There can be no doubt that the clergyman was right in suggesting that Colin should leave Frascati, and that the strange little household which had kept together since Arthur’s death, under the supervision1 of Sora Antonia, was in its innocence2 in utter contradiction of all decorum and the usages of society. It was true besides that Alice had begun to be uneasy upon this very point, and to feel herself in a false position; nevertheless, when Lauderdale returned alone with a note from Colin, and informed her that they had found rooms in Rome, and were to leave her with Sora Antonia until the arrangements were made for the marriage, it is inconceivable how blank and flat the evening felt to Alice without her two knights3. As she sat over her needlework her sorrow came more frequently home to her than it had ever done before—her sorrow, her friendlessness, and a vague dread4 that this great happiness, which had come in tears, and which even now could scarcely be separated from the grief which accompanied it, might again fly away from her like a passing angel. Sora Antonia was indifferent company under these circumstances; she was very kind, but it was not in nature that an elderly peasant woman could watch the changing expressions of a girl’s face, and forestall5 her tears, and beguile6 her weariness like the two chivalrous7 men who had devoted8 themselves to her amusement and occupation. Now that this rare morsel9 of time, during which she had been tended “like a queen,” was over, it seemed impossible to Alice that it ever could be again. She who was not clever, who was nothing but Arthur’s sister, how could she ever expect again to be watched over and served like an enchanted10 princess? Though, indeed, if she were Colin’s wife—! but since Colin’s departure and the visit of the clergyman, that possibility seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer—she could not tell why. She believed in it when her lover came to see her, which was often enough; but, when he was absent, doubt returned, and the bright prospect11 glided12 away, growing more and more dim and distant. She had never indulged in imagination, to speak of, before, and the few dreams that had possessed13 her heart had been dreams of Arthur’s recovery—fantastic hopeless visions of those wondrous14 doctors and impossible medicines sometimes to be met with in books. But now, when her own position began to occupy her, and she{313} found herself standing15 between hopes and fears, with such a sweet world of tenderness and consolation16 on one side, and so unlovely a prospect on the other, the dormant17 imagination woke up, and made wild work with Alice. Even in the face of her stepmother’s refusal to have anything to do with her, the spectre of Mrs. Meredith coming to take her home was the nightmare of the poor girl’s existence. This was what she gained by the clergyman’s attention to the proprieties19 of the situation; but there was at least the comfort of thinking that in respect to decorum all was now perfectly20 right.
As for Colin, he, it must be confessed, bore the separation better; for he was not at all afraid of Mrs. Meredith, and he had a great many things to learn and do, and, when he paid his betrothed21 a visit, it was sweet to see the flush of unmistakeable joy in her face, and to feel that so fair a creature sat thinking of him in the silence, referring everything to him, ready to crown him with all the hopes and blossoms of her youth. And then, but for her sake, Colin, to tell the truth, was in no such hurry to be married as his clerical censor22 supposed. The weeks that might have to elapse before that event could be concluded were not nearly so irksome to him as they ought to have been; and, even though he began to be irritated by the ambiguous responses of the clergyman, he was not impatient of the delay itself, but found the days very interesting, and, on the whole, enjoyed himself; which, to be sure, may give some people an unfavourable impression of Colin’s heart, and want of sympathy with the emotions of her he looked upon as his bride. At the same time, it is but just to say that he was not aware of these emotions—for Alice said nothing about her fears; and his love for her, which was genuine enough in its way, was not of the nature of that love which divines everything, and reads the eye and the heart with infallible perception. He did not suffer, like Alice, from fears that his dawning happiness was too great, and could never come true; for, though he had fully23 accepted his position, and even with the facility of youth had found pleasure in it, and found himself growing fonder every day of the sweet and tranquil24 creature to whom he became day by day more completely all in all, this kind of calm domestic love was unimpassioned, and not subject to the hopes and fears, the despairs and exultations of more spontaneous and enthusiastic devotion. So, to tell the truth, he endured the separation with philosophy, and roamed about all day long with many a thought in his mind, through that town which is of all towns{314} in the world most full of memories, most exciting and most sorrowful. Colin, being Scotch25, was not classical to speak of, and the C?sars had but a limited interest for him; but, if the ancient tutelary26 deities27 were worn out and faded, the shrine28 to which pilgrims had come for so many ages was musical with all the echoes of history, and affecting beyond description or comparison. And in Papal Rome the young priest had an interest altogether different from that of a polemical Protestant or a reverential High-Churchman. Colin was a man of his age, tolerant and indulgent to other people’s opinions, and apt to follow out his own special study without pausing to consider whether the people among whom he pursued it were without spot or blemish29 in matters of doctrine30. The two friends spent a great deal of time in the churches; not at the high mass, or sweet-voiced vespers, where irreverent crowds assembled, as in a concert-room, to hear Mustafa sing, but in out-of-the-way chapels31, where there were no signs of festa; in the Pantheon, in churches where there were no great pictures nor celebrated32 images, but where the common people went and came unconscious of any spectators; and many and strange were the discussions held by the two Scotchmen over the devotions they witnessed—devotions ignorant enough, no doubt, but real, and full of personal meaning. It was Rome without her glorious apparel, without her grandeur33 and melodies,—Rome in very poor vestments, not always clean, singing out of tune34, and regarding with eyes of intensest supplication35 such poor daubs of saints and weak-eyed Madonnas as would have found no place in the meanest exhibition anywhere in the world. Strangely enough, this was the aspect in which she had most interest for the two friends.
“It would be awfu’ curious to hear the real thoughts these honest folk have in their minds,” said Lauderdale. “I’m no much of the idolatry way of thinking mysel’. It may come a wee that way in respect to Mary. The rest of them are little more than friends at court so far as I can see, and it’s no unnatural36 feeling. If you take the view that a’ natural feelings are like to be wrong to start with, that settles the question; but if, on the other hand—”
“I don’t believe in idolatry under any circumstances,” said Colin, hotly; “nobody worships a bad picture. It is the something represented by it, never to be fully expressed, and of which, indeed, a bad picture is almost more touching37 than a good one{315}—”
“Keep quiet, callant, and let other folk have a chance to speak,” said Lauderdale; “I’m saying there’s an awfu’ deal of reasonableness in nature if you take her in the right way. I’m far from being above that feeling mysel’. No that I have ony acquaintance with St. Cosmo and St. Damian and the rest; but I wouldna say if there was ony rational way of getting at the ear of one of them that’s gone—even if it was Arthur, poor callant—that I wouldna be awfu’ tempted38 to bid him mind upon me when he was near the Presence Cha’amer. I’m no saying he had much wisdom to speak of, or was more enlightened than myself; and there’s no distinct evidence that at this moment he’s nearer God than I am; but I tell you, callant, nature’s strong—and, if I kent ony way of communication, there’s nae philosophy in the world would keep me from asking, if he was nigh the palace gates and could see Him that sits upon the throne, that he should mind upon me.”
“You may be sure he does it without asking,” said Colin—and then, after a moment’s pause, “Your illustration comes too close for criticism. I know what you mean; but then the saints as they flourish in Rome have nothing to do with Scotland,” said the young man. “It would be something to get the people to have a little respect for the saints; but, as to saying their prayers to them, there is little danger of that.”
“The callant’s crazy about Scotland,” said Lauderdale; “a man that heard you and kent no better might think ye were the king of Scotland in disguise, with a scheme of Church reform in your hand. If you’re ever a minister you’ll be in hot water before you’re well placed. But, Colin, it’s an awfu’ descent from all your grand thoughts. You’ll have to fight with the presbytery about organs and such like rubbish—and when you’re to stand, and when you’re to sit; that’s what ambitious callants come to in our kirk. You were like enough for such a fate at any time, but you’re certain of it now with your English wife.”
“Well,” said Colin, “it is no worse than the fight about candles and surplices in England; better, indeed, for it means something; and, if I fight on that point, at least I’ll fight at the same time for better things.”
“It’s aye best no to fight at all,” said the philosopher, “though that’s no a doctrine palatable40 to human nature so far as I have ever seen. But it’s aye awfu’ easy talking; you’re no ready for your profession yet; and how you are ever to be ready, and you a married man——”
“Stuff!” said Colin; “most men are married; but I do{316}n’t see that that fact hinders the business of the world. I don’t mean to spend all my time with my wife.”
“No,” said Lauderdale with a momentary41 touch of deeper seriousness—and he paused and cast a side glance at his companion as if longing42 to say something; but it happened at that moment, either by chance or intention, that Colin turned the full glow of his brown eyes upon his friend’s face, looking at him with that bright but blank smile which he had seen before, and which imposed silence more absolutely than any prohibition43. “No,” said Lauderdale, slowly changing his tone; “I’ll no say it was that I was thinking of. The generality of callants studying for the kirk in our country are no in your position. I’m no clear in my own mind how it’s come to pass—for a young man that’s the head of a family has a different class of subjects to occupy his mind; and as for the Balliol scholarship”—said the philosopher regretfully; “but that’s no what I’m meaning. You’ll have to provide for your own house, callant, before you think of the kirk.”
“Yes, I have thought of all that,” said Colin. “I think Alice will get on with my mother. She must stay there, you know, and I will go down as often as I can during the winter. What do you mean by making no answer? Do you think she will not like Ramore? My mother is fit company for a queen,” said the young man with momentary irritation44; for, indeed, he was a little doubtful in his own mind how this plan would work.
“I’ve little acquaintance with queens,” said Lauderdale; “but I’m thinking history would tell different tales if the half of them were fit to be let within the door where the Mistress was. That’s no the question. It’s clear to me that your wife will rather have your company than your mother’s—which is according to nature, though you and me may be of a different opinion. If you listen to me, Colin, you’ll think a’ that over again. It’s an awfu’ serious question. I’m no saying a word against the kirk; whatever fools may say, it’s a grand profession; there’s nae profession so grand that I ken39 of; but a man shouldna begin a race with burdens on his back and chains on his limbs. You’ll have to make your choice between love and it, Colin; and since in the first place you’ve made choice of love——”
“Stuff!” said Colin; but it was not said with his usual lightness of tone, and he turned upon his friend with a subdued45 exasperation46 which meant more than it expressed. “Why do you speak to me of love and—— nonsense,” cried Colin, “what choice is there?” and then he recollected47 himself, and grew red{317} and angry. “My love has Providence48 itself for a second,” he said; “if it were mere18 fancy you might speak; but, as for giving up my profession, nothing shall induce me to do that. Alice is not like a fanciful fool to hamper49 and constrain50 me. She will stay with my mother. Two years more will complete my studies, and then——” here Colin paused of himself, and did not well know what to add; for, indeed, it was then chiefly that the uttermost uncertainty51 commenced.
“And then—” said Lauderdale, meditatively52. “It’s an awfu’ serious question. It’s ill to say what may happen then. What I’m saying is no pleasure to me. I’ve put mair hope on your head than any man’s justified53 in putting on another man. Ye were the ransom54 of my soul, callant,” said the philosopher, with momentary emotion. “It was you that was to be; nothing but talk will ever come out of a man like me—and it’s an awfu’ consolation to contemplate55 a soul that means to live. But there’s more ways of living—ay, and of serving God and Scotland—than in the kirk. No man in the world can fight altogether in the face of circumstance. I would think it a’ well over again, if I were you.”
“No more,” said Colin, with all the more impatience56 that he felt the truth of what his friend was saying. “No more; I am not to be moved on that subject. No, no, it is too much; I cannot give up my profession,” he said, half under his breath, to himself; and, perhaps, at the bottom of his soul, a momentary grudge57, a momentary pang58, arose within him at thought of the woman who could accept such a sacrifice without even knowing it, or feeling how great it was. Such, alas59, was not the woman of Colin’s dreams; yet so inconsistent was the young man in his youth, that ten minutes after, when the two walked past the Colosseum on their way to the railway, being bound to Frascati (for this was before the days when the vulgar highway of commerce had entered within the walls of Rome), a certain wavering smile on his lip, a certain colour on his cheeks, betrayed as plainly that he was bound on a lover’s errand, as if it had been said in words. Lauderdale, whose youthful days were past, and who was at all times more a man of one idea, more absolute and fixed60 in his affections, than Colin, could understand him less on this point than on any other; but he saw how it was, though he did not attempt to explain how it could be, and the two friends grew silent, one of them delivered by sheer force of youthfulness and natural vigour61 from the anxieties that clouded the other. As they approached the gate, a carriage, which had been stopped{318} there by the watchful62 ministers of the Dogana, made a sudden start, and dashed past them. It was gone in a moment, flashing on in the sunshine at the utmost speed which a reckless Italian coachman could get out of horses which did not belong to him; but in that instant, both the bystanders started, and came to a sudden pause in their walk. “Did you hear anything?” said Colin. “What was it?” and the young man turned round, and made a few rapid strides after the carriage; but then Colin stopped short, with an uneasy laugh at himself. “Absurd,” he said; “all English voices sound something alike,” which was an unlover-like remark. And then he turned to his friend, who looked almost as much excited as himself.
“I suppose that’s it,” said Lauderdale, but he was less easily satisfied than Colin. “I cannot see how it could be her,” he said, slowly; “but——. Yon’s an awfu’ speed if there’s no reason for it. I’m terrible tempted to jump into that machine there, and follow,” the philosopher added, with a stride towards a crazy little one-horse carriage which was waiting empty at the gate.
“It is I who should do that,” said Colin; and then he laughed, shaking off his fears. “It is altogether impossible and absurd,” the young man said. “Nonsense! there are scores of English girls who have voices sufficiently63 like her’s to startle one. I have thought it was she half-a-dozen times since I came to Rome. Come along, or we shall lose the train. Nothing could possibly bring her into Rome without our knowledge; and nothing, I hope,” said the young lover, who was in little doubt on that branch of the subject, “could make her pass by me.”
“Except her father,” said Lauderdale, to which Colin only replied by an impatient exclamation64 as they went on to the train. But, though it was only a momentary sound, the tone of a voice, that had startled them, it was with extreme impatience and an uneasiness which they had tried to hide from each other that they made their way to Frascati. To be sure Colin amused himself for a little by the thought of a pretty speech with which he could flatter and flutter his gentle fiancée, telling her her voice was in the air, and he heard it everywhere; and then he burst forth65 into “Airy tongues that syllable66 men’s names,” to the consternation67 of Lauderdale. “But then she did not syllable any name,” he added, laughing; “which is a proof positive that it can have been nothing.” His laugh and voice were, however, full of excitement and uneasiness, and betrayed to Lauderdale that the suggestion he had made began to work. The two mounted the hill to Frascati from the station with a swiftness and silence{319} natural to two Scotchmen at such a moment, leaving everything in the shape of carriage behind them. When they reached the Palazzo Savvelli, Colin cleared the long staircase at a bound for anything his companion saw who followed him more slowly, more and more certainly prescient of something having happened. When Lauderdale reached the salone, he found nobody there save Sora Antonia, with her apron68 at her eyes, and Colin, sunk into Arthur’s chair, reading a letter which he held in both his hands. Colin’s face was crimson69, his hands trembling with excitement and passion. The next moment he had started to his feet and was ready for action. “Read it, Lauderdale,” he said, with a choking voice; “you may read it; it has all come true; and in the meantime I’m off to get a vettura,” said the young man, rushing to the door. Before his friend could say a word, Colin was gone, tearing frantically70 down the stairs which he had come up like lightning; and in this bewildering moment, after the thunderbolt had fallen, with Sora Antonia’s voice ringing in his ear as loudly and scarce more intelligibly71 than the rain which accompanies a storm, Lauderdale picked up poor Alice’s letter, which was blotted72 with tears.
“Papa has come to fetch me,” wrote Alice. “Oh, Colin, my heart is broken! He says we are to go instantly, without a moment’s delay; and he would not let me write even this if he knew. Oh, Colin, after all your goodness and kindness, and love that I was not worthy73 of!—oh, why did anybody ever interfere74? I do not know what I am writing, and I am sure you will never be able to read it. Never so long as I live shall I think one thought of anybody but you; but papa would not let me speak to you—would not wait to see you, though I told him you were coming. Oh Colin, good-bye, and do not think it is me—and tell Mr. Lauderdale I shall never forget his kindness. I would rather, far rather, die than go away. Always, always, whatever any one may say, your own poor Alice, who is not half nor quarter good enough for you.”
Such was the hurried utterance75 of her disappointment and despair which Alice had left behind her ere she was forced away; but Sora Antonia held another document of a more formal description, which she delivered to Lauderdale with a long preface, of which he did not understand a word. He opened it carelessly; for, the fact being apparent, Lauderdale, who had no hand in the business on his own account, was sufficiently indifferent{320} to any compliments which the father of Alice might have to pay to himself.
“Mr. Meredith regrets to have the sentiments of gratitude76 with which he was prepared to meet Mr. Lauderdale, on account of services rendered to his son, turned into contempt and indignation by the base attempt on the part of Mr. Lauderdale’s companion to ensnare the affections of his daughter. Having no doubt whatever that when removed from the personal coercion77 in which she has been held, Miss Meredith will see the base character of the connexion which it has been attempted to force upon her, Mr. Meredith will, in consideration of the services above mentioned, take no legal steps for the exposure of the conspiracy78 which he has fortunately found out in time to defeat its nefarious79 object; but begs that it may be fully understood that his leniency80 is only to be purchased by an utter abstinence from any attempt to disturb Miss Meredith, or bring forward the ridiculous pretensions81 of which she is too young to see the utterly82 interested and mercenary character.”
A man does not generally preserve his composure unabated after reading such an epistle, and Lauderdale was no more capable than other men of dissembling his indignation. His face flushed with a dark glow, more burning and violent than anything that had disturbed his blood for years; and it was as well for the character of the grave and sober-minded Scotsman that nobody but Sora Antonia was present to listen to the first exclamation that rose to his lips. Sora Antonia herself was in a state of natural excitement, pouring forth her account of all that had happened with tears and maledictions, which were only stopped by Colin’s shout from the foot of the staircase for his friend. The impatient youth came rushing upstairs when he found no immediate83 response, and swept the older man with him like a whirlwind. “Another time, another time,” he cried to Sora Antonia, “I must go first and bring the Signorina back,” and Colin picked up both the letters, and rushed down, driving Lauderdale before him to the carriage which he had already brought to the door; and they were driving off again, whirling down hill towards the Campagna, before either had recovered the first shock of this unlooked-for change in all their plans. Then it was Lauderdale who was the first to speak.
“You are going to bring the Signorina back,” he said with a long breath. “It’s a fool’s errand, but I’ll no say but I’ll go{321} with you. Colin, it’s happened as was only natural. The father has got better, as I said he would. I’m no blaming the father”—
“Not after this?” said Colin, who had just read in a blaze of indignation Mr. Meredith’s letter.
“Hout,” said the philosopher, “certainly not after that;” and he took it out of Colin’s hand and folded it up and tore it into a dozen pieces. “The man kens84 nothing of me. Callant,” said Lauderdale, warming suddenly, “there is but one person to be considered in this business. You and me can fend85 for ourselves. Pain and sorrow cannot but come on her as things are, but nothing is to be done or said that can aggravate86 them, or give her more to bear. You’re no heeding87 what I say. Where are you going now, if a man might ask?”
“I am going to claim my bride,” said Colin, shortly. “Do you imagine I am likely to abandon her now?”
“Colin,” said his friend anxiously, “you’ll no get her. I’m no forbidding you to try, but I warn you not to hope. She’s in the hands of her natural guardian88, and at this moment there’s nae power on earth that would induce him to give her to you. He’s to be blamed for ill speaking, but I’m no clear that he’s to be blamed for this.”
“I wish you would not talk,” said Colin roughly, and opened Alice’s little letter again, and read it and put it to his lips. If he had never been impassioned before he was so now; and so they went on, dashing across the long level Campagna roads, where there was nothing to break the sunshine but here and there a nameless pile of ruins.
The sunshine began to fall low and level on the plain before they reached the gates. “One thing at least is certain—he cannot take her out of Rome to-night,” said Colin. It was almost the only word that was spoken between them until they began their doubtful progress from one hotel to another, through the noisy resounding89 streets.
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1
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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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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consolation
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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mere
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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fully
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tranquil
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scotch
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| 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 | |
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tutelary
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| adj.保护的；守护的 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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doctrine
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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celebrated
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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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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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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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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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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coercion
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| n.强制，高压统治 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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