The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze which fanned Marguerite's burning cheeks. Soon London houses were left behind, and rattling2 over old Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays rapidly towards Richmond.
The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate curves, looking like a silver serpent beneath the glittering rays of the moon. Long shadows from overhanging trees spread occasional deep palls3 right across the road. The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held but slightly back by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands.
These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London were a source of perpetual delight to Marguerite, and she appreciated her husband's eccentricity4 keenly, which caused him to adopt this mode of taking her home every night, to their beautiful home by the river, instead of living in a stuffy5 London house. He loved driving his spirited horses along the lonely, moonlit roads, and she loved to sit on the box-seat, with the soft air of an English late summer's night fanning her face after the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper-party. The drive was not a long one—less than an hour, sometimes, when the bays were very fresh, and Sir Percy gave them full rein6.
To-night he seemed to have a very devil in his fingers, and the coach seemed to fly along the road, beside the river. As usual, he did not speak to her, but stared straight in front of him, the ribbons seeming to lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands. Marguerite looked at him tentatively once or twice; she could see his handsome profile, and one lazy eye, with its straight fine brow and drooping7 heavy lid.
The face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest, and recalled to Marguerite's aching heart those happy days of courtship, before he had become the lazy nincompoop, the effete8 fop, whose life seemed spent in card and supper rooms.
But now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the expression of the lazy blue eyes; she could only see the outline of the firm chin, the corner of the strong mouth, the well-cut massive shape of the forehead; truly, nature had meant well by Sir Percy; his faults must all be laid at the door of that poor, half-crazy mother, and of the distracted heart-broken father, neither of whom had cared for the young life which was sprouting9 up between them, and which, perhaps, their very carelessness was already beginning to wreck10.
Marguerite suddenly felt intense sympathy for her husband. The moral crisis she had just gone through made her feel indulgent towards the faults, the delinquencies, of others.
How thoroughly11 a human being can be buffeted12 and overmastered by Fate, had been borne in upon her with appalling13 force. Had anyone told her a week ago that she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that she would betray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of a relentless14 enemy, she would have laughed the idea to scorn.
Yet she had done these things; anon, perhaps the death of that brave man would be at her door, just as two years ago the Marquis de St. Cyr had perished through a thoughtless word of hers; but in that case she was morally innocent—she had meant no serious harm—fate merely had stepped in. But this time she had done a thing that obviously was base, had done it deliberately15, for a motive16 which, perhaps, high moralists would not even appreciate.
And as she felt her husband's strong arm beside her, she also felt how much more he would dislike and despise her, if he knew of this night's work. Thus human beings judge of one another, superficially, casually17, throwing contempt on one another, with but little reason, and no charity. She despised her husband for his inanities18 and vulgar, unintellectual occupations; and he, she felt, would despise her still worse, because she had not been strong enough to do right for right's sake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates19 of her conscience.
Buried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this hour in the breezy summer night all too brief; and it was with a feeling of keen disappointment, that she suddenly realised that the bays had turned into the massive gates of her beautiful English home.
Sir Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become a historic one: palatial20 in its dimensions, it stands in the midst of exquisitely21 laid-out gardens, with a picturesque22 terrace and frontage to the river. Built in Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls looks eminently23 picturesque in the midst of a bower24 of green, the beautiful lawn, with its old sun-dial, adding the true note of harmony to its foreground. Great secular25 trees lent cool shadows to the grounds, and now, on this warm early autumn night, the leaves slightly turned to russets and gold, the old garden looked singularly poetic26 and peaceful in the moonlight.
With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays to a standstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan entrance hall; in spite of the lateness of the hour, an army of grooms27 seemed to have emerged from the very ground, as the coach had thundered up, and were standing28 respectfully round.
Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Marguerite to alight. She lingered outside for a moment, whilst he gave a few orders to one of his men. She skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn, looking out dreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed exquisitely at peace, in comparison with the tumultuous emotions she had gone through: she could faintly hear the ripple30 of the river and the occasional soft and ghostlike fall of a dead leaf from a tree.
All else was quiet round her. She had heard the horses prancing31 as they were being led away to their distant stables, the hurrying of servants' feet as they had all gone within to rest: the house also was quite still. In two separate suites32 of apartments, just above the magnificent reception-rooms, lights were still burning; they were her rooms, and his, well divided from each other by the whole width of the house, as far apart as their own lives had become. Involuntarily she sighed—at that moment she could really not have told why.
She was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and achingly she was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pitiably lonely, so bitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With another sigh she turned away from the river towards the house, vaguely33 wondering if, after such a night, she could ever find rest and sleep.
Suddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a firm step upon the crisp gravel34, and the next moment her husband's figure emerged out of the shadow. He, too, had skirted the house, and was wandering along the lawn, towards the river. He still wore his heavy driving coat with the numerous lapels and collars he himself had set in fashion, but he had thrown it well back, burying his hands as was his wont35, in the deep pockets of his satin breeches: the gorgeous white costume he had worn at Lord Grenville's ball, with its jabot of priceless lace, looked strangely ghostly against the dark background of the house.
He apparently36 did not notice her, for, after a few moments' pause, he presently turned back towards the house, and walked straight up to the terrace.
“Sir Percy!”
He already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace steps, but at her voice he started, and paused, then looked searchingly into the shadows whence she had called to him.
She came forward quickly into the moonlight, and, as soon as he saw her, he said, with that air of consummate37 gallantry he always wore when speaking to her,—
“At your service, Madame!”
But his foot was still on the step, and in his whole attitude there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible to her, that he wished to go, and had no desire for a midnight interview.
“The air is deliciously cool,” she said, “the moonlight peaceful and poetic, and the garden inviting38. Will you not stay in it awhile; the hour is not yet late, or is my company so distasteful to you, that you are in a hurry to rid yourself of it?”
“Nay, Madame,” he rejoined placidly39, “but 'tis on the other foot the shoe happens to be, and I'll warrant you'll find the midnight air more poetic without my company: no doubt the sooner I remove the obstruction40 the better your ladyship will like it.”
He turned once more to go.
“I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy,” she said hurriedly, and drawing a little closer to him; “the estrangement41, which, alas42! has arisen between us, was none of my making, remember.”
“Begad! you must pardon me there, Madame!” he protested coldly, “my memory was always of the shortest.”
He looked her straight in the eyes, with that lazy nonchalance43 which had become second nature to him. She returned his gaze for a moment, then her eyes softened44, as she came up quite close to him, to the foot of the terrace steps.
“Of the shortest, Sir Percy? Faith! how it must have altered! Was it three years ago or four that you saw me for one hour in Paris, on your way to the East? When you came back two years later you had not forgotten me.”
She looked divinely pretty as she stood there in the moonlight, with the fur-cloak sliding off her beautiful shoulders, the gold embroidery45 on her dress shimmering46 around her, her childlike blue eyes turned up fully29 at him.
He stood for a moment, rigid47 and still, but for the clenching48 of his hand against the stone balustrade of the terrace.
“You desired my presence, Madame,” he said frigidly49. “I take it that it was not with a view to indulging in tender reminiscences.”
His voice certainly was cold and uncompromising: his attitude before her, stiff and unbending. Womanly decorum would have suggested that Marguerite should return coldness for coldness, and should sweep past him without another word, only with a curt50 nod of the head: but womanly instinct suggested that she should remain—that keen instinct, which makes a beautiful woman conscious of her powers long to bring to her knees the one man who pays her no homage51. She stretched out her hand to him.
“Nay, Sir Percy, why not? the present is not so glorious but that I should not wish to dwell a little in the past.”
He bent52 his tall figure, and taking hold of the extreme tip of the fingers which she still held out to him, he kissed them ceremoniously.
“I' faith, Madame,” he said, “then you will pardon me, if my dull wits cannot accompany you there.”
Once again he attempted to go, once more her voice, sweet, childlike, almost tender, called him back.
“Sir Percy.”
“Your servant, Madame.”
“Is it possible that love can die?” she said with sudden, unreasoning vehemence53. “Methought that the passion which you once felt for me would outlast54 the span of human life. Is there nothing left of that love, Percy . . . which might help you . . . to bridge over that sad estrangement?”
His massive figure seemed, while she spoke55 thus to him, to stiffen56 still more, the strong mouth hardened, a look of relentless obstinacy57 crept into the habitually58 lazy blue eyes.
“With what object, I pray you, Madame?” he asked coldly.
“I do not understand you.”
“Yet 'tis simple enough,” he said with sudden bitterness, which seemed literally59 to surge through his words, though he was making visible efforts to suppress it, “I humbly60 put the question to you, for my slow wits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship's sudden new mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the devilish sport which you played so successfully last year? Do you wish to see me once more a love-sick suppliant61 at your feet, so that you might again have the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome lap-dog?”
She had succeeded in rousing him for the moment: and again she looked straight at him, for it was thus she remembered him a year ago.
“Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say that your desire was to dwell in it.”
“Nay! I spoke not of that past, Percy!” she said, while a tone of tenderness crept into her voice. “Rather did I speak of the time when you loved me still! and I . . . oh! I was vain and frivolous63; your wealth and position allured64 me: I married you, hoping in my heart that your great love for me would beget66 in me a love for you . . . but, alas! . . .”
The moon had sunk low down behind a bank of clouds. In the east a soft grey light was beginning to chase away the heavy mantle67 of the night. He could only see her graceful68 outline now, the small queenly head, with its wealth of reddish golden curls, and the glittering gems69 forming the small, star-shaped, red flower which she wore as a diadem70 in her hair.
“Twenty-four hours after our marriage, Madame, the Marquis de St. Cyr and all his family perished on the guillotine, and the popular rumour71 reached me that it was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send them there.”
“Not till after it had been recounted to me by strangers, with all its horrible details.”
“And you believed them then and there,” she said with great vehemence, “without a proof or question—you believed that I, whom you vowed73 you loved more than life, whom you professed74 you worshipped, that I could do a thing so base as these strangers chose to recount. You thought I meant to deceive you about it all—that I ought to have spoken before I married you: yet, had you listened, I would have told you that up to the very morning on which St. Cyr went to the guillotine, I was straining every nerve, using every influence I possessed75, to save him and his family. But my pride sealed my lips, when your love seemed to perish, as if under the knife of that same guillotine. Yet I would have told you how I was duped! Aye! I, whom that same popular rumour had endowed with the sharpest wits in France! I was tricked into doing this thing, by men who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, and my desire for revenge. Was it unnatural76?”
Her voice became choked with tears. She paused for a moment or two, trying to regain77 some sort of composure. She looked appealingly at him, almost as if he were her judge. He had allowed her to speak on in her own vehement78, impassioned way, offering no comment, no word of sympathy: and now, while she paused, trying to swallow down the hot tears that gushed79 to her eyes, he waited, impassive and still. The dim, grey light of early dawn seemed to make his tall form look taller and more rigid. The lazy, good-natured face looked strangely altered. Marguerite, excited, as she was, could see that the eyes were no longer languid, the mouth no longer good-humoured and inane80. A curious look of intense passion seemed to glow from beneath his drooping lids, the mouth was tightly closed, the lips compressed, as if the will alone held that surging passion in check.
Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with all a woman's fascinating foibles, all a woman's most lovable sins. She knew in a moment that for the past few months she had been mistaken: that this man who stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her musical voice struck upon his ear, loved her, as he had loved her a year ago: that his passion might have been dormant81, but that it was there, as strong, as intense, as overwhelming, as when first her lips met his in one long, maddening kiss.
Pride had kept him from her, and, woman-like, she meant to win back that conquest which had been hers before. Suddenly it seemed to her that the only happiness life could ever hold for her again would be in feeling that man's kiss once more upon her lips.
“Listen to the tale, Sir Percy,” she said, and her voice now was low, sweet, infinitely82 tender. “Armand was all in all to me! We had no parents, and brought one another up. He was my little father, and I, his tiny mother; we loved one another so. Then one day—do you mind me, Sir Percy? the Marquis de St. Cyr had my brother Armand thrashed—thrashed by his lacqueys—that brother whom I loved better than all the world! And his offence? That he, a plebeian83, had dared to love the daughter of the aristocrat84; for that he was waylaid85 and thrashed . . . thrashed like a dog within an inch of his life! Oh, how I suffered! his humiliation86 had eaten into my very soul! When the opportunity occurred, and I was able to take my revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that proud marquis to trouble and humiliation. He plotted with Austria against his own country. Chance gave me knowledge of this; I spoke of it, but I did not know—how could I guess?—they trapped and duped me. When I realised what I had done, it was too late.”
“It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame,” said Sir Percy, after a moment of silence between them, “to go back over the past. I have confessed to you that my memory is short, but the thought certainly lingered in my mind that, at the time of the Marquis' death, I entreated87 you for an explanation of those same noisome88 popular rumours89. If that same memory does not, even now, play me a trick, I fancy that you refused me all explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliating allegiance it was not prepared to give.”
“I wished to test your love for me, and it did not bear the test. You used to tell me that you drew the very breath of life but for me, and for love of me.”
“And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit90 mine honour,” he said, whilst gradually his impassiveness seemed to leave him, his rigidity91 to relax; “that I should accept without murmur92 or question, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of my mistress. My heart overflowing93 with love and passion, I asked for no explanation—I waited for one, not doubting—only hoping. Had you spoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any explanation and believed it. But you left me without a word, beyond a bald confession94 of the actual horrible facts; proudly you returned to your brother's house, and left me alone . . . for weeks . . . not knowing, now, in whom to believe, since the shrine95, which contained my one illusion, lay shattered to earth at my feet.”
She need not complain now that he was cold and impassive; his very voice shook with an intensity96 of passion, which he was making superhuman efforts to keep in check.
“Aye! the madness of my pride!” she said sadly. “Hardly had I gone, already I had repented97. But when I returned, I found you, oh, so altered! wearing already that mask of somnolent98 indifference99 which you have never laid aside until . . . until now.”
She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted100 against his cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears, maddened him, the music in her voice sent fire through his veins101. But he would not yield to the magic charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure, round which the faint rosy102 light of dawn was just beginning to hover103 playfully.
“Nay, Madame, it is no mask,” he said icily; “I swore to you . . . once, that my life was yours. For months now it has been your plaything . . . it has served its purpose.”
But now she knew that that very coldness was a mask. The trouble, the sorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came back to her mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this man who loved her, would help her to bear the burden.
“Sir Percy,” she said impulsively104, “Heaven knows you have been at pains to make the task, which I had set to myself, terribly difficult to accomplish. You spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it that, if you will. I wished to speak to you . . . because . . . because I was in trouble . . . and had need . . . of your sympathy.”
“It is yours to command, Madame.”
“How cold you are!” she sighed. “Faith! I can scarce believe that but a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I come to you . . . with a half-broken heart . . . and . . . and . . .”
“I pray you, Madame,” he said, whilst his voice shook almost as much as hers, “in what way can I serve you?”
“Percy!—Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his . . . rash, impetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, has fallen into the hands of a fanatic105. Armand is hopelessly compromised . . . to-morrow, perhaps he will be arrested . . . after that the guillotine . . . unless . . . unless . . . oh! it is horrible!” . . . she said, with a sudden wail106 of anguish107, as all the events of the past night came rushing back to her mind, “horrible! . . . and you do not understand . . . you cannot . . . and I have no one to whom I can turn . . . for help . . . or even for sympathy. . . .”
Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the awful uncertainty108 of Armand's fate overwhelmed her. She tottered109, ready to fall, and leaning against the stone balustrade, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed111 bitterly.
At first mention of Armand St. Just's name and of the peril112 in which he stood, Sir Percy's face had become a shade more pale; and the look of determination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her, as her delicate frame was shaken with sobs113, watched her until unconsciously his face softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten114 in his eyes.
“And so,” he said with bitter sarcasm115, “the murderous dog of the revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it? . . . Begad, Madame,” he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob110 hysterically116, “will you dry your tears? . . . I never could bear to see a pretty woman cry, and I . . .”
Instinctively117, with sudden, overmastering passion, at sight of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next, would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil with his very life, his very heart's blood. . . . But pride had the better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,—
“Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have the honour to serve you?”
She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he kissed with the same punctilious118 gallantry; but Marguerite's fingers, this time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than was absolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his hand trembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold as marble.
“Can you do aught for Armand?” she said sweetly and simply. “You have so much influence at court . . . so many friends . . .”
“Nay, Madame, should you not rather seek the influence of your French friend, M. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far as the Republican Government of France.”
“I cannot ask him, Percy. . . . Oh! I wish I dared to tell you . . . but . . . but . . . he has put a price on my brother's head, which . . .”
She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage then to tell him everything . . . all she had done that night—how she had suffered and how her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way to that impulse . . . not now, when she was just beginning to feel that he still loved her, when she hoped that she could win him back. She dared not make another confession to him. After all, he might not understand; he might not sympathise with her struggles and temptation. His love still dormant might sleep the sleep of death.
Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude was one of intense longing—a veritable prayer for that confidence, which her foolish pride withheld119 from him. When she remained silent he sighed, and said with marked coldness—
“Faith, Madame, since it distresses120 you, we will not speak of it. . . . As for Armand, I pray you have no fear. I pledge you my word that he shall be safe. Now, have I your permission to go? The hour is getting late, and . . .”
“You will at least accept my gratitude121?” she said, as she drew quite close to him, and speaking with real tenderness.
With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have taken her then in his arms, for her eyes were swimming in tears, which he longed to kiss away; but she had lured65 him once, just like this, then cast him aside like an ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood, a caprice, and he was too proud to lend himself to it once again.
“It is too soon, Madame!” he said quietly; “I have done nothing as yet. The hour is late, and you must be fatigued122. Your women will be waiting for you upstairs.”
He stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a quick sigh of disappointment. His pride and her beauty had been in direct conflict, and his pride had remained the conqueror123. Perhaps, after all, she had been deceived just now; what she took to be the light of love in his eyes might only have been the passion of pride or, who knows, of hatred124 instead of love. She stood looking at him for a moment or two longer. He was again as rigid, as impassive, as before. Pride had conquered, and he cared naught125 for her. The grey of dawn was gradually yielding to the rosy light of the rising sun. Birds began to twitter; Nature awakened126, smiling in happy response to the warmth of this glorious October morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a strong, impassable barrier, built up of pride on both sides, which neither of them cared to be the first to demolish127.
He had bent his tall figure in a low ceremonious bow, as she finally, with another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace steps.
The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead leaves off the steps, making a faint harmonious128 sh—sh—sh as she glided129 up, with one hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies130 on her head and arms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors which led into the house. Before entering, she paused once again to look at him, hoping against hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his voice calling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked the very personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.
Hot tears again surged to her eyes, and as she would not let him see them, she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her own rooms.
Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own sufferings seem but light and easy to bear—a strong man, overwhelmed with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last, obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly, blindly, passionately131 in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had died away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tiny hand had rested last.
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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palls
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| n.柩衣( pall的名词复数 )；墓衣；棺罩；深色或厚重的覆盖物v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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deliberately
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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24
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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25
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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27
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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28
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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29
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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30
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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31
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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32
suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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33
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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34
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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35
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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36
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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37
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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38
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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39
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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40
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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41
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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42
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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43
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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44
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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45
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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46
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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47
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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48
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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49
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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50
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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51
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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52
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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53
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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54
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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55
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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56
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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57
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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58
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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59
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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60
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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61
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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62
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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63
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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64
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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67
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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68
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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69
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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70
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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71
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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72
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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73
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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74
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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75
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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76
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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77
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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78
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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79
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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80
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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81
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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82
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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83
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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84
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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85
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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87
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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89
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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90
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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91
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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92
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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93
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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94
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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95
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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96
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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97
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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99
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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100
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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102
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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103
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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104
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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105
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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106
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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107
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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108
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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109
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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110
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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111
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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112
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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113
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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114
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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115
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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116
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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117
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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118
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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119
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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120
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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121
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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122
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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123
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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124
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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125
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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126
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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127
demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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128
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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129
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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130
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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131
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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