There may be some of Colin’s friends who will think the less of him for this struggle in his mind; and there may be many who will think with justice that, unless he could have offered love to Alice, he had no right to offer her himself and his life—an opinion in which his historian fully15 agrees. But then this gift though less than the best, was a long way{294} superior to anything else which, at the present moment, was likely to be offered to the friendless girl. If he could have laid at her feet the full heart, which is the only true offering under such circumstances, the chances are that Alice, in her simplicity16 and gentleness, would have been sadly puzzled what to do with that passionate17 and ungovernable thing. What he really could offer her—affection, tenderness, protection—was clearly comprehensible to her. She had no other idea of love than was included in those attributes and phases of it. These considerations justified18 Colin in the step which he contemplated—or rather in the step which he did not contemplate19, but felt to be necessary and incumbent20 upon him. It sometimes occurred to him how—if he had been prudent21 and taken Lauderdale’s advice, and eschewed22 at the beginning that close connexion with Meredith and his sister, which he had entered into with his eyes open, and with a consciousness even that it might affect his life—this embarrassing situation might never have come into being; and then he smiled to himself, with youthful superiority, contemplating23 what seemed so plainly the meaning of Providence24, and asking himself how he, by a momentary25 exercise of his own will, could have overthrown26 that distinct celestial27 intention? On the whole, it was comforting to think that everything had been arranged beforehand by agencies so very clear and traceable; and with this conclusion of the argument he left off, as near contented28 as possible, and not indisposed to enjoy the advantages which were palpably before him; for, though they were not the eyes he had dreamed of, there was a sweetness very well worthy8 of close study in Alice Meredith’s eyes.
The days passed very quietly in this time of suspense29. The society of the two strangers, who were more to her in her sorrow than all her kindred, supported the lonely girl more than she was aware of—more than any one could have believed. They were absent during the greater part of the day, and left her unmolested to the tears that would come, notwithstanding all her patience; and they returned to her in the evening with attention and cares to which she had never been accustomed, devoting two original and powerful minds, of an order at once higher and more homely31 than any which she had ever encountered, to her amusement and consolation32. Alice had never known before what it was to have ordinary life and daily occurrences brightened by the thick-coming fancies, the tender play of word and thought, which now surrounded her. She{295} had heard clever talk afar off, “in society,” and been awe33-stricken by the sound of it; and she had heard Arthur and his friends uttering much fine-sounding language upon subjects not generally in her way; but she was utterly34 unused to that action of uncommon35 minds upon common things which gives so much charm to the ordinary intercourse36 of life. All they could think of to lighten the atmosphere of the house in which she sat in her deep mourning, absorbed for hours together in those thoughts of the dead to which her needlework afforded little relief, they did with devotion, suspending their own talk and occupations to occupy themselves with her. Colin read In Memoriam to her till her heart melted and relieved itself in sweet abundant tears; and Lauderdale talked and told her many a homely history of that common course of humanity, full of sorrows sorer than her own, which fills young minds with awe. Between them they roused Alice to a higher platform, a different atmosphere, than she had known before; and she raised herself up after them with a half-bewildered sense of elevation37, not understanding how it was; and so the long days which were so hard, and which nothing in the world could save from being hard, brightened towards the end, not certainly into anything that could be called pleasure, but into a sad expansion and elevation of heart, in which faintly appeared those beginnings of profound and deep happiness which are not incompatible38 with grief, and yet are stronger and more inspiring than joy.
While this was going on, unconsciously to any one concerned, Sora Antonia, in her white kerchief and apron39, sometimes knitting, sometimes with her distaff like a buxom40 Fate, sat and twisted her thread and turned her spindle a little behind yet not out of reach, keeping a wary41 eye upon her charge. She too interposed, sometimes with her own comments upon life and things in general, and took part in the conversation; and, whether it was that Sora Antonia’s mind was really of a superior order, or that the stately Roman speech threw a refining colour upon her narratives42, it is certain that the interpellations of the Italian peasant fell without any sensible derogation into the strain of lofty yet familiar talk which was meant to wean Alice from her special grief. Sora Antonia told them of the other Forestieri who had lived like themselves in the Savelli palace; who had come for health and yet had died, leaving the saddest mourners—helpless widows and little children, heart-broken fathers and mothers, perhaps the least consolable of all. Life was such, she said solemnly, bowing her{296} stately head. She herself, of a hardy43 race, and strong, as the Signori saw, had not she buried her children, for whom she would have gladly died? But the good God had not permitted her to die. Alice cried silently as she heard all this; she kissed Sora Antonia, who, for her part, had outlived her tears, and with a natural impulse turned to Colin, who was young, and in whose heart, as in her own, there must live a natural protest against this awful necessity of separation and misery44; and thus it came to be Colin’s turn to interpose, and he came on the field once more with In memoriam, and with other poems which were sweet to hear, and soothed45 her even when she only partially46 entered into their meaning. A woman has an advantage under such circumstances. By means of her sympathy and gratitude47, and the still deeper feeling which grew unconsciously in her heart towards him who read, she came to believe that she too understood and appreciated what was to him so clear and so touching48. A kind of spiritual magnetism49 worked upon Alice, and, to all visible appearance, expanded and enlarged her mind. It was not that her intellect itself grew, or that she understood all the beautiful imaginations, all the tender philosophies thus unfolded to her; but she was united in a singular union of affectionate companionship with those who did understand, and even to herself she appeared able to see, if not with her own eyes, at least with theirs, the new beauties and solemnities of which she had not dreamt before.
This strange process went on day by day without any one being aware of it; and even Lauderdale had almost forgotten that their guardianship51 of Alice was only for the moment, and that the state of affairs altogether was provisionary and could not possibly continue, when an answer reached him to his letter. He was alone when he received it, and all that evening said nothing on the subject until Alice had retired53 with her watchful54 attendant; then, without a word of comment, he put it into Colin’s hand. It was written in a stilted55 hand, like that of one unaccustomed to writing, and was not quite irreproachable56 even in its spelling. This was what Lauderdale’s correspondent said:—
“Sir,—Your letter has had such a bad effect upon the health of my dear husband, that I beg you won’t trouble him with any more such communications. If it’s meant to get money, that’s vain—for neither him nor me knows anything about the friends Arthur may have picked up. If he had stayed at home he would have received every attention. As for his ungrateful{297} sister, I won’t have anything to say to her. Mr. Meredith is very ill, and, for anything I know, may never rise from a bed of sickness, where he has been thrown by hearing this news so sudden; but I take upon me to let her know as he will have nothing to say to one that could behave so badly as she has done. I am always for making friends, but she knows she cannot expect much kindness from me after all that has happened. She has money enough to live on, and she can do as she pleases. Considering what her ingratitude57 has brought her dear father to, and that I may be left alone to manage everything before many days are past, you will please to consider that here is an end of it, and not write any more begging letters to me.
“Julia Meredith.”
This communication Colin read with a beating heart. It was so different from what he expected, and left him so free to carry out the dawning resolution which he had imagined himself executing in the face of tyrannical resistance, that he felt at first like a man who has been straining hard at a rope and is suddenly thrown down by the instantaneous stoppage of the pressure on the other side. When he had picked himself up, the facts of the case rushed on him distinct and unmistakeable. The time had now come when the lost and friendless maiden58 stood in the path of the true knight59. Was he to leave her there to fight her way in the hard world by herself, without defence or protection, because, sweet and fair and pure as she was, she was not the lady of his dreams? He made up his mind at once with a thrill of generous warmth; but at the same time felt himself saying for ever and ever farewell to that ideal lady who henceforward, in earth or heaven, could never be his. All this passed through his mind while he was looking at the letter which already his rapid eye had read and his mind comprehended. “So there is an end of your hopes,” said Colin. “Now we are the only friends she has in the world—as I have always thought.”
“Softly,” said Lauderdale. “Callants like you aye run away with the half of an idea. This is an ignorant woman’s letter, that is glad to get rid of her. The father will mend, and then he’ll take her out of our hands.”
“He shall do nothing of the kind,” said Colin, hotly. “You speak as if she was a piece of furniture; I look upon her as a sacred charge. We are responsible to Meredith for his siste{298}r’s comfort and—happiness,” said the young man, who during this conversation preferred not to meet his companion’s eye.
“Ay!” said Lauderdale drily, “that’s an awfu’ charge for the like of you and me. It’s more that I ever calculated on, Colin. To see her safe home, and in the hands of her friends——”
“Lauderdale, do not be so heartless; cannot you see that she has no friends?” cried Colin; “not a protector in the world except——”
“Callant, dinna deceive yourself,” said Lauderdale; “it’s no a matter for hasty judgment60; we have nae right to pass sentence on a man’s character. He’s her father, and it’s her duty to obey him. I’m no heeding62 about that silly woman’s letter. Mr. Meredith will mend. I’m here to take care of you,” said Colin’s guardian50. “Colin, hold your peace. You’re no to do for a moment’s excitement, for pity and ruth and your own tender heart, what you may regret all your life. Sit down and keep still. You are only a callant, too young to take burdens on yourself; there is but one way that the like of you can protect the like of her—and that is no to be thought of, as you consented with your own mouth.”
“I am aware of that,” said Colin, who had risen up in his excitement. “There is but one way. Matters have changed since we spoke63 of it first.”
“I would like to know how far they have changed,” said Lauderdale. “Colin, take heed61 to what I say; if it’s love I’ll no speak a word; I may disapprove64 a’ the circumstances, and find fault with every step ye take; but if it’s love——”
“Hush!” said Colin, standing30 upright, and meeting his friend’s eye; “if it should happen to be my future wife we are speaking of, my feelings towards her are not to be discussed with any man in the world.”
They looked at each other thus for a moment, the one anxious and scrutinizing65, the other facing him with blank brightness, and a smile which afforded no information. Perhaps Lauderdale understood all that was implied in that blank; at all events, his own delicate sense of honour could not refuse to admit Colin’s plea. He turned away, shaking his head, and groaning66 privately67 under his breath; while Colin, struck with compunction, having shut himself up for an instant, unfolded again, that crisis being over, with all the happy grace of apology natural to his disposition68. “You are not ‘any man in the world,’” he said with a short laugh, which implied emotion. “Forgive me, Lauderdale; and now you know very well what I am going to do.{299}”
“Oh ay, I ken10 what you are going to do; I kent three months ago, for that matter,” said the philosopher. “A man acts no from circumstances, as is generally supposed, but from his ain nature.” When he had given forth69 this oracular utterance70, Lauderdale went straight off to his room without exchanging another word with Colin. He was satisfied to a certain extent with such a mate for his friend, and belonged to too lowly a level of society to give profound importance to the inexpediency of early marriages—and he was fond of Alice, and admired her sweet looks and sweet ways, and respected her self-command and patience; nevertheless, he too sighed, and recognised the departure of the ideal woman, who to him as little as to Colin resembled Alice;—and thus it was understood between them how it was to be.
All this, it may be imagined, was little compatible with that reverential regard for womankind in general which both the friends entertained, and evidenced a security in respect to Alice’s inclinations71 which was not altogether complimentary72 to her. And yet it was highly complimentary in a sense; for their security arose from their appreciation73 of the spotless unawakened heart with which they had to do. If Colin entertained little doubt of being accepted when he made his proposal, it was not because he had an overweening idea of himself, or imagined Alice “in love” with him according to the vulgar expression. A certain chivalrous74, primitive75 sense of righteous and natural necessity was in his confidence. The forlorn maiden, knowing the knight to be honest and true, would accept his protection loyally and simply, without bewildering herself with dreams of choice where no choice was; and having accepted would love and cleave76 as was her nature. To be sure there were types of woman less acquiescent77; and we have already said that Alice did not bear the features of that ideal of which Colin had dreamed; but such was the explanation of his confidence. Alice showed little distress78 when she saw her stepmother’s letter except on account of her father’s illness; though even that seemed rather consolatory79 to her than otherwise, as a proof of his love for Arthur. As for Mrs. Meredith’s refusal to interfere80 on her behalf, she was clearly relieved by the intimation; and things went on as before for another week or two, until Sora Antonia, who had now other tenants81 arriving and many occupations in hand, began to murmur82 a little over the watch which she would not relinquish83. “Is it thus young ladies are left in England?” she asked, with a little indignation, “without any one to take care of them{300} except the Signori, who, though amiable84 and excellent, are only men? or when may the lady be expected from England who is to take charge of the Signorina?” It was after this question, had been put to him with some force one evening, that Colin proposed to Alice, who was beginning to lift her head again like a flower after a storm, and to show symptoms of awaking from the first heaviness of grief, to go out with him and visit those ilex avenues, which had now so many associations for the strangers. She went with a faint sense of pleasure in her heart through the slanting85 sunshine, looking wistfully through her black veil at the many cheerful groups on the way, and clinging to Colin’s arm when a kind neighbour spoke to her in pity and condolence. She put up her veil when they came to the favourite avenue, where Lauderdale and Colin walked so often. Nothing could be more silent, more cool and secluded86 than this verdant87 cloister88, where, with the sunshine still blazing everywhere around, the shade and quiet were profound and unbroken. They walked once or twice up and down, remarking now and then upon the curious network of branches, which, out of reach of the sun, were all bare and stripped of their foliage—and upon the blue blaze of daylight at either opening, where the low arch of dark verdure framed in a span of brilliant Italian sky. Then they both became silent, and grew conscious of it; and it was at that moment, just as Alice for the first time began to remember the privileges and penalties of her womanhood, that Colin spoke,—
“I brought you here to speak to you,” he said. “I have a great deal to say. That letter that Lauderdale showed you did not grieve you, did it? You must tell me frankly89. Arthur made me one of your guardians52, and, whatever you may decide upon, that is a sacred bond.”
“Yes, oh yes,” said Alice, with tears, “I know how kind you both are. No, it did not grieve me, except about papa. I was rather glad, if I may say so, that she did not send for me home. It is not—a—home—like what it used to be,” said Alice; and then, perhaps because something in Colin’s looks had advertised her of what was coming; perhaps because of the awakening90 sense of her position sprang up in a moment, after long torpor—a sudden change came upon her face. “I have given you a great deal of trouble,” she said; “I am like somebody who has had a terrible fall—as soon as I come to myself I will go away. It is very wrong of me to detain you here.”
“You are not detaining us,” said Colin, who, notwithstanding, was a little startled and alarmed; “and you must not talk of{301} going away. Where would you go? Are not we your friends—the friends you know best in Italy? You must not think of going away.”
But even these very words thus repeated acted like an awakening spell upon Alice. “I cannot tell what I have been thinking of,” she said. “I suppose it is staying indoors and forgetting everything. I do not seem to know even how long it is. Oh yes, you are my kindest friends. Nobody ever was so good to me; but, then, you are only—gentlemen!” said Alice, suddenly withdrawing her hand from Colin’s arm, and blushing over all her pallid91 face. “Ah! I see now how stupid I have been to put off so long. And I am sure I must have detained you here.”
“No,” said Colin, “do not say so; but I have something more to say to you. You are too young and too delicate to face the world alone, and your people at home are not going to claim you. I am a poor man now, and I never can be rich, but I would protect you and support you if you would have me. Will you trust me to take care of you, Alice, not for this moment, but always? I think it would be the best thing for us both.”
“Mr. Campbell, I don’t understand you,” said Alice, trembling and casting a glance up at him of wistful surprise and uncertainty92. There was an eager, timid inquiry93 in her eyes beside the bewilderment. She seemed to say, “What is it you mean? Is that what you mean?” and Colin answered by taking her hand again and drawing it through his arm.
“Whether you will have me or not,” he said, “there is always the bond between us which Arthur has made sacred, and you must lean on me all the same. I think you will see what I mean if you consider it. There is only one way that I can be your true protector and guardian, and that is if you will consent to marry me, Alice. Will you? You know I have nothing to offer you; but I can work for you, and take care of you, and with me you would not be alone.”
It was a strange way of putting it, certainly—very different from what Colin had intended to say, strangely different from the love-tale that had glided94 through his imagination by times since he became a man; but he was very earnest and sincere in what he said, and the innocent girl beside him was no critic in such matters. She trembled more and more, but she leaned upon him and heard him out with anxious attention. When he had ended, there was a pause, during which Colin, who had not hitherto been doubtful, began himself to feel anxious; and then Alice once more gave a wistful, inquiring look at his face.{302}
“Don’t be angry with me,” she said; “it is so hard to know what to answer. If you would tell me one thing quite truly and frankly—Would it not do you a great deal of harm if this was to happen as you say?——”
“No,” said Colin. When he said the word he could not help remembering, in spite of himself, the change it would make in his young prospects95, but the result was only that he repeated his negative with more warmth. “It can do me only good,” said Colin, yielding to the natural temptations of the moment, “and I think I might do something for your happiness too. It is for you to decide—do not decide against me, Alice,” said the young man; “I cannot part with you now.”
“Ah!—” said Alice with a long breath. “If it only would not do you any harm,” she added a moment after, once more with that inquiring look. The inquiry was one which could be answered but in one way, and Colin was not a man to remain unmoved by the wistful, sweet eyes thus raised to him, and by the tender dependence96 of the clinging arm. He set her doubts at rest almost as eloquently97, and quite as warmly, as if she had indeed been that woman who had disappeared among the clouds for ever; and led her home to Sora Antonia with a fond care, which was very sweet to the forlorn little maiden, and not irksome by any means to the magnanimous knight. Thus the decisive step was taken in obedience98 to the necessities of the position, and the arrangements (as Colin had decided99 upon them) of Providence. When he met Lauderdale and informed him of the new event, the young man looked flushed and happy, as was natural in the circumstances, and disposed of all the objections of prudence100 with great facility and satisfaction to himself. It was a moonlight night, and Colin and his friend went out to the loggia on the roof of the house, and plunged101 into a sea of discussion, through which the young lover steered102 triumphantly103 the frailest104 bark of argument that ever held water. But, when the talk was over, and Colin, before he followed Lauderdale downstairs, turned round to take a parting look at the Campagna, which lay under them like a great map in the moonlight, the old apparition105 looked out once more from the clouds, pale and distant, and again seemed to wave to him a shadowy farewell. “Farewell! farewell! not in heaven nor in earth shall you ever find me,” sighed the woman of Colin’s imagination, dispersing106 into thin white mists and specks107 of clouds; and the young man went to rest with a vague sense of loss in his heart. The sleep of Alice was sweeter than that of Colin on this first night of{303} their betrothal108; but at that one period of existence, it often happens that the woman, for once in her life, has the advantage. And thus it was that the event, foreseen by Lauderdale on board the steamer at the beginning of their acquaintance, actually came to pass.
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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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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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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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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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eschewed
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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43
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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45
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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46
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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47
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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48
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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49
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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50
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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51
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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52
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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53
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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54
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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55
stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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56
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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57
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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58
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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59
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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60
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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61
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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62
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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63
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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64
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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65
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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66
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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67
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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68
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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71
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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72
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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73
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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74
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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75
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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76
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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78
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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79
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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80
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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81
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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82
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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83
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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84
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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85
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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86
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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87
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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88
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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89
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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90
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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91
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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92
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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93
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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94
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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95
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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96
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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97
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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98
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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99
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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100
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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101
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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102
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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103
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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104
frailest
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| 脆弱的( frail的最高级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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105
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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106
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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107
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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108
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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