saint Père might have guessed the truth, and be angry with her. And yet she trusted in Frank's secrecy98. He would not betray her.
Take care, Valencia. When a woman has to trust a man not to betray her, and does trust him, she may soon find it not only easy, but necessary, to do more than trust him.
However, in five minutes Campbell came in. Valencia saw at once that there was no change in his feelings to her: but he could talk of nothing but Headley, his self-devotion, courage, angelic gentleness, and humility99; and every word of his praise was a fresh arrow in Valencia's conscience; at last,—
"One knows well enough what is the matter," said he, almost bitterly— "what is the matter, I sometimes think, with half the noblest men in the world, and nine-tenths of the noblest women; and with many a one, too, God help them! who is none of the noblest, and therefore does not know how to take the bitter cup, as he knows—"
"What does the philosopher mean now?" asked Scoutbush, looking up from the cold lamb. Valencia knew but too well what he meant.
"He has a history, my dear lord."
"A history? What! is he writing a book?"
Campbell laughed a quiet under-laugh, half sad, half humorous.
"I am very tired," said Valencia; "I really think I shall go to bed."
She went to her room; but to bed she did not go: she sat down and cried till she could cry no more, and lay awake the greater part of the night, tossing miserably100. She would have done better if she had prayed; but prayer, about such a matter, was what Valencia knew nothing of. She was regular enough at church, of course, and said her prayers and confessed her sins in a general way, and prayed about her "soul," as she had been taught to do,—unless she was too tired: but to pray really, about a real sorrow, a real sin like this, was a thought which never entered her mind; and if it had, she would have driven it away again: just because the anxiety was so real, practical, human, it was a matter which had nothing to do with religion; which it seemed impertinent—almost wrong to lay before the Throne of God.
So she came downstairs next morning, pale, restless, unrefreshed in body or mind; and her peace of mind was not improved by seeing, seated at the breakfast-table, Frank Headley, whom Lucia and Scoutbush were stuffing with all manner of good things.
She blushed scarlet—do what she would she could not help it—when he rose and bowed to her. Half choked, she came forward and offered her hand. She was so "shocked to hear that he had been so dangerously ill,— no one had even told them of it,—it had come upon them so suddenly;" and so forth.
She spoke kindly101, but avoided the least tone of tenderness: for she felt that if she gave way, she might be only too tender; and to re-awaken hope in his heart would be only cruelty. And, therefore, and for other reasons also, she did not look him in the face as she spoke.
He answered so cheerfully that she was half disappointed, in spite of her remorse102, at his not being as miserable103 as she had expected. Still, if he had overcome the passion, it was so much better for him. But yet Valencia hardly wished that he should have overcome it, so self-contradictory is woman's heart; and her pity had sunk to half-ebb, and her self-complacency was rising with a flowing tide, as he chatted on quietly, but genially105, about the voyage, and the scenery, and Snowdon, which he had never seen, and which he would ascend106 that very day.
"You will do nothing of the kind, Mr. Headley!" cried Lucia. "Is he not mad, Major Campbell, quite mad?"
"I know I am mad, my dear Mrs. Vavasour; I have been so a long time: but Snowdon ponies are in their sober senses,—and I shall take one of them."
"Fulfil the old pun?—Begin beside yourself, and end beside your horse! I am sure he is not strong enough to sit over those rocks. No, you shall stay at home comfortably here; Valencia and I will take care of you."
"And mon Saint Père too. I have a thousand things to say to him."
"And so has he to Queen Whims107."
So Scoutbush sent Bowie for "John Jones Clerk," the fisherman (may his days be as many as his salmon108, and as good as his flies!), and the four stayed at home, and talked over the Aberalva tragedies, till, as it befell, both Lucia and Campbell left the room awhile.
Immediately Frank rose, and walking across to Valencia, laid the fatal ring on the arm of her chair, and returned to his seat without a word.
"You are very—. I hope that it—," stammered109 Valencia.
"You hope that it was a comfort to me? It was; and I shall be always grateful to you for it."
Valencia heard an emphasis on the "was." It checked the impulse (foolish enough) which rose in her, to bid him keep the ring.
So, prim111 and dignified112, she slipped it into its place on her finger, and went on with her work; merely saying,—
"I need not say that I am happy that anything which I could do should have been of use to you in such a fearful time."
"It was a fearful time! but for myself, I cannot be too glad of it. God grant that it may have been as useful to others as to me! It cured me of a great folly113. Now I look back, I am astonished at my own absurdity114, rudeness, presumption115.—You must let me say it!—I do not know how to thank you enough, I cannot trust myself with the fit words, they would be so strong: but I owe this confession116 to you, and to your exceeding goodness and kindness, when you would have been justified117 in treating me as a madman. I was mad, I believe: but I am in my right mind now, I assure you," said he gaily118. "Had I not been, I need hardly say you would not have seen me here. What a prospect119 this is!" And he rose and looked out of the window.
Valencia had heard all this with downcast eyes and unmoved face. Was she pleased at it? Not in the least, the naughty child that she was; and more, she grew quite angry with herself, ashamed of herself, for having thought and felt so much about him the night before. "How silly of me! He is very well, and does not care for me. And who is he, pray, that I should even look at him?"
And, as if in order to put her words into practice, she looked at him there and then. He was gazing out of the window, leaning gracefully120 and yet feebly against the shutter121, with the full glory of the forenoon sun upon his sharp-cut profile and rich chestnut122 locks; and after all, having looked at him once, she could not help looking at him again. He was certainly a most gentleman-like man, elegant from head to foot; there was not an ungraceful line about him, to his very boots, and the white nails of his slender fingers; even the defects of his figure—the too great length of the neck and slope of the shoulders—increased his likeness123 to those saintly pictures with which he had been mixed up in her mind the night before. He was at one extreme pole of the different types of manhood, and that burly doctor who had saved his life at the other: but her Saint Père alone perfectly124 combined the two. There was nobody like him, after all. Perhaps her wisest plan, as Headley had forgotten his fancy, was to confess all to the Saint Père (as she usually did her little sins), and get some sort of absolution from him.
However, she must say something in answer—
"Yes, it is a very lovely view; but really I must say one more word about this matter. I have to thank you, you know, for the good faith which you have kept with me."
He looked round, seemingly amused. "Cela va sans dire85!" and he bowed; "pray do not say any more about the matter;" and he looked at her with such humble125 and thankful eyes, that Valencia was sorry not to hear more from him than—
"Pray tell me—for of course you know—the name of this exquisite126 valley up which I am looking."
"Gwynnant. You must go up it when you are well enough; and see the lakes; they are the only ones in Snowdon from the banks of which the primaeval forest has not disappeared."
"Indeed? I must make shift to go there this very afternoon, for—do not laugh at me—but I never saw a lake in my life."
"Never saw a lake?"
"No. I am a true Lowlander: born and bred among bleak127 Norfolk sands and fens—so much the worse for this chest of mine; and this is my first sight of mountains. It is all like a dream to me, and a dream which I never expected to be realised."
"Ah, you should see our Irish lakes and mountains—you should see
Killarney!"
"I am content with these; I suppose it is as wrong to break the tenth commandment about scenery, as about anything else."
"Ah, but it seems so hard that you, who I am sure would appreciate fine scenery, should have been debarred from it, while hundreds of stupid people run over the Alps and Italy every summer, and come home, as far as I can see, rather more stupid than they went; having made confusion worse confounded by filling their poor brains with hard names out of Murray."
"Not quite so hard as that thousands, every day, who would enjoy a meat dinner, should have nothing but dry bread, and not enough of that. I fancy sometimes, that, in some mysterious way, that want will be made up to them in the next life; and so with all the beautiful things which travelled people talk of—I comfort myself with the fancy, that I see as much as is good for me here, and that if I make good use of that, I shall see the Alps and the Andes in the world to come, or something much more worth seeing. Tell me now, how far may that range of crags be from us? I am sure that I could walk there after luncheon128, this mountain air is strengthening me so."
"Walk thither129? I assure you they are at least four miles off."
"Four? And I thought them one! So clear and sharp as they stand out against the sky, one fancies that one could almost stretch out a hand and touch those knolls and slabs130 of rock, as distinct as in a photograph; and yet so soft and rich withal, dappled with pearly-grey stone and purple heath. Ah!—So it must be, I suppose. The first time that one sees a glorious thing, one's heart is lifted up towards it in love and awe131, till it seems near to one—ground on which one may freely tread, because one appreciates and admires; and so one forgets the distance between its grandeur132 and one's own littleness."
The allusion133 was palpable: but did he intend it? Surely not, after what he had just said. And yet there was a sadness in the tone which made Valencia fancy that some feeling for her might still linger: but he evidently had been speaking to himself, forgetful, for the moment, of her presence; for he turned to her with a start and a blush—"But now—I have been troubling you too long with this stupid tête-à-tête sentimentality of mine. I will make my bow, and find the Major. I am afraid, if it be possible for him to forget any one, he has forgotten me in some new moss134 or other."
He went out, and to Valencia's chagrin135 she saw him no more that day. He spent the forenoon in the garden, and the afternoon in lying down, and at night complained of fatigue136, and stayed in his own room the whole evening, while Campbell read him to sleep. Next morning, however, he made his appearance at breakfast, well and cheerful.
"I must play at sick man no more, or I shall rob you, I see, of Major
Campbell's company; and I owe you all for too much already."
"Unless you are better than you were last night, you must play at sick man," said the Major. "I cannot conceive what exhausted137 you so; unless you ladies are better nurses, I must let no one come near him but myself. If you had been scolding him the whole morning, instead of praising him as he deserves, he could not have been more tired last night."
"Pray do not!" cried Frank, evidently much pained; "I had such a delightful morning, and every one is so kind—you only make me wretched, when I feel all the trouble I am giving."
"My dear fellow," said Scoutbush en grand sérieux, "after all that you have done for our people at Aberalva, I should be very much shocked if any of my family thought any service shown to you a trouble."
"Pray do not speak so," said Frank, "I am fallen among angels, when I least expected."
"Scoutbush as an angel!" shrieked138 Lucia, clapping her hands. "Elsley, don't you see the wings sprouting139 already, under his shooting jacket?"
"They are my braces140, I suppose, of course," said Scoutbush, who never understood a joke about himself, though he liked one about other people; while Elsley, who hated all jokes, made no answer—at least none worth recording141. In fact, as the reader may have discovered, Elsley, save tête-à-tête with some one who took his fancy, was somewhat of a silent and morose142 animal, and, as little Scoutbush confided143 to Mellot, there was no getting a rise out of him. All which Lucia saw as keenly as any one, and tried to pass off by chattering nervously144 and fussily145 for him, as well as for herself; whereby she only made him the more cross, for he could not the least understand her argument—"Why, my dear, if you don't talk to people, I must!"
"But why should people be talked to?"
"Because they like it, and expect it!"
"The more foolish they. Much better to hold their tongues and think."
"Or read your poetry, I suppose?" And then would begin a squabble.
Meanwhile there was one, at least, of the party, who was watching Lucia with most deep and painful interest. Lord Scoutbush was too busy with his own comforts, especially with his fishing, to think much of this moroseness146 of Elsley's. "If he suited Lucia, very well. His taste and hers differed: but it was her concern, not his"—was a very easy way of freeing himself from all anxiety on the matter: but not so with Major Campbell. He saw all this; and knew enough of human nature to suspect that the self-seeking which showed as moroseness in company, might show as downright bad temper in private. Longing147 to know more of Elsley, if possible, to guide and help him, he tried to be intimate with him, as he had tried at Aberalva; paid him court, asked his opinion, talked to him on all subjects which he thought would interest him. His conclusion was more favourable148 to Elsley's head than to his heart. He saw that Elsley was vain, and liked his attentions; and that lowered him in his eyes: but he saw too that Elsley shrank from him; at first he thought it pride, but he soon found that it was fear; and that lowered him still more in his eyes.
Perhaps Campbell was too hard on the poet: but his own purity itself told against Elsley. "Who am I, that any one should be afraid of me, unless they have done something wrong?" So, with his dark suspicions roused, he watched intently every word and every tone of Elsley's to his wife; and here he came to a more unpleasant conclusion still. He saw that they were, sometimes at least, not happy together; and from this he took for granted, too hastily, that they were never happy together; that Lucia was an utterly149 ill-used person; that Elsley was a bad fellow, who ill-treated her: and a black and awful indignation against the man grew up within him; all the more fierce because it seemed utterly righteous, and because, too, it had, under heavy penalties, to be utterly concealed150 beneath a courteous152 and genial104 manner: till many a time he felt inclined to knock Elsley down for little roughnesses to her, which were really the fruit of mere110 gaucherie; and then accused himself for a hypocrite, because he was keeping up the courtesies of life with such a man. For Campbell, like most men of his temperament153, was over-stern, and sometimes a little cruel and unjust, in demanding of others the same lofty code which he had laid down for himself, and in demanding it, too, of some more than of others, by a very questionable154 exercise of private judgment. On the whole, he was right, no doubt, in being as indulgent as he dared to the publicans and sinners like Scoutbush; and in being as severe as he dared on all Pharisees, and pretentious155 persons whatsoever: but he was too much inclined to draw between the two classes one of those strong lines of demarcation which exist only in the fancies of the human brain; for sins, like all diseased matters, are complicated and confused matters; many a seeming Pharisee is at heart a self-condemned publican, and ought to be comforted, and not cursed; while many a publican is, in the midst of all his foul156 sins, a thorough exclusive and self-complacent Pharisee, and needs not the right hand of mercy, but the strong arm of punishment.
Campbell, like other men, had his faults: and his were those of a man wrapped up in a pure and stately, but an austere157 and lonely creed158, distrusted with the world in all its forms, and looking down upon men in general nearly as much as Thurnall did. So he set down Elsley for a bad man, to whom he was forced by hard circumstances to behave as if he were a good one.
The only way, therefore, in which he could vent159 his feeling, was by showing to Lucia that studied attention which sympathy and chivalry160 demand of a man toward an injured woman. Not that he dared, or wished, to conduct himself with her as he did with Valencia, even had she not been a married woman; he did not know her as intimately as he did her sister; but still he had a right to behave as the most intimate friend of her family, and he asserted that right; and all the more determinedly161 because Elsley seemed now and then not to like it. "I will teach him how to behave to a charming woman," said he to himself; and perhaps he had been wiser if he had not said it: but every man has his weak point, and chivalry was Major Campbell's.
"What do you think of that poet, Mellot?" said he once, on returning from a pic-nic, during which Elsley had never noticed his wife; and, at last, finding Valencia engaged with Headley, had actually gone off, pour pis aller, to watch Lord Scoutbush fishing.
"Oh, clever enough, and to spare; and as well read a man as I know. One of the Sturm-und-drang party, of course:—the express locomotive school, scream-and-go-head: and thinks me, with my classicism, a benighted162 pagan. Still, every man has a right to his opinion. Live and let live."
"I don't care about his taste," said the Major impatiently. "What sort of man is he?—man, Claude?"
"Ahem, humph! 'Irritabile genus poetarum.' But one is so accustomed to that among literary men, one never expects them to be like anybody else, and so takes their whims and oddities for granted."
"And their sins too, eh?"
"Sins? I know of none on his part."
"Don't you call temper a sin?"
"No; I call it a determination of blood to the head, or of animal spirits to the wrong place, or—my dear Major, I am no moralist. I take people, you know, as I find them. But he is a bore; and I should not wonder if that sweet little woman had found it out ere now."
Campbell ground something between his teeth. He fancied himself full of righteous wrath163: he was really in a very unchristian temper. Be it so: perhaps there were excuses for him (as there are for many men) of which we know nothing.
Elsley, meanwhile, watched Campbell with fast lowering brow. Losing a woman's affections? He who does so deserves his fate. Had he been in the habit of paying proper attention to Lucia, he would have liked Campbell all the more for his conduct. There are few greater pleasures to a man who is what he should be to his wife, than to see other men admiring what he admires, and trying to rival him where he knows that he can have no rival. Let them worship as much as they will. Let her make herself as charming to them as she can. What matter? He smiles at them in his heart; for has he not, over and above all the pretty things which he can say and do ten times as well as they, a talisman—a dozen talismans164 which are beyond their reach?—in the strength of which he will go home and laugh over with her, amid sacred caresses165, all which makes mean men mad? But Elsley, alas166 for him, had neglected Lucia himself, and therefore dreaded167 comparison with any other man; and the suspicions which had taken root in him at Aberalva grew into ugly shape and strength. However he was silent, and contented168 himself with coldness and all but rudeness.
There were excuses for him. In the first place, it would have been an ugly thing to take notice of any man's attentions to a wife; it could not be done but upon the strongest grounds, and done in a way which would make a complete rupture169 necessary, so breaking up the party in a sufficiently170 unpleasant way. Besides, to move in the matter at all would be to implicate171 Lucia; for, of whatsoever kind Campbell's attentions were, she evidently liked them; and a quarrel with her on that score was more than Elsley dared face. He was not a man of strong moral courage; he hated a scene of any kind; and he was afraid of being worsted in any really serious quarrel, not merely by Campbell, but by Lucia. It may seem strange that he should be afraid of her, though not so that he should be afraid of Campbell. But the truth is, that the man who bullies172 his wife very often does so—as Elsley had done more than once—simply to prove to himself his own strength, and hide his fear of her. He knew well that woman's tongue, when once the "fair beast" is brought to bay, is a weapon far too trenchant173 to be faced by any shield but that of a very clear conscience toward her; which was more than Elsley had.
Beside—and it is an honour to Elsley Vavasour, amid all his weakness, that he had justice and chivalry enough left to know what nine men out of ten ignore—behind all, let the worst come to the worst, lay one just and terrible rejoinder, which he, though he had been no worse than the average of men, could only answer by silent shame,—
"At least, sir, I was pure when I came to you! You best know whether you were so likewise."
And yet even that, so all-forgiving is woman, might, have been faced by some means: but the miserable complication about the false name still remained. Elsley believed that he was in his wife's power; that she could, if she chose, turn upon him, and proclaim him to the world as a scoundrel and an impostor. And, as it is of the nature of man to hate those whom he fears, Elsley began to have dark and ugly feelings toward Lucia. Instead of throwing them away, as a strong man would have done, he pampered174 them almost without meaning to do so. For he let them run riot through his too vivid imagination, in the form of possible speeches, possible scenes, till he had looked and looked through a hundred thoughts which no man has a right to entertain for a moment. True; he had entertained them with horror; but he ought not to have entertained them at all; he ought to have kicked them contemptuously out and back to the devil, from whence they came. It may be again, that this is impossible to man; that prayer is the only refuge against that Walpurgis-dance of the witches and the fiends, which will, at hapless moments, whirl unbidden through a mortal brain: but Elsley did not pray.
So, leaving these fancies in his head too long, he soon became accustomed to them; and accustomed too, to the Nemesis175 which they bring with them; of chronic176 moodiness177 and concealed rage. Day by day he was lashing178 himself up into fresh fury, and yet day by day he was becoming more careful to conceal151 that fury. He had many reasons: moral cowardice179, which made him shrink from the tremendous consequences of an explosion— equally tremendous, were he right or wrong. Then the secret hope, perhaps the secret consciousness, that he was wrong, and was only saying to God, like the self-deceiving prophet, "I do well to be angry;" then the honest fear of going too far; of being surprised at last into some hideous180 and irreparable speech or deed, which he might find out too late was utterly unjust: then at moments (for even that would cross him) the devilish notion, that, by concealment181, he might lure182 Lucia on to give him a safe ground for attack. All these, and more, tormented him for a wretched fortnight, during which he became, at such an expense of self-control as he had not exercised for years, courteous to Campbell, more than courteous to Lucia; hiding under a smiling face, wrath which increased with the pressure brought to bear upon it.
Campbell and Lucia, Mellot, Valencia, and Frank, utterly deceived, went on more merrily than ever, little dreaming that they walked and talked daily with a man who was fast becoming glad to flee to the pit of hell, but for the fear that "God would be there also." They, meanwhile, chatted on, enjoying, as human souls are allowed to do at rare and precious moments, the mere sensation of being; of which they would talk at times in a way which led them down into deep matters: for instance,—
"How pleasant to sit here for ever!" said Claude, one afternoon, in the inn garden at Beddgelert, "and say, not with Descartes, 'I think, therefore I exist;' but simply, 'I enjoy, therefore I exist.' I almost think those Emersonians are right at times, when they crave183 the 'life of plants, and stones, and rain.' Stangrave said to me once, that his ideal of perfect bliss184 was that of an oyster185 in the Indian seas, drinking the warm salt water motionless, and troubling himself about nothing, while nothing troubled itself about him."
"Till a diver came and tore him up for the sake of his pearls?" said
Valencia.
"He did not intend to contain any pearls. A pearl, you know, is a disease of the oyster, the product of some irritation186. He wished to be the oyster pure and simple, a part of nature."
"And to be of no use?" asked Frank.
"Of none whatsoever. Nature had made him what he was, and all beside was her business, and not his. I don't deny that I laughed at him, and made him wroth by telling him that his doctrine187 was 'the apotheosis188 of loafing.' But my heart went with him, and the jolly oyster too. It is very beautiful after all, that careless nymph and shepherd life of the old Greeks, and that Marquesas romance of Herman Melville's—to enjoy the simple fact of living, like a Neapolitan lazzaroni, or a fly upon a wall."
"But the old Greek heroes fought and laboured to till the land, and rid it of giants and monsters," said Frank. "And as for the Marquesas, Mr. Melville found out, did he not—as you did once—that they were only petting and fattening189 him for the purpose of eating him? There is a dark side to that pretty picture, Mr. Mellot."
"Tant pis pour eux! But that is an unnecessary appendage190 to the idea, purely191. It must be possible to realise such a simple, rich, healthy life, without wickedness, if not without human sorrow. It is no dream, and no one shall rob me of it. I have seen fragments of it scattered192 up and down the world; and I believe they will all meet in Paradise—where and when I care not; but they will meet. I was very happy in the South Sea Islands, after that, when nobody meant to eat me; and I am very happy here, and do not intend to be eaten, unless it will be any pleasure to Miss St. Just. No; let man enjoy himself when he can, and take his fill of those flaming red geraniums, and glossy193 rhododendrons, and feathered crown-ferns, and the gold green lace of those acacias tossing and whispering overhead, and the purple mountains sleeping there aloft, and the murmur194 of the brook195 over the stones; and drink in scents196 with every breath,—what was his nose made for, save to smell? I used to torment44 myself once by asking them all what they meant. Now, I am content to have done with symbolisms, and say, 'What you all mean, I care not, all I know is, that I can draw pleasure from the mere sight of you, as, perhaps, you do from the mere sight of me; so let us sit together, Nature and I, and stare into each other's eyes like two young lovers, careless of the morrow and its griefs.' I will not even take the trouble to paint her. Why make ugly copies of perfect pictures? Let those who wish to see her take a railway ticket, and save us academicians colours and canvas. Quant à moi, the public must go to the mountains, as Mahomet had to do; for the mountains shall not come to the public."
"One of your wilful197 paradoxes198, Mr. Mellot; why, you are photographing them all day long."
"Not quite all day long, madam. And after all, il faut vivre: I want a few luxuries; I have no capacity for keeping a shop; photographing pays better than painting, considering the time it takes; and it is only Nature reproducing herself, not caricaturing her. But if any one will ensure me a poor two thousand a year, I will promise to photograph no more, but vanish to Sicily or Calabria, and sit with Sabina in an orchard199 all my days, twining rose garlands for her pretty head, like Theocritus and his friends, while the 'pears drop on our shoulders, and the apples by our side.'"
"What do you think of all this?" asked Valencia of Frank.
"That I am too like the Emersonian oyster here, very happy, and very useless; and, therefore, very anxious to be gone."
"Surely you have earned the right to be idle awhile?"
"No one has a right to be idle."
"Oh!" groaned200 Claude; "where did you find that eleventh commandment?"
"I have done with all eleventh commandments; for I find it quite hard work enough to keep the ancient ten. But I find it, Mellot, in the deepest abyss of all; in the very depth from which the commandments sprang. But we will not talk about it here."
"Why not?" asked Valencia, looking up. "Are we so very naughty as to be unworthy to listen?"
"And are these mountains," asked Claude, "so ugly and ill-made, that they are an unfit pulpit for a sermon? No; tell me what you mean. After all, I am half in jest"
"Do not courtesy, pity, chivalry, generosity201, self-sacrifice,—in short, being of use,—do not our hearts tell us that they are the most beautiful, noble, lovely things in the world?"
"I suppose it is so," said Valencia.
"Why does one admire a soldier? Not for his epaulettes and red coat, but because one knows that, coxcomb202 though he be at home here, there is the power in him of that same self-sacrifice; that, when he is called, he will go and die, that he may be of use to his country. And yet—it may seem invidious to say so just now—but there are other sorts of self-sacrifice, less showy, but even more beautiful."
"Oh, Mr. Headley, what can a man do more than die for his countrymen?"
"Live for them. It is a longer work, and therefore a more difficult and a nobler one."
Frank spoke in a somewhat sad and abstracted tone.
"But, tell me," she said, "what all this has to do with—with the deep matter of which you spoke?"
"Simply that it is the law of all earth, and heaven, and Him who made them.—That God is perfectly powerful, because He is perfectly and infinitely203 of use; and perfectly good, because he delights utterly and always in being of use; and that, therefore, we can become like God—as the very heathens felt that we can, and ought to become—only in proportion as we become of use. I did not see it once. I tried to be good, not knowing what good meant. I tried to be good, because I thought it would pay me in the world to come. But, at last, I saw that all life, all devotion, all piety204, were only worth anything, only Divine, and God-like, and God-beloved, as they were means to that one end—to be of use."
"It is a noble thought, Headley," said Claude: but Valencia was silent.
"It is a noble thought, Mellot; and all thoughts become clear in the light of it; even that most difficult thought of all, which so often torments205 good people, when they feel, 'I ought to love God, and yet I do not love him.' Easy to love Him, if one can once think of Him as the concentration, the ideal perfection, of all which is most noble, admirable, lovely in human character! And easy to work, too, when one once feels that one is working for such a Being, and with such a Being; as that! The whole world round us, and the future of the world too, seem full of light even down to its murkiest206 and foulest207 depths, when we can but remember that great idea,—An infinitely useful God over all, who is trying to make each of us useful in his place. If that be not the beatific208 vision of which old Mystics spoke so rapturously, one glimpse of which was perfect bliss, I at least know none nobler, desire none more blessed. Pray forgive me, Miss St. Just! I ought not to intrude209 thus!"
"Go on!" said Valencia.
"I—I really have no more to say. I have said too much. I do not know how I have been betrayed so far," stammered Frank, who had the just dislike of his school of anything like display on such solemn matters.
"Can you tell us too much truth? Mr. Headley is right, Mr. Mellot, and you are wrong."
"It will not be the first time, Miss St. Just. But what I spoke in jest, he has answered in earnest."
"He was quite right. We are none of us half earnest enough. There is
Lucia with the children." And she rose and walked across the garden.
"You have moved the fair trifler somewhat," said Claude.
"God grant it! but I cannot think what made me."
"Why think? You spoke out nobly, and I shall not forget your sermon."
"I was not preaching at you, most affectionate and kindly of men."
"And laziest of men, likewise. What can I do now, at this moment, to be of use to any one? Set me my task."
But Frank was following with his eyes Valencia, as she went hurriedly across to Lucia. He saw her take two of the children at once off her sister's hands, and carry them away down a walk. A few minutes afterwards he could hear her romping210 with them; but he could not have guessed, from the silver din7 of those merry voices, that Valencia's heart was heavy within her.
For her conscience was really smitten211. Of what use was she in the world? Major Campbell had talked to her often about her duties to this person and to that, of this same necessity of being useful; but she had escaped from the thought, as we have seen her, in laughing at poor little Scoutbush on the very same score. But why had not Major Campbell's sermons touched her heart as this one had? Who can tell? Who is there among us to whom an oft-heard truth has not become a tiresome212 and superfluous213 commonplace, till one day it has flashed before us utterly new, indubitable, not to be disobeyed, written in letters of fire across the whole vault74 of heaven? All one can say is, that her time was not come. Besides, she looked on Major Campbell as a being utterly superior to herself; and that very superiority, while it allowed her to be as familiar with him as she chose, excused her in her own eyes from opening to him her real heart. She could safely jest with him, let him pet her, play at being his daughter, while she felt that between him and her lay a gulf214 as wide as between earth and heaven; and that very notion comforted her in her naughtiness; for in that case, of course, his code of morals was not meant for her; and while she took his warnings (as many of them at least as she chose), she thought herself by no means bound to follow his examples. She all but worshipped him as her guardian215 angel: but she was not meant for an angel herself; so she could indulge freely in those little escapades and frivolities for which she was born, and then, whenever frightened, run for shelter under his wings. But to hear the same, and even loftier words, from the lips of the curate, whom she had made her toy, almost her butt, was to have them brought down unexpectedly and painfully to her own level. If this was his ideal, why ought it not to be hers? Was she not his equal, perhaps his superior? And so her very pride humbled216 her, as she said to herself,—"Then I ought to be useful. I can be;—will be!"
"Lucia," asked she, that very afternoon, "will you let me take the children off your hands while Clara is busy in the morning?"
"Oh, you dear good creature? but it would be such a gêne! They are really stupid, I am afraid sometimes, or else I am. They make me so miserably cross at times."
"I will take them. It would be a relief to you, would it not?"
"My clear!" said poor Lucia, with a doleful smile, which seemed to Valencia's self-accusing heart to say, "Have you only now discovered that fact?"
From that day Valencia courted Headley's company more and more. To fall in love with him was of course absurd; and he had cured himself of his passing fancy for her. There could be no harm, then, in her making the most of conversation so different from what she heard in the world, and which in her heart of hearts she liked so much better. For it was with Valencia as with all women; in this common fault of frivolity217, as in most others, the men rather than they are to blame. Valencia had cultivated in herself those qualities which she saw admired by the men whom she met, and some one of whom, of course, she meant to marry; and as their female ideal was a butterfly ideal, a butterfly she became. But beneath all lay, deep and strong, the woman's love of nobleness and wisdom, the woman's longing to learn and to be led, which has shown itself in every age in so many a fantastic and even ugly shape, and which is their real excuse for the flirting with, "geniuses," casting themselves at the feet of directors; which had tempted218 her to coquette with Elsley, and was now bringing her into "undesirable219" intimacy220 with the poor curate.
She had heard that day, with some sorrow, his announcement that he wished to be gone; but as he did not refer to it again, she left the thought alone, and all but forgot it. The subject, however, was renewed about a week afterwards. "When you return to Aberalva," she had said, in reference to some commission.
"I shall never return to Aberalva."
"Not return?"
"No; I have already resigned the curacy. I believe your uncle has appointed to it the man whom Campbell found for me: and an excellent man, I hear, he is. At least, he will do better there than I."
"But what could have induced you? How sorry all the people will be!"
"I am not sure of that," said he with a smile. "I did what I could at last to win back at least their respect, and to leave at least not hatred221 behind me: but I am unfit for them. I did not understand them. I meant—no matter what I meant? but I failed. God forgive me! I shall now go somewhere where I shall have simpler work to do, where I shall at least have a chance of practising the lesson which I learnt there. I learnt it all, strange to say, from the two people in the parish from whom I expected to learn least."
"Whom do you mean?"
"The doctor and the schoolmistress."
"Why from them less than from any in the parish? She so good, and he so clever?"
"That I shall never tell to any one now. Suffice it that I was mistaken."
Valencia could obtain no further answer; and so the days ran on, every one becoming more and more intimate, till a certain afternoon, on which they were all to go and pic-nic, under Claude's pilotage, above the lake of Gwynnant. Scoutbush was to have been with them; but a heavy day's rain in the meanwhile swelled222 the streams into fishing order, so the little man ordered a car, and started at three in the morning for Bettws with Mr. Bowie, who, however loth to give up the arrangement of plates and the extraction of champagne223 corks224, considered his presence by the river-side a natural necessity.
"My dear Miss Clara, ye see, there'll be nobody to see that his lordship pits on dry stockings; and he's always getting over the tops of his water-boots, being young and daft, as we've all been, and no offence to you; and to tell you truth, I can stand all temptations—in moderation, that is, save an' except the chance o' cleiking a fish."
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
rattling
|
|
| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
knolls
|
|
| n.小圆丘，小土墩( knoll的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
alluvial
|
|
| adj.冲积的；淤积的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
gorge
|
|
| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
shrouded
|
|
| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
leek
|
|
| n.韭葱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
din
|
|
| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
hue
|
|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
bustle
|
|
| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
bracing
|
|
| adj.令人振奋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
vista
|
|
| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
glaciers
|
|
| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
ponies
|
|
| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
scramble
|
|
| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
muse
|
|
| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
boggy
|
|
| adj.沼泽多的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
foretold
|
|
| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
invader
|
|
| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
rambles
|
|
| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
scrambles
|
|
| n.抢夺( scramble的名词复数 )v.快速爬行( scramble的第三人称单数 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
muster
|
|
| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
wan
|
|
| (wide area network)广域网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
scribbling
|
|
| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
honourable
|
|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
attachments
|
|
| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
sergeant
|
|
| n.警官，中士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
bout
|
|
| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
cynosure
|
|
| n.焦点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
retailing
|
|
| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
aristocrat
|
|
| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
flirting
|
|
| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
prone
|
|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
ogle
|
|
| v.看；送秋波；n.秋波，媚眼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
contrived
|
|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
tormented
|
|
| 饱受折磨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
torment
|
|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
bribe
|
|
| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
idol
|
|
| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
maiden
|
|
| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
philandering
|
|
| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
feats
|
|
| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
gallant
|
|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
chivalrous
|
|
| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
ragged
|
|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
scrambling
|
|
| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
mythical
|
|
| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
trout
|
|
| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
catastrophe
|
|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
verge
|
|
| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
lissom
|
|
| adj.柔软的，轻快而优雅的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
boxers
|
|
| n.拳击短裤；（尤指职业）拳击手( boxer的名词复数 )；拳师狗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
spouted
|
|
| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
infinity
|
|
| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
quaint
|
|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
scraps
|
|
| 油渣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
jovial
|
|
| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
ballads
|
|
| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
mellowest
|
|
| 成熟的( mellow的最高级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
73
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
vault
|
|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
vaulted
|
|
| adj.拱状的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
provincial
|
|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
rogues
|
|
| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
whatsoever
|
|
| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
butt
|
|
| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
discomfort
|
|
| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
perturbed
|
|
| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
landlady
|
|
| n.女房东，女地主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
dire
|
|
| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
trotted
|
|
| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
chattered
|
|
| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
martyrs
|
|
| 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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
cholera
|
|
| n.霍乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
persuasion
|
|
| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
grumble
|
|
| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
chattering
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
shamefully
|
|
| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
upbraiding
|
|
| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
secrecy
|
|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
humility
|
|
| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
miserably
|
|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
genially
|
|
| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
ascend
|
|
| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
WHIMS
|
|
| 虚妄，禅病 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
salmon
|
|
| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
stammered
|
|
| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
prim
|
|
| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
dignified
|
|
| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
absurdity
|
|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
presumption
|
|
| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
gaily
|
|
| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
gracefully
|
|
| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
shutter
|
|
| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
chestnut
|
|
| n.栗树，栗子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
likeness
|
|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
bleak
|
|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
luncheon
|
|
| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
thither
|
|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
slabs
|
|
| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
awe
|
|
| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
grandeur
|
|
| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
moss
|
|
| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
chagrin
|
|
| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
shrieked
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
sprouting
|
|
| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
braces
|
|
| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
recording
|
|
| n.录音，记录 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
morose
|
|
| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
confided
|
|
| 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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
fussily
|
|
| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
moroseness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
favourable
|
|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
courteous
|
|
| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
temperament
|
|
| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
questionable
|
|
| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
pretentious
|
|
| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
foul
|
|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
austere
|
|
| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
creed
|
|
| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
vent
|
|
| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
chivalry
|
|
| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
determinedly
|
|
| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
benighted
|
|
| adj.蒙昧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
talismans
|
|
| n.护身符( talisman的名词复数 )；驱邪物；有不可思议的力量之物；法宝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
caresses
|
|
| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
dreaded
|
|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
rupture
|
|
| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
implicate
|
|
| vt.使牵连其中，涉嫌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
bullies
|
|
| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
trenchant
|
|
| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
pampered
|
|
| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
nemesis
|
|
| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
chronic
|
|
| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
moodiness
|
|
| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
lashing
|
|
| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
cowardice
|
|
| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
hideous
|
|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
concealment
|
|
| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
lure
|
|
| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
crave
|
|
| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
bliss
|
|
| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
oyster
|
|
| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
doctrine
|
|
| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
apotheosis
|
|
| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
fattening
|
|
| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
appendage
|
|
| n.附加物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
purely
|
|
| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
193
glossy
|
|
| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
brook
|
|
| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
scents
|
|
| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
197
wilful
|
|
| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
198
paradoxes
|
|
| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
199
orchard
|
|
| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
200
groaned
|
|
| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
201
generosity
|
|
| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
202
coxcomb
|
|
| n.花花公子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
203
infinitely
|
|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
204
piety
|
|
| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
205
torments
|
|
| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
206
murkiest
|
|
| adj.阴暗的( murky的最高级 )；昏暗的；（指水）脏的；混浊的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
207
foulest
|
|
| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
208
beatific
|
|
| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
209
intrude
|
|
| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
210
romping
|
|
| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
211
smitten
|
|
| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
212
tiresome
|
|
| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
213
superfluous
|
|
| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
214
gulf
|
|
| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
215
guardian
|
|
| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
216
humbled
|
|
| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
217
frivolity
|
|
| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
218
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
219
undesirable
|
|
| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
220
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
221
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
222
swelled
|
|
| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
223
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
224
corks
|
|
| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |