Sir Anthony had made ample apologies to his nephew, and concessions4 to his uncle, to justify5 a renewed reconciliation6. He pleaded surprise and infatuation; and as the eccentric planet, whose influence created both, had some time reached its perihelium; it was hoped the attraction would be too powerful to allow of its return. Mr. Athelstone, therefore, permitted his nephew to visit as usual at the castle, till the closing in of winter rendered the shores dangerous,[240] and commanded the emigration of his family to the more sheltered regions of Morewick-hall.
Louis's elastic7 mind, like the principle of life shooting into every faculty8 of vigorous manhood, recovered all its spring; and allowing himself to think no more of his father nor of Duke Wharton, than what was sufficient to keep his emulation9 in active career to attain10 the patriotic11 talents of the one, and the disinterested12 enthusiam of the other; he devoted13 himself, heart and soul, to the perfect acquirement of every branch of study which could possibly promote the great ends of his ambition. Accustomed to labour, the buoyancy of his spirit never admitted the touch of fatigue14. Bodily exertion15 could not weary his practised limbs; nor diversity of mental pursuits, distract nor overstrain his faculties16. In the full power of health, and of a mind which care had never traversed, all things were easy to him. One hour he was[241] absorbed in mathematics, history, or languages; and the next saw him in the chace, with his gun on the moor17, or bounding along the icicled heights of Morewick, by the side of Cornelia.
Alice alone had exhibited a change in her person and manners since the visit of the noble Spaniards. She, who used to be the most constant companion of her cousin, now hardly ever joined him in his rambles18; and always refused to be his partner in the evening dances, which usually diversified19 the amusements of the hall, when any of the neighbouring families made a part of its winter fire-side. Her spirits and her bloom were gone; and Mrs. Coningsby at length became so alarmed, that she seriously talked with the Pastor about taking her in the spring to some milder climate. Louis was not insensible to the alteration in his cousin. But those anxious attentions which, in any former indisposition, she had always received from him with grate[242]ful affection, were now, not merely avoided, but repelled21 with evident dislike. At first he attributed this strange conduct, to some unintentional offence on his part; and he tenderly asked her if it were so. She burst into tears as she hurryingly replied in the negative, and left the room. On mentioning the circumstance to Mrs. Coningsby, it only confirmed her opinion of her daughter's illness being a latent consumption; and that her present distaste to what before gave her pleasure, was a symptom of that fatal disorder22.
Such was the state of the family; when about four o'clock, one dreadfully severe day in December, a person of a middle age and a gloomy aspect, alighted from a chaise at the door of Morewick-hall; and almost speechless with cold, was ushered23 into the presence of Mr. Athelstone. The Pastor was alone in his library: and the stranger in brief and broken English, announced himself as[243] the Senor Castanos, confidential24 secretary to the Baron25 de Ripperda, and a messenger to the guardian26 of his son. While he spoke27, he presented two packets; one from the Baron, the other from the Marquis Santa Cruz. With his accustomed hospitality, Mr. Athelstone bade his guest welcome; and was enquiring28 after the health of the Baron and the Marquis, when Louis entered the room. In passing through the hall, the porter told him that Peter had just shewn an outlandish gentleman in to his uncle; and impatient to know whether he came from Spain, Louis hastened to the library.
"My child," said the Pastor, "I believe you are near the goal of your wishes.—This gentleman comes from your father."
The secretary bowed to the son of his patron. And Louis, looking first at him, and then at his uncle, exclaimed—"my father!—and does he—?" He hesitated,[244] he stopped; the eagerness of his hopes interrupted his articulation29.
"We will open this packet, and see," returned the Pastor, taking that from the Baron into his hand. But glancing at the shivering figure of his guest, who had drawn30 near the fire, he did not break the seal, but desiring Louis to ring the bell, requested the Senor to permit the servant who attended, to shew him to an apartment where he should have a change of warm garments, and proper refreshment31 after so inclement32 a journey.
As soon as the Spaniard had withdrawn33, Mr. Athelstone opened the packet. It presented one for himself, and another for his nephew. Never before had Louis received a letter directed to himself, from his father. Though he always persevered34 in the duty of addressing his only parent, yet, until this moment, the answers were never more than acknowledging messages through his guardian. It was, therefore, with a peculiar35 feeling[245] of recognition; a conviction of being now owned by his father's heart as his son; that Louis opened the first letter he had ever received from his hand.—
Its contents were these:
"My dear Son,
"I hear from the Marquis Santa Cruz, that you are worthy36 the name you bear.—That your acquirements do credit to the liberality of your education; and that you are not deficient37 in ambition to bring these implements38 to the test. I offer you an opportunity. Accompany the bearer of this, to the continent.—He is my secretary:—and has my commands to present you to a person there, who will put your talents to the trial. Should the result be to your honour, you shall not be long withheld39 from the embrace of your father, William
Baron de Ripperda.
"Madrid,
"November, 1725."
Louis pressed these welcome com[246]mands to his lips: then turning, to communicate their happy tidings to Mr. Athelstone, he saw the eyes of the venerable man still bent40 on the other packet; while the spectacles, which he held in his hand, bore tearful proofs how little was his sympathy with the joy that beat in the heart of his nephew. Louis took that trembling hand, and kissed it without speaking.
"I know, my child, that you are going to leave me.—I know that you are glad to go;—and it is natural, but an old man's tears are natural too."
Louis grieved for the grief of his uncle: and anticipated his own pangs41 in the moment of separation from so paternal42 a friend; from an aunt and cousins so beloved: but he did not feel the most distant wish to escape these pangs an hour, by delaying the journey that was to draw him nearer to his father, and to the indistinct, but, he hoped, sure objects of his ambition. He was indeed drawn by two attractions: the one tender and per[247]suading; the other, powerful and imperative43; and his soul leaped to the latter, as to its congenial element.
In a few minutes Mr. Athelstone recovered his wonted serenity45. "The time is now come," said he, "when I must put forth46 from my bosom47 the sacred deposit I have so fondly cherished.—Yes, Louis; your spirit, more than your years, demands its active destination; and I will not murmur48 that the moment for which I have educated your mind and your body, is at last arrived!" He then read aloud, and with composure, the letter which the Baron had addressed to him; but it was not more explanatory than the other, of the circumstances in which he meant to place his son.
The secretary soon after re-entered. On Mr. Athelstone putting some civil questions to him respecting his present fatigue, and his late long journey; he abruptly49 answered, "That as his arrival had been delayed by contrary winds at[248] sea; and the severity of the season did not promise a more propitious50 voyage, in returning; it would be necessary for him and Mr. de Montemar to take leave of Morewick-hall the following morning."
The Baron's letter to Mr. Athelstone, told him that Louis must yield implicit51 deference52 to the arrangements of Castanos. And in reply to some remonstrance53 from the Pastor, for a less hasty departure, the Senor coldly observed—"That at Ostend, he and his charge were to meet instructions for proceeding54: and should they arrive there a day later than the one fixed55 by the Baron, the consequence might be fatal to their safety. Indeed, that no appendage56 should encumber57 their progress, his Lord had commanded him to deny to Mr. de Montemar the indulgence of taking a servant from England."
Mr. Athelstone made many enquiries, to gather something of the object of so peremptory58 a summons; but he received no satisfaction from the secretary, who,[249] with even morose59 brevity, continued to affirm his total ignorance of what was to follow the introduction of his charge to his new guardian. His own office went no further than to conduct Mr. de Montemar by a particular day to the continent: but who he was to meet there, or how he was to be employed, future events must explain. The frank-hearted Pastor, became uneasy at this mystery. And the more so, as from the secretary's hint, (which he appeared vext at having dropped) it seemed connected with danger. "Yet it is his father, who summons him into such circumstances!" said he to himself; "and surely I may trust a father's watchfulness60 over his only son!"
Louis's imagination had taken fire at what chilled the heart of his uncle. That there was a demand on his courage, in the proposed trial, swelled61 his youthful breast with exultation62. He thought, as yet he had only tried his strength like a boy; in exercise, or in pastime. He[250] wanted to grapple with danger, with the heart and the arm of a man; and for a cause that would sanctify the hazard of his life. "And to something like this," cried he mentally, "my father calls me! He calls me, as becomes the son of his race, to share the labours, the perils63, of his glorious career! I am now to prove my claim to so noble a birth-right.—And I will prove it! O gracious Heaven, give me but to deserve honour of my father; and I ask no other blessing65 on this side of eternity66!"
Mr. Athelstone saw that strong emotions were agitating67 the occupied mind of his nephew, and reading their import, in the lofty expressions of his countenance68, he did not check their impulse, by recalling his attention to present objects; but proceeded in silence to open the packet from Santa Cruz: hoping that its contents might cast a light upon the destiny of Louis.
The letter was short: chiefly thanking[251] the Pastor and his family, for their kindness to himself and his son during their visit at Lindisfarne. Writing of Ferdinand, he added that his health was materially improved, though his spirits were yet very unequal. To remedy these remains69 of his indisposition, he meant to engage himself in the expected hostilities70 between Austria and Spain, who were likely to quarrel on a question of maritime71 and commercial prerogative72. The Marquis concluded his letter by saying, that he enclosed three packets from Don Ferdinand, as offerings of respect to the ladies of Lindisfarne.
Mr. Athelstone believed he had found a clew to the affair of danger, to which Louis was to be introduced. He did not doubt but that the Baron also meant to engage his son in the anticipated warfare73 between their Catholic and C?sarian majesties74. The halting at Ostend seemed to corroborate75 this surmise76, as its new commercial company was the very dis[252]pute between the rival Powers. But still, the immediate77 peril64 which threatened any delay in arriving there remained as unexplained as before.
When Louis perused78 the Marquis's letter, he also supposed he was called to a military life; and as that was the point to which he had most wistfully directed his glory-attracted eye, the intimation at once fixed his vague anticipations79; and rising from his seat, while his thoughts glanced on Wharton's gay demand to write man upon his brow, he smiled on his uncle and said, "this is the Toga virilis that has ever been the object of my vows80!"
"God grant," cried the Pastor, mournfully returning his playful smile, "that it may not be steeped in blood!"
"And if found in the bed of honour," replied Louis, "I should not rest the worse for it!"
"Yon sport, my child, with these gloomy suggestions; and may you ever have[253] the same cause for smiling at the advance of death! I know the passion of your soul is to be always in the path of duty; and that in such pursuit, the rugged82 and the smooth, the safe or dangerous, are to you alike. Nourish this principle as that of your part in the covenant83 of your salvation84. But keep a clear eye in discerning between duty and inclination85. Remember, that no enterprize is great that is not morally good: that war is murder, when it commences in aggression86; and that policy is villainy, when it seeks to aggrandize87 by injustice88. In short, in whatever you do, consider the aim of your action, and your motive89 in undertaking90 its accomplishment91. Be single-minded in all things, having the principle of the divine laws, delivered by the Son of God himself, as the living spring of every action throughout your life. Then, my Louis, you may smile in life and in death! You will be above the breath of man, beyond his power to disappoint you in your[254] reward; for it will abide92 with you in the consciousness of virtue93, and a sure faith in an eternal glory."
While the Pastor was yet speaking, Mrs. Coningsby and her daughters entered from a Christmas visit they had been paying in the neighbouring town of Warkworth. They started at sight of a stranger dozing94 in the great chair by the fire. Overcome with fatigue, Castanos had fallen asleep almost immediately after he had given his last unsatisfactory reply. The entrance of the ladies roused him, and he got up heavily from his seat, when Mr. Athelstone presented him to his niece, and briefly95 told his errand. Surprize at the suddenness of the summons, and dismay at parting with a companion so dear, overcame Mrs. Coningsby, and she sunk fainting into a chair. Tears stole down the cheeks of Cornelia, and Alice stood motionless, pale, and silent.
After the emotions of the shock of[255] such intelligence had a little subsided96; anxious to divert their thoughts, Mr. Athelstone presented his niece and her daughters with Don Ferdinand's three packets; and repeating the young Spaniard's request that each lady would inspect her present alone, he added his own wish, that they would indulge the donor97 now. The hint was immediately adopted, for Mrs. Coningsby understood its purport98. Divining her uncle's tenderness for the sensibility of his nieces, she left him to discuss with Louis the many arrangements necessary to a separation, that might be final to most of the party.
The remainder of the day was hardly long enough, for the preparation of the various comforts each inmate99 of the hall was solicitous100 to produce, to render the journey and voyage of their beloved Louis as free of privations as possible. In the consequent bustle101, no time was allowed for dwelling102 on its occasion, or giving way to the regrets which often[256] turned the heart faint in the midst of the body's exertions103. "To-morrow, in the hour of parting, we will indulge our sorrow. We will then shew our Louis our love, and our grief at the separation!" With these thoughts, Mrs. Coningsby and Cornelia stilled their often-rising emotions; while Mr. Athelstone, reading in the feverish104 activity of their services what was passing in their minds, meditated105 how to spare them and his nephew the agitating hour they anticipated.
When the family parted for the night, it was settled that Louis and his foreign conductor should not leave the hall the next morning until after breakfast; and therefore they should all meet again round that dear domestic table, and there exchange the dreaded106 word farewell. Mrs. Coningsby observed, that before she slept she was going to write a few lines to Don Ferdinand, to thank him for the fine Moorish107 shawls his gratitude108 had presented to herself and daughters, and she[257] would give the letter to Louis in the morning. Then, as was the custom in this affectionate family, on retiring to their rooms, he touched the cheek of his aunt with his lips, and shook hands with his cousins when he bade God bless them!
With a body unwearied, and a mind too excited, to admit of any sleep this night, he was passing to his apartment, when his uncle opened the door of his own chamber109, and beckoned110 him in. The venerable man, there informed him, that he alone of all the family, would bid him farewell the next morning. That he feared the fortitude111 of Mrs. Coningsby and his nieces in so severe a trial; and had therefore made arrangements to prevent it. Louis listened with gratitude, though with brimming eyes, to the good old man's account of his having ordered the travelling-chaise to the lodge-gate at day-break; and that he had prepared Senor Castanos to be[258] ready at so unexpected an hour, and to permit his charge to see his maternal112 uncle. In the usual routine of his movements, Sir Anthony had been some time at Athelstone-manor, where he always opened his Christmas hospitalities. As that mansion113 was on the banks of the Tyne, not far from Newcastle, where the travellers were to embark114, his nephew would have an opportunity of paying his parting duty to him, without impeding115 his journey by going out of the way.
Louis left his kind guardian, with a promise of attending to the first tap at his door next morning; and in a more pensive116 mood proceeded to his dressing-room. On opening the door, he saw Alice seated by his table. Her lamp stood beside her; and its faint light gleamed upon her pallid117 features. He started with astonishment118; for she had so long estranged119 herself from his slightest attentions, that Alice was the last person he could have expected to find at[259] such a moment in his apartment. However, he approached her tenderly. On seeing him, she covered her face with her hand, and evidently wept, though silently; for as he spoke and soothed120 her, (though vaguely121, as he could not guess the reason of this solitary122 visit,) he felt the tears trickle123 through her fingers on his hand. At last she was able to command her speech, though she still concealed124 her face; and when she did find utterance125, it was some time before she dared touch upon the secret that preyed126 upon her peace and life. She told him that she was miserable127; that her health was consuming under a sense of her deception128 to the best of mothers, sisters, and of guardians129; and that unless she did seize this, her last opportunity of unburthening her soul to the only friend to whom she could do so, without breaking a fatal vow81; she felt that she must die, she could not exist much[260] longer under the tortures of her conscience, and the miseries130 of her heart.
Amazed, and alarmed, Louis listened to her, tried to calm her, and encouraged her to repose131 a full confidence in him. At length, amidst paroxysms of tears, and agonies of shame, she narrated132 all that had passed between herself and Don Ferdinand; and that since she had so rashly made him the vow of concealing133 their attachment134 from those who ought to know all her thoughts, she had never known a moment's happiness.
Louis was struck dumb with this recital135. The brevity of her acquaintance with Don Ferdinand, might yet be long enough to allow his accomplished136 manners and interesting state, to make an impression on so young and sympathizing a heart; she therefore found a ready excuse with her cousin. But what was he to think of Don Ferdinand? Of the advantage he had taken of her tender[261] and guileless nature, to betray her into a confession137 and a vow, so sure to sacrifice her peace; and which could bring no gratification to him, but the disgraceful consciousness of a triumph to his vanity!
Louis's fixed silence, while occupied in these thoughts, struck Alice like the voice of condemnation138. She gazed distractedly in his face, and exclaimed in despair, "You think I am unpardonable.—You think I deserve to die, miserable and unforgiven! Oh, wretched, guilty Alice,—break, break your heart, for there is none to pity you!" As she uttered this, in a hardly articulate voice, she threw herself back into her chair, sobbing140 and wringing141 her hands in bitter anguish142. The violence of her emotions recalled Louis to recollection, and soothing143 her excessive remorse144 with every palliative that affection could suggest, he at last succeeded in restoring her to some degree of composure.[262] She told him, that her purpose in revealing her wretched story to him at this time, was not merely to unburthen her loaded soul; but to prevail on him to convey a letter to Ferdinand, in which she implored145 him to release her from her guilty vow of concealment146. "I have warned him," continued she, "that if he hold me to this impious pledge, it will not be for long; for I cannot live in my present self-abhorring condition. But, should my life be lengthened147 under these circumstances, to be my punishment, I will never consent to see his face again, till he has released me from so sinful an engagement."
Louis warmly applauded her resolution.
"Do not praise me," cried she, "do not call it resolution. I am unworthy of approbation148 for any thing. I do not resolve; I only feel that I can know no happiness, endure no person, but continue to detest149 myself, till this guilt139[263] is taken from my mind, by a full confession, and prayer for my mother's pardon."
She shewed a letter, which had come in the packet directed to her by Ferdinand, and which he had secured her receiving free from observation, by his apparently150 whimsical request that each lady would inspect her present alone. The letter contained protestations of inviolable attachment, petitions for her constancy; and exhortations151 to keep their secret, till the success of the plan he had in view, brought him again to her feet. He had inclosed a miniature of himself in the shawl which was his ostensible152 present to her. "I will never look on it a second time," said she, "till he removes from himself the guilt of holding me in this wicked undutifulness to my family."
Louis engaged, should he not meet him at Madrid, to forward her letter to Don Ferdinand, and to inclose it in one[264] from himself, enforcing her entreaties153 with his arguments; and giving his thoughts on the subject, as became his relationship to her, and fraternal regard for her happiness. He assured her, he would do it with a scrupulous154 attention not to irritate the feelings which had excited her lover to deprive him of her sisterly affection. Aware that her self-accusing state of mind, could not bear up against the representation he would fain have made of Ferdinand's entire selfishness in thus binding155 her, Louis contented156 himself with advising Alice, as a restitution157 she owed to her family for all the misery158 her melancholy159 and illness had made them suffer, to dismiss as much as possible all painful retrospections; and to console herself with the conviction that she was now re-treading her steps to the path of duty. "Cheer yourself with this thought," said he, "till the tidings shall arrive which will take the seal from your lips. Then you[265] may confess all, and reconciled, by pardon, to your family and yourself, you will again become the happy Alice."
She wept as he spoke. But it was no more the stormy grief of despair; she shed the balmy tears of penitence160 and hope. It was the genial44 shower upon the thirsty ground. "You have spoken comfort to me, Louis. I have not been so happy, since the dawn of the fatal morning, when my impious adjuration161 called down these months of misery upon my wretched head.—Oh, if Ferdinand could have guessed this, would he have denied me such a comforter!"
Louis gently reminded her, that as he was going, she must seek a comforter in a Superior Being; and in the exertions of her own mind: "you have ever, my Alice," said he, "been the idol162 of your family; and even to this day, been supported with a watchfulness, as if you were still in infancy163: yet, you see, how inadequate164 has been all this anxiety to[266] preserve you from error, and its consequent sorrows! By experience, you must now feel, that the care of the tenderest relations can be of no permanent effect, unless you assist it with your own circumspection165 and strength. Look not for comfort from one side or another, till you have found its principle in your own bosom; that is to say, till you resolve to act according to your duty. And this is, not merely to grieve over your fault, and yearn166 to confess it and be forgiven; but to lay a restraint upon your sensibility, and the violence of your regrets; and from this hour to devote the whole of your mind to the re-establishment of happiness in your family.—Return to your former occupations.—Meditate less upon Don Ferdinand and yourself; and think more of your mother, your sister, and your guardian.—For their sakes, try to be cheerful, and you will be so.—In one word, my dearest Alice, remember, that to perform our duty in this[267] world, we must sustain our own virtue, and not habituate ourselves to the uncertain support of others."
"Why, my dear Louis, have I never heard these sentiments before? With such forewarning, I should never have erred167."
"You might have heard them often; for my uncle has frequently talked to me in this way in your presence. But, my sweet Alice was not then awakened168 to such subjects. You regarded them as grave discourses169, in which you could be as little interested as in the map of a country you never intended to visit."
"And I went astray in that very country!" cried she, "simpleton that I was; always to turn away from every thing but the pursuits of a child!"
She was anxious to engage Louis to correspond with her; but as he could not write any thing to her that would[268] not pass under the eye of the whole family, he told her she had best rest satisfied with his exertions for her release; and when he had obtained it from Don Ferdinand, he would then write openly, and tell her all his thoughts on an affair so momentous170 to her present and future happiness.
The hall clock struck one.
Alice rose: she put his hand to her lips, and smiled through her tears:—"I cannot be at this morning's breakfast.—But now—dear, dear, Louis,—best of friends—farewell!"—Her head dropped upon his shoulder, where she struggled with two or three convulsive sobs171. He pressed her to his heart, and in vain tried to repel20 the tears which started to his eyes: they flowed over her face as he supported her trembling steps to the door of her apartment. When he had brought her to the threshold, she uttered a breath[269]less God bless you! and breaking from his arms, threw herself into the room. The door was closed:—he heard her sob:—but tearing himself away, he returned with a heavy load at his heart to his own chamber.
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1
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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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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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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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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enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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31
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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32
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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33
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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34
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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36
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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37
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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38
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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39
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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40
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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41
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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42
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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43
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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44
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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45
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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46
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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49
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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50
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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51
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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52
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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53
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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54
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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55
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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56
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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57
encumber
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| v.阻碍行动，妨碍，堆满 | |
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58
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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59
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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60
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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61
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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62
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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63
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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64
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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65
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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66
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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67
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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68
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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69
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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70
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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71
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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72
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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73
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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74
majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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75
corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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76
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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77
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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78
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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79
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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80
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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81
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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82
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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83
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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84
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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85
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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86
aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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87
aggrandize
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| v.增大，扩张，吹捧 | |
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88
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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89
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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90
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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91
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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92
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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93
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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94
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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95
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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96
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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97
donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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98
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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99
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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100
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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101
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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102
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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103
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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104
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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105
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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106
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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107
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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108
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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109
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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110
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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112
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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113
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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114
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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115
impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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116
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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117
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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118
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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119
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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120
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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121
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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122
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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123
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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124
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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125
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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126
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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127
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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128
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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129
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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130
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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131
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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132
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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134
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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135
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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136
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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137
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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138
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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139
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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140
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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141
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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142
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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143
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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144
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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145
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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147
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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149
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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150
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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151
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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152
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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153
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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154
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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155
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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156
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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157
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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158
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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159
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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160
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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161
adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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162
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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163
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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164
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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165
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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166
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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167
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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169
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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170
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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171
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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