March winds were howling round the house, the clock was striking two, the library lamp still burned, and Moor2 sat writing with an anxious face. Occasionally, he paused to look backward through the leaves of the book in which he wrote; sometimes he sat with suspended pen, thinking deeply; and once or twice he laid it down, to press his hand over eyes more weary than the mind that compelled them to this late service.
Returning to his work after one of these pauses, he was a little startled to see Sylvia standing3 on the threshold of the door. Rising hastily to ask if she were ill, he stopped half way across the room, for, with a thrill of apprehension4 and surprise, he saw that she was asleep. Her eyes were open, fixed5 and vacant, her face reposeful6, her breathing regular, and every sense apparently7 wrapt in the profoundest unconsciousness. Fearful of awakening8 her too suddenly, Moor stood motionless, yet full of interest, for this was his first experience of somnambulism, and it was a strange, almost an awful sight, to witness the blind obedience9 of the body to the soul that ruled it.
For several minutes she remained where she first appeared. Then, as if the dream demanded action, she stooped, and seemed to take some object from a chair beside the door, held it an instant, kissed it softly and laid it down. Slowly and steadily10 she went across the room, avoiding all obstacles with the unerring instinct that often leads the sleepwalker through dangers that appall11 his waking eyes, and sat down in the great chair he had left, leaned her cheek upon its arm, and rested tranquilly12 for several minutes. Soon the dream disturbed her, and lifting her head, she bent13 forward, as if addressing or caressing14 some one seated at her feet. Involuntarily her husband smiled; for often when they were alone he sat there reading or talking to her, while she played with his hair, likening its brown abundance to young Milton's curling locks in the picture overhead. The smile had hardly risen when it was scared away, for Sylvia suddenly sprung up with both hands out, crying in a voice that rent the silence with its imploring16 energy--
"No, no, you must not speak! I will not hear you!"
Her own cry woke her. Consciousness and memory returned together, and her face whitened with a look of terror, as her bewildered eyes showed her not Warwick, but her husband. This look, so full of fear, yet so intelligent, startled Moor more than the apparition17 or the cry had done, for a conviction flashed into his mind that some unsuspected trouble had been burdening Sylvia, and was now finding vent18 against her will. Anxious to possess himself of the truth, and bent on doing so, he veiled his purpose for a time, letting his unchanged manner reassure19 and compose her.
"Dear child, don't look so lost and wild. You are quite safe, and have only been wandering in your sleep. Why, Mrs. Macbeth, have you murdered some one, that you go crying out in this uncanny way, frightening me as much as I seem to have frightened you?"
"I have murdered sleep. What did I do? what did I say?" she asked, trembling and shrinking as she dropped into her chair.
Hoping to quiet her, he took his place on the footstool, and told her what had passed. At first, she listened with a divided mind, for so strongly was she still impressed with the vividness of the dream, she half expected Warwick to rise like Banquo, and claim the seat that a single occupancy seemed to have made his own. An expression of intense relief replaced that of fear, when she had heard all, and she composed herself with the knowledge that her secret was still hers. For, dreary20 bosom-guest as it was, she had not yet resolved to end her trial.
"What set you walking, Sylvia?"
"I recollect21 hearing the clock strike one, and thinking I would come down to see what you were doing so late, but must have dropped off and carried out my design asleep. You see I put on wrapper and slippers22 as I always do, when I take nocturnal rambles23 awake. How pleasant the fire feels, and how cosy24 you look here; no wonder you like to stay and enjoy it."
She leaned forward warming her hands in unconscious imitation of Adam, on the night which she had been recalling before she slept. Moor watched her with increasing disquiet25; for never had he seen her in a mood like this. She evaded26 his question, she averted27 her eyes, she half hid her face, and with a gesture that of late had grown habitual28, seemed to try to hide her heart. Often had she baffled him, sometimes grieved him, but never before showed that she feared him. This wounded both his love and pride, and this fixed his resolution, to wring29 from her an explanation of the changes which had passed over her within those winter months, for they had been many and mysterious. As if she feared silence, Sylvia soon spoke30 again.
"Why are you up so late? This is not the first time I have seen your lamp burning when I woke. What are you studying so deeply?"
"My wife."
Leaning on the arm of her chair he looked up wistfully, tenderly, as if inviting31 confidence, sueing for affection. The words, the look, smote32 Sylvia to the heart, and but for the thought, "I have not tried long enough," she would have uttered the confession33 that leaped to her lips. Once spoken, it would be too late for secret effort or success, and this man's happiest hopes would vanish in a breath. Knowing that his nature was almost as sensitively fastidious as a woman's, she also knew that the discovery of her love for Adam, innocent as it had been, self-denying as it tried to be, would forever mar1 the beauty of his wedded34 life for Moor. No hour of it would seem sacred, no act, look, or word of hers entirely35 his own, nor any of the dear delights of home remain undarkened by the shadow of his friend. She could not speak yet, and turning her eyes to the fire, she asked--
"Why study me? Have you no better book?"
"None that I love to read so well or have such need to understand; because, though nearest and dearest as you are to me, I seem to know you less than any friend I have. I do not wish to wound you, dear, nor be exacting36; but since we were married you have grown more shy than ever, and the act which should have drawn37 us tenderly together seems to have estranged38 us. You never talk now of yourself, or ask me to explain the working of that busy mind of yours; and lately you have sometimes shunned39 me, as if solitude40 were pleasanter than my society. Is it, Sylvia?"
"Sometimes; I always liked to be alone, you know."
She answered as truly as she could, feeling that his love demanded every confidence but the one cruel one which would destroy its peace past help.
"I knew I had a most tenacious41 heart, but I hoped it was not a selfish one," he sorrowfully said. "Now I see that it is, and deeply regret that my hopeful spirit, my impatient love, has brought disappointment to us both. I should have waited longer, should have been less confident of my own power to win you, and never let you waste your life in vain endeavors to be happy when I was not all to you that you expected. I should not have consented to your wish to spend the winter here so much alone with me. I should have known that such a quiet home and studious companion could not have many charms for a young girl like you. Forgive me, I will do better, and this one-sided life of ours shall be changed; for while I have been supremely42 content you have been miserable43."
It was impossible to deny it, and with a tearless sob44 she laid her arm about his neck, her head on his shoulder, and mutely confessed the truth of what he said. The trouble deepened in his face, but he spoke out more cheerfully, believing that he had found the secret sorrow.
"Thank heaven, nothing is past mending, and we will yet be happy. An entire change shall be made; you shall no longer devote yourself to me, but I to you. Will you go abroad, and forget this dismal46 home until its rest grows inviting, Sylvia?"
"No, Geoffrey, not yet. I will learn to make the home pleasant, I will work harder, and leave no time for ennui47 and discontent. I promised to make your happiness, and I can do it better here than anywhere. Let me try again."
"No, Sylvia, you work too hard already; you do everything with such vehemence48 you wear out your body before your will is weary, and that brings melancholy49. I am very credulous50, but when I see that acts belie45 words I cease to believe. These months assure me that you are not happy; have I found the secret thorn that frets51 you?"
She did not answer, for truth she could not, and falsehood she would not, give him. He rose, went walking to and fro, searching memory, heart, and conscience for any other cause, but found none, and saw only one way out of his bewilderment. He drew a chair before her, sat down, and looking at her with the masterful expression dominant52 in his face, asked briefly--
"Sylvia, have I been tyrannical, unjust, unkind, since you came to me?"
"Oh, Geoffrey, too generous, too just, too tender!"
"Have I claimed any rights but those you gave me, entreated53 or demanded any sacrifices knowingly and wilfully55?"
"Never."
Then she felt that the hour had come, and tried to prepare to meet it as she should by remembering that she had endeavored prayerfully, desperately56, despairingly, to do her duty, and had failed. Warwick was right, she could not forget him. There was such vitality57 in the man and in the sentiment he inspired, that it endowed his memory with a power more potent58 than the visible presence of her husband. The knowledge of his love now undid59 the work that ignorance had helped patience and pride to achieve before. The more she struggled to forget, the deeper, dearer, grew the yearning60 that must be denied, till months of fruitless effort convinced her that it was impossible to outlive a passion more indomitable than will, or penitence61, or perseverance62. Now she saw the wisdom of Adam's warning, and felt that he knew both his friend's heart and her own better than herself. Now she bitterly regretted that she had not spoken out when he was there to help her, and before the least deceit had taken the dignity from sorrow. Nevertheless, though she trembled she resolved; and while Moor spoke on, she made ready to atone63 for past silence by a perfect loyalty64 to truth.
"My wife, concealment66 is not generosity67, for the heaviest trouble shared together could not so take the sweetness from my life, the charm from home, or make me more miserable than this want of confidence. It is a double wrong, because you not only mar my peace but destroy your own by wasting health and happiness in vain endeavors to bear some grief alone. Your eye seldom meets mine now, your words are measured, your actions cautious, your innocent gayety all gone. You hide your heart from me, you hide your face; I seem to have lost the frank girl whom I loved, and found a melancholy woman, who suffers silently till her honest nature rebels, and brings her to confession in her sleep. There is no page of my life which I have not freely shown you; do I do not deserve an equal candor68? Shall I not receive it?"
"Yes."
"Sylvia, what stands between us?"
"Adam Warwick."
Earnest as a prayer, brief as a command had been the question, instantaneous was the reply, as Sylvia knelt down before him, put back the veil that should never hide her from him any more, looked up into her husband's face without one shadow in her own, and steadily told all.
The revelation was too utterly69 unexpected, too difficult of belief to be at once accepted or understood. Moor started at the name, then leaned forward, breathless and intent, as if to seize the words before they left her lips; words that recalled incidents and acts dark and unmeaning till the spark of intelligence fired a long train of memories and enlightened him with terrible rapidity. Blinded by his own devotion, the knowledge of Adam's love and loss seemed gages of his fidelity70; the thought that he loved Sylvia never had occurred to him, and seemed incredible even when her own lips told it. She had been right in fearing the effect this knowledge would have upon him. It stung his pride, wounded his heart, and forever marred71 his faith in love and friendship. As the truth broke over him, cold and bitter as a billow of the sea, she saw gathering72 in his face the still white grief and indignation of an outraged73 spirit, suffering with all a woman's pain, with all a man's intensity74 of passion. His eye grew fiery75 and stern, the veins76 rose dark upon his forehead, the lines about the mouth showed hard and grim, the whole face altered terribly. As she looked, Sylvia thanked heaven that Warwick was not there to feel the sudden atonement for an innocent offence which his friend might have exacted before this natural but unworthy temptation had passed by.
"Now I have given all my confidence though I may have broken both our hearts in doing it. I do not hope for pardon yet, but I am sure of pity, and I leave my fate in your hands. Geoffrey, what shall I do?"
"Wait for me," and putting her away, Moor left the room.
Suffering too much in mind to remember that she had a body, Sylvia remained where she was, and leaning her head upon her hands tried to recall what had passed, to nerve herself for what was to come. Her first sensation was one of unutterable relief. The long struggle was over; the haunting care was gone; there was nothing now to conceal65; she might be herself again, and her spirit rose with something of its old elasticity77 as the heavy burden was removed. A moment she enjoyed this hard-won freedom, then the memory that the burden was not lost but laid on other shoulders, filled her with an anguish78 too sharp to find vent in tears, too deep to leave any hope of cure except in action. But how act? She had performed the duty so long, so vainly delayed, and when the first glow of satisfaction passed, found redoubled anxiety, regret, and pain before her. Clear and hard the truth stood there, and no power of hers could recall the words that showed it to her husband, could give them back the early blindness, or the later vicissitudes79 of hope and fear. In the long silence that filled the room she had time to calm her perturbation and comfort her remorse80 by the vague but helpful belief which seldom deserts sanguine81 spirits, that something, as yet unseen and unsuspected, would appear to heal the breach82, to show what was to be done, and to make all happy in the end.
Where Moor went or how long he stayed Sylvia never knew, but when at length he came, her first glance showed her that pride is as much to be dreaded83 as passion. No gold is without alloy84, and now she saw the shadow of a nature which had seemed all sunshine. She knew he was very proud, but never thought to be the cause of its saddest manifestation85; one which showed her that its presence could make the silent sorrow of a just and gentle man a harder trial to sustain than the hottest anger, the bitterest reproach. Scarcely paler than when he went, there was no sign of violent emotion in his countenance86. His eye shone keen and dark, an anxious fold crossed his forehead, and a melancholy gravity replaced the cheerful serenity87 his face once wore. Wherein the alteration88 lay Sylvia could not tell, but over the whole man some subtle change had passed. The sudden frost which had blighted89 the tenderest affection of his life seemed to have left its chill behind, robbing his manner of its cordial charm, his voice of its heartsome ring, and giving him the look of one who sternly said--"I must suffer, but it shall be alone."
Cold and quiet, he stood regarding her with a strange expression, as if endeavoring to realize the truth, and see in her not his wife but Warwick's lover. Oppressed by the old fear, now augmented90 by a measureless regret, she could only look up at him feeling that her husband had become her judge. Yet as she looked she was conscious of a momentary91 wonder at the seeming transposition of character in the two so near and dear to her. Strong-hearted Warwick wept like any child, but accepted his disappointment without complaint and bore it manfully. Moor, from whom she would sooner have expected such demonstration92, grew stormy first, then stern, as she once believed his friend would have done. She forgot that Moor's pain was the sharper, his wound the deeper, for the patient hope cherished so long; the knowledge that he never had been, never could be loved as he loved; the sense of wrong that could not but burn even in the meekest93 heart at such a late discovery, such an entire loss.
Sylvia spoke first, not audibly, but with a little gesture of supplication94, a glance of sorrowful submission95. He answered both, not by lamentation96 or reproach, but by just enough of his accustomed tenderness in touch and tone to make her tears break forth97, as he placed her in the ancient chair so often occupied together, took the one opposite, and sweeping98 a clear space on the table between them, looked across it with the air of a man bent on seeing his way and following it at any cost.
"Now Sylvia, I can listen as I should."
"Oh, Geoffrey, what can I say?"
"Repeat all you have already told me. I only gathered one fact then, now I want the circumstances, for I find this confession difficult of belief."
Perhaps no sterner expiation99 could have been required of her than to sit there, face to face, eye to eye, and tell again that little history of thwarted100 love and fruitless endeavor. Excitement had given her courage for the first confession, now it was torture to carefully repeat what had poured freely from her lips before. But she did it, glad to prove her penitence by any test he might apply. Tears often blinded her, uncontrollable emotion often arrested her; and more than once she turned on him a beseeching101 look, which asked as plainly as words, "Must I go on?"
Intent on learning all, Moor was unconscious of the trial he imposed, unaware102 that the change in himself was the keenest reproach he could have made, and still with a persistency103 as gentle as inflexible104, he pursued his purpose to the end. When great drops rolled down her cheeks he dried them silently; when she paused, he waited till she calmed herself; and when she spoke he listened with few interruptions but a question now and then. Occasionally a sudden flush of passionate105 pain swept across his face, as some phrase, implying rather than expressing Warwick's love or Sylvia's longing106, escaped the narrator's lips, and when she described their parting on that very spot, his eye went from her to the hearth107 her words seemed to make desolate108, with a glance she never could forget. But when the last question was answered, the last appeal for pardon brokenly uttered, nothing but the pale pride remained; and his voice was cold and quiet as his mien109.
"Yes, it is this which has baffled and kept me groping in the dark so long, for I wholly trusted what I wholly loved."
"Alas110, it was that very confidence that made my task seem so necessary and so hard. How often I longed to go to you with my great trouble as I used to do with lesser111 ones. But here you would suffer more than I; and having done the wrong, it was for me to pay the penalty. So like many another weak yet willing soul, I tried to keep you happy at all costs."
"One frank word before I married you would have spared us this. Could you not foresee the end and dare to speak it, Sylvia?"
"I see it now, I did not then, else I would have spoken as freely as I speak to-night. I thought I had outlived my love for Adam; it seemed kind to spare you a knowledge that would disturb your friendship, so though I told the truth, I did not tell it all. I thought temptations came from without; I could withstand such, and I did, even when it wore Adam's shape. This temptation came so suddenly, seemed so harmless, generous and just, that I yielded to it unconscious that it was one. Surely I deceived myself as cruelly as I did you, and God knows I have tried to atone for it when time taught me my fatal error."
"Poor child, it was too soon for you to play the perilous112 game of hearts. I should have known it, and left you to the safe and simple joys of girlhood. Forgive me that I have kept you a prisoner so long; take off the fetter113 I put on, and go, Sylvia."
"No, do not put me from you yet; do not think that I can hurt you so, and then be glad to leave you suffering alone. Look like your kind self if you can; talk to me as you used to; let me show you my heart and you will see how large a place you fill in it. Let me begin again, for now the secret is told there is no fear to keep out love; and I can give my whole strength to learning the lesson you have tried so patiently to teach."
"You cannot, Sylvia. We are as much divorced as if judge and jury had decided114 the righteous but hard separation for us. You can never be a wife to me with an unconquerable affection in your heart; I can never be your husband while the shadow of a fear remains115. I will have all or nothing."
"Adam foretold116 this. He knew you best, and I should have followed the brave counsel he gave me long ago. Oh, if he were only here to help us now!"
The desire broke from Sylvia's lips involuntarily as she turned for strength to the strong soul that loved her. But it was like wind to smouldering fire; a pang117 of jealousy118 wrung119 Moor's heart, and he spoke out with a flash of the eye that startled Sylvia more than the rapid change of voice and manner.
"Hush120! Say anything of yourself or me, and I can bear it, but spare me the sound of Adam's name to-night. A man's nature is not forgiving like a woman's, and the best of us harbor impulses you know nothing of. If I am to lose wife, friend, and home, for God's sake leave me my self-respect."
All the coldness and pride passed from Moor's face as the climax121 of his sorrow came; with an impetuous gesture he threw his arms across the table, and laid down his head in a paroxysm of tearless suffering such as men only know.
How Sylvia longed to speak! But what consolation122 could the tenderest words supply? She searched for some alleviating123 suggestion, some happier hope; none came. Her eye turned imploringly124 to the pictured Fates above her as if imploring them to aid her. But they looked back at her inexorably dumb, and instinctively125 her thought passed beyond them to the Ruler of all fates, asking the help which never is refused. No words embodied126 her appeal, no sound expressed it, only a voiceless cry from the depths of a contrite127 spirit, owning its weakness, making known its want. She prayed for submission, but her deeper need was seen, and when she asked for patience to endure, Heaven sent her power to act, and out of this sharp trial brought her a better strength and clearer knowledge of herself than years of smoother experience could have bestowed128. A sense of security, of stability, came to her as that entire reliance assured her by its all-sustaining power that she had found what she most needed to make life clear to her and duty sweet. With her face in her hands, she sat, forgetful that she was not alone, as in that brief but precious moment she felt the exceeding comfort of a childlike faith in the one Friend who, when we are deserted129 by all, even by ourselves, puts forth His hand and gathers us tenderly to Himself.
Her husband's voice recalled her, and looking up she showed him such an earnest, patient countenance, it touched him like an unconscious rebuke130. The first tears she had seen rose to his eyes, and all the old tenderness came back into his voice, softening131 the dismissal which had been more coldly begun.
"Dear, silence and rest are best for both of us to-night. We cannot treat this trouble as we should till we are calmer; then we will take counsel how soonest to end what never should have been begun. Forgive me, pray for me, and in sleep forget me for a little while."
He held the door for her, but as she passed Sylvia lifted her face for the good night caress15 without which she had never left him since she became his wife. She did not speak, but her eye humbly132 besought133 this token of forgiveness; nor was it denied. Moor laid his hand upon her lips, saying, "these are Adam's now," and kissed her on the forehead.
Such a little thing: but it overcame Sylvia with the sorrowful certainty of the loss which had befallen both, and she crept away, feeling herself an exile from the heart and home whose happy mistress she could never be again.
Moor watched the little figure going upward, and weeping softly as it went, as if he echoed the sad "never any more," which those tears expressed, and when it vanished with a backward look, shut himself in alone with his great sorrow.
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1
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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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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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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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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appall
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| vt.使惊骇，使大吃一惊 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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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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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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39
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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41
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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42
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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43
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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44
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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45
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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46
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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47
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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48
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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49
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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50
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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51
frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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52
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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53
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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55
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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56
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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57
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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58
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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59
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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60
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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61
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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62
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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63
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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64
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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65
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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66
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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67
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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68
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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69
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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70
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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71
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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72
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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73
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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74
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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75
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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76
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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77
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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78
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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79
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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80
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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81
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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82
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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83
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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84
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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85
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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86
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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87
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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88
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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89
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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90
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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91
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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92
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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93
meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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94
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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95
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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96
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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97
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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98
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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99
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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100
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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101
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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102
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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103
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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104
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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105
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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106
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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107
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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108
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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109
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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110
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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111
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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112
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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113
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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114
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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115
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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116
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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118
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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119
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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120
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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121
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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122
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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123
alleviating
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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124
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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125
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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126
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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127
contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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128
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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130
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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131
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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132
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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133
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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