If Sylvia needed another trial to make that hard week harder, it soon came to her in the knowledge that Warwick watched her. She well knew why, and vainly endeavored to conceal1 from him that which she had succeeded in concealing2 entirely3 from others. But he possessed4 the key to her variable moods; he alone knew that now painful forethought, not caprice dictated5 many of her seeming whims6, and ruled her simplest action. To others she appeared busy, gay, and full of interest in all about her; to him, the industry was a preventive of forbidden thoughts; the gayety a daily endeavor to forget; the interest, an anxiety concerning the looks and words of her companions, because she must guard her own.
Sylvia felt something like terror in the presence of this penetrating7 eye, this daring will, for the vigilance was unflagging and unobtrusive, and with all her efforts she could not read his heart as she felt her own was being read. Adam could act no part, but bent8 on learning the truth for the sake of all, he surmounted9 the dangers of the situation by no artifice10, no rash indulgence, but by simply shunning11 solitary12 interviews with Sylvia as carefully as the courtesy due his hostess would allow. In walks and drives, and general conversation, he bore his part, surprising and delighting those who knew him best by the genial13 change which seemed to have softened14 his rugged15 nature. But the instant the family group fell apart and Moor16's devotion to his cousin left Sylvia alone, Warwick was away into the wood or out upon the sea, lingering there till some meal, some appointed pleasure, or the evening lamp brought all together. Sylvia understood this, and loved him for it even while she longed to have it otherwise. But Moor reproached him for his desertion, doubly felt since the gentler acquirements made him dearer to his friend. Hating all disguises, Warwick found it hard to withhold17 the fact which was not his own to give, and sparing no blame to himself, answered Moor's playful complaint with a sad sincerity18 that freed him from all further pleadings.
"Geoffrey, I have a heavy heart which even you cannot heal. Leave it to time, and let me come and go as of old, enjoying the social hour when I may, flying to solitude19 when I must."
Much as Sylvia had longed to see these friends, she counted the hours of their stay, for the presence of one was a daily disquieting20, because spirits would often flag, conversation fail, and an utter weariness creep over her when she could least account for or yield to it. More than once during that week she longed to lay her head on Faith's kind bosom21 and ask help. Deep as was her husband's love it did not possess the soothing22 power of a woman's sympathy, and though it cradled her as tenderly as if she had been a child, Faith's compassion23 would have been like motherly arms to fold and foster. But friendly as they soon became, frank as was Faith's regard for Sylvia, earnest as was Sylvia's affection for Faith, she never seemed to reach that deeper place where she desired to be. Always when she thought she had found the innermost that each of us seek for in our friend, she felt that Faith drew back, and a reserve as delicate as inflexible24 barred her approach with chilly25 gentleness. This seemed so foreign to Faith's nature that Sylvia pondered and grieved over it till the belief came to her that this woman, so truly excellent and loveworthy, did not desire to receive her confidence, and sometimes a bitter fear assailed27 her that Warwick was not the only reader of her secret trouble.
All things have an end, and the last day came none too soon for one dweller28 under that hospitable29 roof. Faith refused all entreaties31 to stay, and looked somewhat anxiously at Warwick as Moor turned from herself to him with the same urgency.
"Adam, you will stay? Promise me another week?"
"I never promise, Geoffrey."
Believing that, as no denial came, his request was granted, Moor gave his whole attention to Faith, who was to leave them in an hour.
"Sylvia, while I help our cousin to select and fasten up the books and prints she likes to take with her, will you run down into the garden and fill your prettiest basket with our finest grapes? You will like that better than fumbling32 with folds and string; and you know one's servants should not perform these pleasant services for one's best friends."
Glad to be away, Sylvia ran through the long grape walk to its sunniest nook, and standing33 outside the arch, began to lay the purple clusters in her basket. Only a moment was she there alone; Warwick's shadow, lengthened35 by the declining sun, soon fell black along the path. He did not see her, nor seem intent on following her; he walked slowly, hat in hand, so slowly that he was but midway down the leafy lane when Faith's voice arrested him. She was in haste, as her hurried step and almost breathless words betrayed; and losing not an instant, she cried before they met--
"Adam, you will come with me? I cannot leave you here."
"Do you doubt me, Faith?"
"No; but loving women are so weak."
"So strong, you mean; men are weakest when they love."
"Adam, _will_ you come?"
"I will follow you; I shall speak with Geoffrey first."
"Must you tell him so soon?"
"I must."
Faith's hand had been on Warwick's arm; as he spoke36 the last words she bent her head upon it for an instant, then without another word turned and hurried back as rapidly as she had come, while Warwick stood where she left him, motionless as if buried in some absorbing thought.
All had passed in a moment, a moment too short, too full of intense surprise to leave Sylvia time for recollection and betrayal of her presence. Half hidden and wholly unobserved she had seen the unwonted agitation37 of Faith's countenance38 and manner, had heard Warwick's softly spoken answers to those eager appeals, and with a great pang39 had discovered that some tender confidence existed between these two of which she had never dreamed. Sudden as the discovery was its acceptance and belief; for, knowing her own weakness, Sylvia found something like relief in the hope that a new happiness for Warwick had ended all temptation, and in time perhaps all pain for herself. Impulsive40 as ever she leaned upon the seeming truth, and making of the fancy a fact, passed into a perfect passion of self-abnegation, thinking, in the brief pause that followed Faith's departure--
"This is the change we see in him; this made him watch me, hoping I had forgotten, as I once said and believed. I should be glad, I will be glad, and let him see that even while I suffer I can rejoice in that which helps us both."
Full of her generous purpose, yet half doubtful how to execute it, Sylvia stepped from the recess41 where she had stood, and slowly passed toward Warwick, apparently42 intent on settling her fruity burden as she went. At the first sound of her light step on the gravel43 he turned, feeling at once that she must have heard, and eager to learn what significance that short dialogue possessed for her. Only a hasty glance did she give him as she came, but it showed him flushed cheeks, excited eyes, and lips a little tremulous as they said--
"These are for Faith; will you hold the basket while I cover it with leaves?"
"Sylvia, did you hear us?"
To his unutterable amazement45 she looked up clearly, and all her heart was in her voice, as she answered with a fervency46 he could not doubt--
"Yes; and I was glad to hear, to know that a nobler woman filled the place I cannot fill. Oh, believe it, Adam; and be sure that the knowledge of your great content will lighten the terrible regret which you have seen as nothing else ever could have done."
Down fell the basket at their feet, and taking her face between his hands, Warwick bent and searched with a glance that seemed to penetrate47 to her heart's core. For a moment she struggled to escape, but the grasp that held her was immovable. She tried to oppose a steadfast48 front and baffle that perilous49 inspection50, but quick and deep rushed the traitorous51 color over cheek and forehead with its mute betrayal. She tried to turn her eyes away, but those other eyes, dark and dilated52 with intensity53 of purpose, fixed54 her own, and the confronting countenance wore an expression which made its familiar features look awfully55 large and grand to her panic-stricken sight. A sense of utter helplessness fell on her, courage deserted56 her, pride changed to fear, defiance57 to despair; as the flush faded, the fugitive58 glance was arrested and the upturned face became a pale blank, ready to receive the answer that strong scrutiny59 was slowly bringing to the light, as invisible characters start out upon a page when fire passes over them. Neither spoke, but soon through all opposing barriers the magnetism60 of an indomitable will drew forth61 the truth, set free the captive passion pent so long, and wrung62 from those reluctant lineaments a full confession63 of that power which heaven has gifted with eternal youth.
The instant this assurance was his own beyond a doubt, Warwick released her, snatched up his hat, and hurrying down the path vanished in the wood. Spent as with an hour's excitement, and bewildered by emotions which she could no longer master, Sylvia lingered in the grape walk till her husband called her. Then hastily refilling her basket, she shook her hair about her face and went to bid Faith good by. Moor was to accompany her to the city, and they left early, that Faith might pause for adieux to Mark and Prudence65.
Moor spoke to Sylvia, but busied in fastening the basket-lid, she seemed not to hear, and Faith replied for her.
"He will take a later boat, we need not wait for him."
When Faith embraced Sylvia, all the coldness had melted from her manner, and her voice was tender as a mother's as she whispered low in her ear--
"Dear child, if ever you need any help that Geoffrey cannot give, remember cousin Faith."
For two hours Sylvia sat alone, not idle, for in the first real solitude she had enjoyed for seven days she looked deeply into herself, and putting by all disguises owned the truth, and resolved to repair the past if possible, as Faith had counselled in the case which she had now made her own. Like so many of us, Sylvia often saw her errors too late to avoid committing them, and failing to do the right thing at the right moment, kept herself forever in arrears67 with that creditor68 who must inevitably69 be satisfied. She had been coming to this decision all that weary week, and these quiet hours left her both resolute70 and resigned.
As she sat there while the early twilight71 began to gather, her eye often turned to Warwick's travelling bag, which Faith, having espied72 it ready in his chamber73, had brought down and laid in the library, as a reminder74 of her wish. As she looked at it, Sylvia's heart yearned75 toward it in the fond, foolish way which women have of endowing the possessions of those they love with the attractions of sentient76 things, and a portion of their owner's character or claim upon themselves. It was like Warwick, simple and strong, no key, and every mark of the long use which had tested its capabilities77 and proved them durable78. A pair of gloves lay beside it on the chair, and though she longed to touch anything of his, she resisted the temptation till, pausing near them in one of her journeys to the window, she saw a rent in the glove that lay uppermost,--that appeal was irresistible,--"Poor Adam! there has been no one to care for him so long, and Faith does not yet know how; surely I may perform so small a service for him if he never knows how tenderly I do it?"
Standing ready to drop her work at a sound, Sylvia snatched a brief satisfaction which solaced79 her more than an hour of idle lamentation80, and as she kissed the glove with a long, sad kiss, and put it down with eyes that dimly saw where it should be, perhaps there went as much real love and sorrow into that little act as ever glorified82 some greater deed. Then she went to lie in the "Refuge," as she had named an ancient chair, with her head on its embracing arm. Not weeping, but quietly watching the flicker83 of the fire, which filled the room with warm duskiness, making the twilight doubly pleasant, till a sudden blaze leaped up, showing her that her watch was over and Warwick come. She had not heard him enter, but there he was close before her, his face glowing with the frosty air, his eye clear and kind, and in his aspect that nameless charm which won for him the confidence of whosoever read his countenance. Scarce knowing why, Sylvia felt reassured84 that all was well, and looked up with more welcome in her heart than she dared betray in words.
"Come at last! where have you been so long, Adam?"
"Round the Island I suspect, for I lost my way, and had no guide but instinct to lead me home again. I like to say that word, for though it is not home it seems so to me now. May I sit here before I go, and warm myself at your fire, Sylvia?"
Sure of his answer he established himself on the stool at her feet, stretched his hands to the grateful blaze, and went on with some inward resolution lending its power and depth to his voice.
"I had a question to settle with myself and went to find my best counsellors in the wood. Often when I am harassed85 by some perplexity or doubt to which I can find no wise or welcome answer, I walk myself into a belief that it will come; then it appears. I stoop to break a handsome flower, to pick up a cone86, or watch some little creature happier than I, and there lies my answer, like a good luck penny, ready to my hand."
"Faith has gone, but Geoffrey hopes to keep you for another week," said Sylvia, ignoring the unsafe topic.
"Shall he have his wish?"
"Faith expects you to follow her."
"And you think I ought?"
"I think you will."
"When does the next boat leave?"
"An hour hence."
"I'll wait for it here. Did I wake you coming in?"
"I was not asleep; only lazy, warm, and quiet."
"And deadly tired;--dear soul, how can it be otherwise, leading the life you lead."
There was such compassion in his voice, such affection in his eye, such fostering kindliness87 in the touch of the hand he laid upon her own, that Sylvia cried within herself,--"Oh, if Geoffrey would only come!" and hoping for that help to save her from herself, she hastily replied--
"You are mistaken, Adam,--my life is easier than I deserve,--my husband makes me very--"
"Miserable,--the truth to me, Sylvia."
Warwick rose as he spoke, closed the door and came back wearing an expression which caused her to start up with a gesture of entreaty--
"No no, I will not hear you! Adam, you must not speak!"
He paused opposite her, leaving a little space between them, which he did not cross through all that followed, and with that look, inflexible yet pitiful, he answered steadily--
"I _must_ speak and you _will_ hear me. But understand me, Sylvia, I desire and design no French sentiment nor sin like that we heard of, and what I say now I would say if Geoffrey stood between us. I have settled this point after long thought and the heartiest88 prayers I ever prayed; and much as I have at stake, I speak more for your sake than my own. Therefore do not entreat30 nor delay, but listen and let me show you the wrong you are doing yourself, your husband, and your friend."
"Does Faith know all the past? does she desire you to do this that her happiness may be secure?" demanded Sylvia.
"Faith is no more to me, nor I to Faith, than the friendliest regard can make us. She suspected that I loved you long ago; she now believes that you love me; she pities her cousin tenderly, but will not meddle89 with the tangle90 we have made of our three lives. Forget that folly91, and let me speak to you as I should. When we parted I thought that you loved Geoffrey; so did you. When I came here I was sure of it for a day; but on that second night I saw your face as you stood here alone, and then I knew what I have since assured myself of. God knows, I think my gain dearly purchased by his loss. I see your double trial; I know the tribulations92 in store for all of us; yet, as an honest man, I must speak out, because you ought not to delude93 yourself or Geoffrey another day."
"What right have you to come between us and decide my duty, Adam?" Sylvia spoke passionately95, roused to resistance by his manner and the turmoil96 of emotions warring within her.
"The right of a sane97 man to save the woman he loves from destroying her own peace forever, and undermining the confidence of the friend dearest to them both. I know this is not the world's way in such matters; but I care not; because I believe one human creature has a right to speak to another in times like these as if they two stood alone. I will not command, I will appeal to you, and if you are the candid98 soul I think you, your own words shall prove the truth of what I say. Sylvia, do you love your husband?"
"Yes, Adam, dearly."
"More than you love me?"
"I wish I did! I wish I did!"
"Are you happy with him?"
"I was till you came; I shall be when you are gone."
"Never! It is impossible to go back to the blind tranquillity99 you once enjoyed. Now a single duty lies before you; delay is weak, deceit is wicked; utter sincerity alone can help us. Tell Geoffrey all; then, whether you live your life alone, or one day come to me, there is no false dealing100 to repent101 of, and looking the hard fact in the face robs it of one half its terrors. Will you do this, Sylvia?"
"No, Adam. Remember what he said that night: 'I love but few, and those few are my world,'--I am chief in that world; shall I destroy it, for my selfish pleasure? He waited for me very long, is waiting still; can I for a second time disappoint the patient heart that would find it easier to give up life than the poor possession which I am? No, I ought not, dare not do it yet."
"If you dare not speak the truth to your friend, you do not deserve him, and the name is a lie. You ask me to remember what he said that night,--I ask you to recall the look with which he begged you not to try him too hardly. Put it to yourself,--which is the kinder justice, a full confession now, or a late one hereafter, when longer subterfuge102 has made it harder for you to offer, bitterer for him to receive? I tell you, Sylvia, it were more merciful to murder him outright103 than to slowly wear away his faith, his peace, and love by a vain endeavor to perform as a duty what should be your sweetest pleasure, and what will soon become a burden heavier than you can bear."
"You do not see as I see; you cannot understand what I am to him, nor can I tell you what he is to me. It is not as if I could dislike or despise him for any unworthiness of his own; nor as if he were a lover only. Then I could do much which now is worse than impossible, for I have married him, and it is too late."
"Oh, Sylvia! why could you not have waited?"
"Why? because I am what I am, too easily led by circumstances, too entirely possessed by whatever hope, belief, or fear rules me for the hour. Give me a steadfast nature like your own and I will be as strong. I know I am weak, but I am not wilfully104 wicked; and when I ask you to be silent, it is because I want to save him from the pain of doubt, and try to teach myself to love him as I should. I must have time, but I can bear much and endeavor more persistently105 than you believe. If I forgot you once, can I not again? and should I not? I am all in all to him, while you, so strong, so self-reliant, can do without my love as you have done till now, and will soon outlive your sorrow for the loss of that which might have made us happy had I been more patient."
"Yes, I shall outlive it, else I should have little faith in myself. But I shall not forget; and if you would remain forever what you now are to me, you will so act that nothing may mar64 this memory, if it is to be no more. I doubt your power to forget an affection which has survived so many changes and withstood assaults such as Geoffrey must unconsciously have made upon it. But I have no right to condemn106 your beliefs, to order your actions, or force you to accept my code of morals if you are not ready for it. You must decide, but do not again deceive yourself, and through whatever comes hold fast to that which is better worth preserving than husband, happiness, or friend."
His words fell cold on Sylvia's ear, for with the inconsistency of a woman's heart she thought he gave her up too readily, yet honored him more truly for sacrificing both himself and her to the principle that ruled his life and made him what he was. His seeming resignation steadied her, for now he waited her decision, while before he was only bent on executing the purpose wherein he believed salvation107 lay. She girded up her strength, collected her thoughts, and tried to show him what she believed to be her duty.
"Let me tell you how it is with me, Adam, and be patient if I am not wise and brave like you, but far too young, too ignorant to bear such troubles well. I am not leaning on my own judgment108 now, but on Faith's, and though you do not love her as I hoped, you feel she is one to trust. She said the wife, in that fictitious109 case which was so real to us, the wife should leave no effort unmade, no self-denial unexacted, till she had fairly proved that she could not be what she had promised. Then, and then only, had she a right to undo110 the tie that had bound her. I must do this before I think of your love or my own, for on my marriage morning I made a vow111 within myself that Geoffrey's happiness should be the first duty of my life. I shall keep that vow as sacredly as I will those I made before the world, until I find that it is utterly112 beyond my power, then I will break all together."
"You have tried that once, and failed."
"No, I have never tried it as I shall now. At first, I did not know the truth, then I was afraid to believe, and struggled blindly to forget. Now I see clearly, I confess it, I resolve to conquer it, and I will not yield until I have done my best. You say you must respect me. Could you do so if I no longer respected myself? I should not, if I forgot all Geoffrey had borne and done for me, and could not bear and do this thing for him. I must make the effort, and make it silently; for he is very proud with all his gentleness, and would reject the seeming sacrifice though he would make one doubly hard for love of me. If I am to stay with him, it spares him the bitterest pain he could suffer; if I am to go, it gives him a few more months of happiness, and I may so prepare him that the parting will be less hard. How others would act I cannot tell, I only know that this seems right to me; and I must fight my fight alone, even if I die in doing it."
She was so earnest, yet so humble113; so weak in all but the desire to do well; so young to be tormented114 with such fateful issues, and withal so steadfast in the grateful yet remorseful115 tenderness she bore her husband, that though sorely disappointed and not one whit116 convinced, Warwick could only submit to this woman-hearted child, and love her with redoubled love, both for what she was and what she aspired117 to be.
"Sylvia, what would you have me do?"
"You must go away, and for a long time, Adam; because when you are near me my will is swayed by yours, and what you desire I long to give you. Go quite away, and through Faith you may learn whether I succeed or fail. It is hard to say this, yet you know it is a truer hospitality in me to send you from my door than to detain and offer you temptation for your daily bread."
How strangely Ottila came back to him, and all the scenes he had passed through with her!--a perilous contrast just then. Yet, despite his pride in the loving little creature who put him from her that she might be worthy26 of him, one irrepressible lament81 swelled118 his heart and passed his lips--
"Ah, Sylvia! I thought that parting on the mountain was the hardest I could ever know, but this is harder; for now I have but to say come to me, and you would come."
But the bitter moment had its drop of honey, whose sweetness nourished him when all else failed. Sylvia answered with a perfect confidence in that integrity which even her own longing119 could not bribe--
"Yes, Adam, but you will not say it, because feeling as I feel, you know I must not come to you."
He did know it, and confessed his submission120 by folding fast the arms half opened for her, and standing dumb with the words trembling on his lips. It was the bravest action of a life full of real valor121, for the sacrifice was not made with more than human fortitude122. The man's heart clamored for its right, patience was weary, hope despaired, and all natural instincts mutinied against the command that bound them. But no grain of virtue123 ever falls wasted to the ground; it drops back upon its giver a regathered strength, and cannot fail of its reward in some kindred soul's approval, imitation, or delight. It was so then, as Sylvia went to him; for though she did not touch nor smile upon him, he felt her nearness; and the parting assured him that its power bound them closer than the happiest union. In her face there shone a look half fervent124, half devout125, and her voice had no falter126 in it now.
"You show me what I should be. All my life I have desired strength of heart and stability of soul; may I not hope to earn for myself a little of the integrity I love in you? If courage, self-denial, and self-help, make you what you are, can I have a more effectual guide? You say you shall outlive this passion; why should not I imitate your brave example, and find the consolations127 you shall find? Oh, Adam, let me try."
"You shall."
"Then go; go now, while I can say it as I should."
"The good Lord bless and help you, Sylvia."
She gave him both her hands, but though he only pressed them silently, that pressure nearly destroyed the victory she had won, for the strong grasp snapped the slender guard-ring Moor had given her a week ago. She heard it drop with a golden tinkle128 on the hearth129, saw the dark oval, with its doubly significant character, roll into the ashes, and felt Warwick's hold tighten130 as if he echoed the emphatic131 word uttered when the ineffectual gift was first bestowed132. Superstition133 flowed in Sylvia's blood, and was as unconquerable as the imagination which supplied its food. This omen34 startled her. It seemed a forewarning that endeavor would be vain, that submission was wisdom, and that the husband's charm had lost its virtue when the stronger power claimed her. The desire to resist began to waver as the old passionate94 longing sprang up more eloquent134 than ever; she felt the rush of a coming impulse, knew that it would sweep her into Warwick's arms, there to forget her duty, to forfeit135 his respect. With the last effort of a sorely tried spirit she tore her hands away, fled up to the room which had never needed lock or key till now, and stifling136 the sound of those departing steps among the cushions of the little couch where she had wept away childish woes137 and dreamed girlish dreams, she struggled with the great sorrow of her too early womanhood, uttering with broken voice that petition oftenest quoted from the one prayer which expresses all our needs--
"Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil."
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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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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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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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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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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25
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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27
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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28
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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29
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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30
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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31
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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32
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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33
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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34
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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35
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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36
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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37
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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38
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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39
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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40
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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41
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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42
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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43
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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44
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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45
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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46
fervency
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| n.热情的；强烈的；热烈 | |
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47
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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48
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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49
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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50
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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51
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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52
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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54
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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55
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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56
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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57
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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58
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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59
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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60
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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61
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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62
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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63
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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64
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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65
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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66
inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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68
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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69
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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70
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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71
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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72
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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74
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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75
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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77
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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78
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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79
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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80
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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81
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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82
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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83
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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84
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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85
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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86
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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87
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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88
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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89
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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90
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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91
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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92
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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93
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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94
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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95
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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96
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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97
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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98
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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99
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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100
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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101
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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102
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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103
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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104
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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105
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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106
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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107
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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108
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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109
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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110
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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111
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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112
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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113
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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114
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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115
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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116
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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117
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
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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119
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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120
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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121
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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122
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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123
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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124
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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125
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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126
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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127
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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128
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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129
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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130
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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131
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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132
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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134
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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135
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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136
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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137
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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