Although it blew hard when C?sar crossed the Rubicon, the passage of that river is commonly calm; calm as Acheron. So long as he gets his fare, the ferryman does not need to be told whom he carries: he pulls with a will, and heroes may be over in half-an-hour. Only when they stand on the opposite bank, do they see what a leap they have taken. The shores they have relinquished1 shrink to an infinite remoteness. There they have dreamed: here they must act. There lie youth and irresolution2: here manhood and purpose. They are veritably in another land: a moral Acheron divides their life. Their memories scarce seem their own! The PHILOSOPHICAL3 GEOGRAPHY (about to be published) observes that each man has, one time or other, a little Rubicon — a clear or a foul4 water to cross. It is asked him: “Wilt thou wed5 this Fate, and give up all behind thee?” And “I will,” firmly pronounced, speeds him over. The above-named manuscript authority informs us, that by far the greater number of carcases rolled by this heroic flood to its sister stream below, are those of fellows who have repented6 their pledge, and have tried to swim back to the bank they have blotted7 out. For though every man of us may be a hero for one fatal minute, very few remain so after a day’s march even: and who wonders that Madam Fate is indignant, and wears the features of the terrible Universal Fate to him? Fail before her, either in heart or in act, and lo, how the alluring8 loves in her visage wither9 and sicken to what it is modelled on! Be your Rubicon big or small, clear or foul, it is the same: you shall not return. On — or to Acheron! — I subscribe10 to that saying of THE PILGRIM’S SCRIP:
“The danger of a little knowledge of things is disputable: but beware the little knowledge of one’s self!”
Richard Feverel was now crossing the River of his Ordeal11. Already the mists were stealing over the land he had left: his life was cut in two, and he breathed but the air that met his nostrils12. His father, his father’s love, his boyhood and ambition, were shadowy. His poetic13 dreams had taken a living attainable14 shape. He had a distincter impression of the Autumnal Berry and her household than of anything at Raynham. And yet the young man loved his father, loved his home: and I daresay C?sar loved Rome: but whether he did or no, C?sar when he killed the Republic was quite bald, and the hero we are dealing15 with is scarce beginning to feel his despotic moustache. Did he know what he was made of? Doubtless, nothing at all. But honest passion has an instinct that can be safer than conscious wisdom. He was an arrow drawn16 to the head, flying to the bow. His audacious mendacities and subterfuges17 did not strike him as in any way criminal; for he was perfectly18 sure that the winning and securing of Lucy would in the end be boisterously19 approved of, and in that case, were not the means justified20? Not that he took trouble to argue thus, as older heroes and self-convicting villains21 are in the habit of doing, to deduce a clear conscience. Conscience and Lucy went together.
It was a soft fair day. The Rubicon sparkled in the morning sun. One of those days when London embraces the prospect22 of summer, and troops forth23 all its babies. The pavement, the squares, the parks, were early alive with the cries of young Britain. Violet and primrose24 girls, and organ boys with military monkeys, and systematic25 bands very determined26 in tone if not in tune27, filled the atmosphere, and crowned the blazing procession of omnibuses, freighted with business men, Cityward, where a column of reddish brown smoke — blown aloft by the South-west, marked the scene of conflict to which these persistent28 warriors29 repaired. Richard had seen much of early London that morning. His plans were laid. He had taken care to ensure his personal liberty against accidents, by leaving his hotel and his injured uncle Hippias at sunrise. To-day or tomorrow his father was to arrive. Farmer Blaize, Tom Bakewell reported to him, was raging in town. Another day and she might be torn from him: but today this miracle of creation would be his, and then from those glittering banks yonder, let them summon him to surrender her who dared! The position of things looked so propitious31 that he naturally thought the powers waiting on love conspired32 in his behalf. And she, too — since she must cross this river, she had sworn to him to be brave, and do him honour, and wear the true gladness of her heart in her face. Without a suspicion of folly33 in his acts, or fear of results, Richard strolled into Kensington Gardens, breakfasting on the foreshadow of his great joy, now with a vision of his bride, now of the new life opening to him. Mountain masses of clouds, rounded in sunlight, swung up the blue. The flowering chestnut34 pavilions overhead rustled35 and hummed. A sound in his ears as of a banner unfolding in the joyful36 distance lulled37 him.
He was to meet his bride at the church at a quarter past eleven. His watch said a quarter to ten. He strolled on beneath the long-stemmed trees toward the well dedicated38 to a saint obscure. Some people were drinking at the well. A florid lady stood by a younger one, who had a little silver mug half-way to her mouth, and evinced undisguised dislike to the liquor of the salutary saint.
“Drink, child!” said the maturer lady. “That is only your second mug. I insist upon your drinking three full ones every morning we’re in town. Your constitution positively39 requires iron!”
“But, mama,” the other expostulated, “it’s so nasty. I shall be sick.”
“Drink!” was the harsh injunction. “Nothing to the German waters, my dear. Here, let me taste.” She took the mug and gave it a flying kiss. “I declare I think it almost nice — not at all objectionable. Pray, taste it,” she said to a gentleman standing40 below them to act as cup-bearer.
An unmistakable cis-Rubicon voice replied: “Certainly, if it’s good fellowship; though I confess I don’t think mutual41 sickness a very engaging ceremony.”
Can one never escape from one’s relatives? Richard ejaculated inwardly.
Without a doubt those people were Mrs. Doria, Clare, and Adrian. He had them under his eyes.
Clare, peeping up from her constitutional dose to make sure no man was near to see the possible consequence of it, was the first to perceive him. Her hand dropped.
“Now, pray, drink, and do not fuss!” said Mrs. Doria.
“Mama!” Clare gasped42.
Richard came forward and capitulated honourably43, since retreat was out of the question. Mrs. Doria swam to meet him: “My own boy! My dear Richard!” profuse44 of exclamations45. Clare shyly greeted him. Adrian kept in the background.
“Why, we were coming for you today, Richard,” said Mrs. Doria, smiling effusion; and rattled46 on, “We want another cavalier. This is delightful47! My dear nephew! You have grown from a boy to a man. And there’s down on his lip! And what brings you here at such an hour in the morning? Poetry, I suppose! Here, take my arm, child. — Clare! finish that mug and thank your cousin for sparing you the third. I always bring her, when we are by a chalybeate, to take the waters before breakfast. We have to get up at unearthly hours. Think, my dear boy! Mothers are sacrifices! And so you’ve been alone a fortnight with your agreeable uncle! A charming time of it you must have had! Poor Hippias! what may be his last nostrum48?”
“Nephew!” Adrian stretched his head round to the couple. “Doses of nephew taken morning and night fourteen days! And he guarantees that it shall destroy an iron constitution in a month.”
Richard mechanically shook Adrian’s hand as he spoke49.
“Quite well, Ricky?”
“Yes: well enough,” Richard answered.
“Well?” resumed his vigorous aunt, walking on with him, while Clare and Adrian followed. “I really never saw you looking so handsome. There’s something about your face — look at me — you needn’t blush. You’ve grown to an Apollo. That blue buttoned-up frock coat becomes you admirably — and those gloves, and that easy neck-tie. Your style is irreproachable50, quite a style of your own! And nothing eccentric. You have the instinct of dress. Dress shows blood, my dear boy, as much as anything else. Boy! — you see, I can’t forget old habits. You were a boy when I left, and now! — Do you see any change in him, Clare?” she turned half round to her daughter.
“Richard is looking very well, mama,” said Clare, glancing at him under her eyelids51.
“I wish I could say the same of you, my dear. — Take my arm, Richard. Are you afraid of your aunt? I want to get used to you. Won’t it be pleasant, our being all in town together in the season? How fresh the Opera will be to you! Austin, I hear, takes stalls. You can come to the Forey’s box when you like. We are staying with the Foreys close by here. I think it’s a little too far out, you know; but they like the neighbourhood. This is what I have always said: Give him more liberty! Austin has seen it at last. How do you think Clare looking?”
The question had to be repeated. Richard surveyed his cousin hastily, and praised her looks.
“Pale!” Mrs. Doria sighed.
“Rather pale, aunt.”
“Grown very much — don’t you think, Richard?”
“Very tall girl indeed, aunt.”
“If she had but a little more colour, my dear Richard! I’m sure I give her all the iron she can swallow, but that pallor still continues. I think she does not prosper52 away from her old companion. She was accustomed to look up to you, Richard”——
“Did you get Ralph’s letter, aunt?” Richard interrupted her.
“Absurd!” Mrs. Doria pressed his arm. “The nonsense of a boy! Why did you undertake to forward such stuff?”
“I’m certain he loves her,” said Richard, in a serious way.
The maternal53 eyes narrowed on him. “Life, my dear Richard, is a game of cross-purposes,” she observed, dropping her fluency54, and was rather angered to hear him laugh. He excused himself by saying that she spoke so like his father.
“You breakfast with us,” she freshened off again. “The Foreys wish to see you; the girls are dying to know you. Do you know, you have a reputation on account of that”— she crushed an intruding55 adjective —“System you were brought up on. You mustn’t mind it. For my part, I think you look a credit to it. Don’t be bashful with young women, mind! As much as you please with the old ones. You know how to behave among men. There you have your Drawing-room Guide! I’m sure I shall be proud of you. Am I not?”
Mrs. Doria addressed his eyes coaxingly56.
A benevolent57 idea struck Richard, that he might employ the minutes to spare, in pleading the case of poor Ralph; and, as he was drawn along, he pulled out his watch to note the precise number of minutes he could dedicate to this charitable office.
“Pardon me,” said Mrs. Doria. “You want manners, my dear boy. I think it never happened to me before that a man consulted his watch in my presence.”
Richard mildly replied that he had an engagement at a particular hour, up to which he was her servant.
“Fiddlededee!” the vivacious58 lady sang. “Now I’ve got you, I mean to keep you. Oh! I’ve heard all about you. This ridiculous indifference59 that your father makes so much of! Why, of course, you wanted to see the world! A strong, healthy young man shut up all his life in a lonely house — no friends, no society, no amusements but those of rustics60! Of course you were indifferent! Your intelligence and superior mind alone saved you from becoming a dissipated country boor61. — Where are the others?”
Clare and Adrian came up at a quick pace.
“My damozel dropped something,” Adrian explained.
Her mother asked what it was.
“Nothing, mama,” said Clare, demurely62, and they proceeded as before.
Overborne by his aunt’s fluency of tongue, and occupied in acute calculation of the flying minutes, Richard let many pass before he edged in a word for Ralph. When he did, Mrs. Doria stopped him immediately.
“I must tell you, child, that I refuse to listen to such rank idiotcy.”
“It’s nothing of the kind, aunt.”
“The fancy of a boy.”
“He’s not a boy. He’s half-a-year older than I am!”
“You silly child! The moment you fall in love, you all think yourselves men.”
“On my honour, aunt! I believe he loves her thoroughly63.”
“Did he tell you so, child?”
“Men don’t speak openly of those things,” said Richard.
“Boys do,” said Mrs. Doria.
“But listen to me in earnest, aunt. I want you to be kind to Ralph. Don’t drive him to — You may be sorry for it. Let him — do let him write to her, and see her. I believe women are as cruel as men in these things.”
“I never encourage absurdity64, Richard.”
“What objection have you to Ralph, aunt?”
“Oh, they’re both good families. It’s not that absurdity, Richard. It will be to his credit to remember that his first fancy wasn’t a dairymaid.” Mrs. Doria pitched her accent tellingly. It did not touch her nephew.
“Don’t you want Clare ever to marry?” He put the last point of reason to her.
Mrs. Doria laughed. “I hope so, child. We must find some comfortable old gentleman for her.”
“What infamy65!” mutters Richard.
“And I engage Ralph shall be ready to dance at her wedding, or eat a hearty66 breakfast — We don’t dance at weddings now, and very properly. It’s a horrid67 sad business, not to be treated with levity68. — Is that his regiment69?” she said, as they passed out of the hussar-sentinelled gardens. “Tush, tush, child; Master Ralph will recover, as — hem30! others have done. A little headache — you call it heartache — and up you rise again, looking better than ever. No doubt, to have a grain of sense forced into your brains, you poor dear children! must be painful. Girls suffer as much as boys, I assure you. More, for their heads are weaker, and their appetites less constant. Do I talk like your father now? Whatever makes the boy fidget at his watch so?”
Richard stopped short. Time spoke urgently.
“I must go,” he said.
His face did not seem good for trifling70. Mrs. Doria would trifle in spite.
“Listen, Clare! Richard is going. He says he has an engagement. What possible engagement can a young man have at eleven o’clock in the morning? — unless it’s to be married!” Mrs. Doria laughed at the ingenuity71 of her suggestion.
“Is the church handy, Ricky?” said Adrian. “You can still give us half-an-hour if it is. The celibate72 hours strike at Twelve.” And he also laughed in his fashion.
“Won’t you stay with us, Richard?” Clare asked. She blushed timidly, and her voice shook.
Something indefinite — a sharp-edged thrill in the tones made the burning bridegroom speak gently to her.
“Indeed, I would, Clare; I should like to please you, but I have a most imperative73 appointment — that is, I promised — I must go. I shall see you again”——
Mrs. Doria took forcible possession of him. “Now, do come, and don’t waste words. I insist upon your having some breakfast first, and then, if you really must go, you shall. Look! there’s the house. At least you will accompany your aunt to the door.”
Richard conceded this. She little imagined what she required of him. Two of his golden minutes melted into nothingness. They were growing to be jewels of price, one by one more and more precious as they ran, and now so costly-rare — rich as his blood! not to kindest relations, dearest friends, could he give another. The die is cast! Ferryman! push off.
“Good-bye!” he cried, nodding bluffly74 at the three as one, and fled.
They watched his abrupt75 muscular stride through the grounds of the house. He looked like resolution on the march. Mrs. Doria, as usual with her out of her brother’s hearing, began rating the System.
“See what becomes of that nonsensical education! The boy really does not know how to behave like a common mortal. He has some paltry76 appointment, or is mad after some ridiculous idea of his own, and everything must be sacrificed to it! That’s what Austin calls concentration of the faculties77. I think it’s more likely to lead to downright insanity78 than to greatness of any kind. And so I shall tell Austin. It’s time he should be spoken to seriously about him.”
“He’s an engine, my dear aunt,” said Adrian. “He isn’t a boy, or a man, but an engine. And he appears to have been at high pressure since he came to town — out all day and half the night.”
“He’s mad!” Mrs. Doria interjected.
“Not at all. Extremely shrewd is Master Ricky, and carries as open an eye ahead of him as the ships before Troy. He’s more than a match for any of us. He is for me, I confess.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Doria, “he does astonish me!”
Adrian begged her to retain her astonishment80 till the right season, which would not be long arriving.
Their common wisdom counselled them not to tell the Foreys of their hopeful relative’s ungracious behaviour. Clare had left them. When Mrs. Doria went to her room her daughter was there, gazing down at something in her hand, which she guiltily closed.
In answer to an inquiry81 why she had not gone to take off her things, Clare said she was not hungry. Mrs. Doria lamented82 the obstinacy83 of a constitution that no quantity of iron could affect, and eclipsed the looking-glass, saying: “Take them off here, child, and learn to assist yourself.”
She disentangled her bonnet84 from the array of her spreading hair, talking of Richard, and his handsome appearance, and extraordinary conduct. Clare kept opening and shutting her hand, in an attitude half pensive85, half-listless. She did not stir to undress. A joyous86 dimple hung in one pale cheek, and she drew long, even breaths.
Mrs. Doria, assured by the glass that she was ready to show, came to her daughter.
“Now, really,” she said, “you are too helpless, my dear. You cannot do a thing without a dozen women at your elbow. What will become of you? You will have to marry a millionaire. — What’s the matter with you, child?”
Clare undid87 her tight-shut fingers, as if to some attraction of her eyes, and displayed a small gold hoop88 on the palm of a green glove.
“A wedding-ring!” exclaimed Mrs. Doria, inspecting the curiosity most daintily.
There on Clare’s pale green glove lay a wedding-ring!
Rapid questions as to where, when, how, it was found, beset89 Clare, who replied: “In the Gardens, mama. This morning. When I was walking behind Richard.”
“Are you sure he did not give it you, Clare?”
“Oh no, mama! he did not give it me!”
“Of course not! only he does such absurd things! I thought, perhaps — these boys are so exceedingly ridiculous!” Mrs. Doria had an idea that it might have been concerted between the two young gentlemen, Richard and Ralph, that the former should present this token of hymeneal devotion from the latter to the young lady of his love; but a moment’s reflection, exonerated90 boys even from such preposterous91 behaviour.
“Now, I wonder,” she speculated on Clare’s cold face, “I do wonder whether it’s lucky to find a wedding-ring. What very quick eyes you have, my darling!” Mrs. Doria kissed her. She thought it must be lucky, and the circumstance made her feel tender to her child. Her child did not move to the kiss.
“Let’s see whether it fits,” said Mrs. Doria, almost infantine with surprise and pleasure.
Clare suffered her glove to be drawn off. The ring slid down her long thin finger, and settled comfortably.
“It does!” Mrs. Doria whispered. To find a wedding-ring is open to any woman; but to find a wedding-ring that fits may well cause a superstitious92 emotion. Moreover, that it should be found while walking in the neighbourhood of the identical youth whom a mother has destined93 for her daughter, gives significance to the gentle perturbation of ideas consequent on such a hint from Fortune.
“It really fits!” she pursued. “Now I never pay any attention to the nonsense of omens94 and that kind of thing” (had the ring been a horseshoe Mrs. Doria would have picked it up and dragged it obediently home), “but this, I must say, is odd — to find a ring that fits! — singular! It never happened to me. Sixpence is the most I ever discovered, and I have it now. Mind you keep it, Clare — this ring. And,” she laughed, “offer it to Richard when he comes; say, you think he must have dropped it.”
The dimple in Clare’s cheek quivered.
Mother and daughter had never spoken explicitly95 of Richard. Mrs. Doria, by exquisite96 management, had contrived97 to be sure that on one side there would be no obstacle to her project of general happiness, without, as she thought, compromising her daughter’s feelings unnecessarily. It could do no harm to an obedient young girl to hear that there was no youth in the world like a certain youth. He the prince of his generation, she might softly consent, when requested, to be his princess; and if never requested (for Mrs. Doria envisaged98 failure), she might easily transfer her softness to squires99 of lower degree. Clare had always been blindly obedient to her mother (Adrian called them Mrs. Doria Battledoria and the fair Shuttlecockiana), and her mother accepted in this blind obedience100 the text of her entire character. It is difficult for those who think very earnestly for their children to know when their children are thinking on their own account. The exercise of their volition101 we construe102 as revolt. Our love does not like to be invalided103 and deposed104 from its command, and here I think yonder old thrush on the lawn who has just kicked the last of her lank105 offspring out of the nest to go shift for itself, much the kinder of the two, though sentimental106 people do shrug107 their shoulders at these unsentimental acts of the creatures who never wander from nature. Now, excess of obedience is, to one who manages most exquisitely108, as bad as insurrection. Happily Mrs. Doria saw nothing in her daughter’s manner save a want of iron. Her pallor, her lassitude, the tremulous nerves in her face, exhibited an imperious requirement of the mineral.
“The reason why men and women are mysterious to us, and prove disappointing,” we learn from THE PILGRIM’S SCRIP, “is, that we will read them from our own book; just as we are perplexed109 by reading ourselves from theirs.”
Mrs. Doria read her daughter from her own book, and she was gay; she laughed with Adrian at the breakfast-table, and mock-seriously joined in his jocose110 assertion that Clare was positively and by all hymeneal auspices111 betrothed112 to the owner of that ring, be he who he may, and must, whenever he should choose to come and claim her, give her hand to him (for everybody agreed the owner must be masculine, as no woman would drop a wedding-ring), and follow him whither he listed all the world over. Amiable113 giggling114 Forey girls called Clare, The Betrothed. Dark man, or fair? was mooted115. Adrian threw off the first strophe of Clare’s fortune in burlesque116 rhymes, with an insinuating117 gipsy twang. Her aunt Forey warned her to have her dresses in readiness. Her grandpapa Forey pretended to grumble118 at bridal presents being expected from grandpapas. This one smelt119 orange-flower, another spoke solemnly of an old shoe. The finding of a wedding-ring was celebrated120 through all the palpitating accessories and rosy121 ceremonies involved by that famous instrument. In the midst of the general hilarity122, Clare showed her deplorable want of iron by bursting into tears.
Did the poor mocked-at heart divine what might be then enacting123? Perhaps, dimly, as we say: that is, without eyes.
At an altar stand two fair young creatures, ready with their oaths. They are asked to fix all time to the moment, and they do so. If there is hesitation124 at the immense undertaking125, it is but maidenly126. She conceives as little mental doubt of the sanity79 of the act as he. Over them hangs a cool young curate in his raiment of office. Behind are two apparently127 lucid128 people, distinguished129 from each other by sex and age; the foremost a bunch of simmering black satin; under her shadow a cock-robin in the dress of a gentleman, big joy swelling130 out his chest, and pert satisfaction cocking his head. These be they who stand here in place of parents to the young couple. All is well. The service proceeds.
Firmly the bridegroom tells forth his words. This hour of the complacent131 giant at least is his, and that he means to hold him bound through the eternities, men may hear. Clearly, and with brave modesty132, speaks she: no less firmly, though her body trembles: her voice just vibrating while the tone travels on, like a smitten133 vase.
Time hears sentence pronounced on him: the frail134 hands bind135 his huge limbs and lock the chains. He is used to it: he lets them do as they will.
Then comes that period when they are to give their troth to each other. The Man with his right hand takes the Woman by her right hand: the Woman with her right hand takes the Man by his right hand. — Devils dare not laugh at whom Angels crowd to contemplate136.
Their hands are joined; their blood flows as one stream. Adam and fair Eve front the generations. Are they not lovely? Purer fountains of life were never in two bosoms137.
And then they loose their hands, and the cool curate doth bid the Man to put a ring on the Woman’s fourth finger, counting thumb. And the Man thrusts his hand into one pocket, and into another, forward and back many times: into all his pockets. He remembers that he felt for it, and felt it in his waistcoat pocket, when in the Gardens. And his hand comes forth empty. And the Man is ghastly to look at!
Yet, though Angels smile, shall not Devils laugh! The curate deliberates. The black satin bunch ceases to simmer. He in her shadow changes from a beaming cock-robin to an inquisitive138 sparrow. Eyes multiply questions: lips have no reply. Time ominously139 shakes his chain, and in the pause a sound of mockery stings their ears.
Think ye a hero is one to be defeated in his first battle? Look at the clock! there are but seven minutes to the stroke of the celibate hours: the veteran is surely lifting his two hands to deliver fire, and his shot will sunder140 them in twain so nearly united. All the jewellers of London speeding down with sacks full of the nuptial141 circlet cannot save them!
The battle must be won on the field, and what does the hero now? It is an inspiration! For who else would dream of such a reserve in the rear? None see what he does; only that the black-satin bunch is remonstratingly agitated142, stormily shaken, and subdued143: and as though the menacing cloud had opened, and dropped the dear token from the skies at his demand, he produces the symbol of their consent, and the service proceeds: “With this ring I thee wed.”
They are prayed over and blest. For good, or for ill, this deed is done. The names are registered; fees fly right and left: they thank, and salute144, the curate, whose official coolness melts into a smile of monastic gallantry: the beadle on the steps waves off a gaping145 world as they issue forth: bridegroom and bridesman recklessly scatter146 gold on him: carriage doors are banged to: the coachmen drive off, and the scene closes, everybody happy.
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收听单词发音
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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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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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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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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attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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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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subterfuges
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| n.（用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的）花招，遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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22
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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23
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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24
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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25
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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26
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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27
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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28
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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29
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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30
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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31
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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32
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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33
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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34
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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35
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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37
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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38
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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39
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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40
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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41
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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42
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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43
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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44
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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45
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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46
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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47
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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48
nostrum
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| n.秘方；妙策 | |
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49
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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50
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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51
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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52
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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53
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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54
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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55
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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56
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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57
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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58
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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59
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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60
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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61
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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62
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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63
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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64
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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65
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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66
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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67
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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68
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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69
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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70
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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71
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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72
celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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73
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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74
bluffly
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| 率直地，粗率地 | |
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75
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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76
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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77
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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78
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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79
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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80
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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81
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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82
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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84
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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85
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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86
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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87
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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88
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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89
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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90
exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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92
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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93
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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94
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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95
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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96
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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97
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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98
envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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100
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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101
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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102
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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103
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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104
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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105
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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106
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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107
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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108
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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109
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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110
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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111
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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112
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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113
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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114
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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115
mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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117
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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118
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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119
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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120
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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121
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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122
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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123
enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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124
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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125
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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126
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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127
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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128
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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129
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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130
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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131
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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132
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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133
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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134
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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135
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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136
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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137
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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138
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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139
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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140
sunder
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| v.分开；隔离；n.分离，分开 | |
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141
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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142
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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143
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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144
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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145
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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146
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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