Mrs. Doria had her own reasons for being in a hurry. She had discovered something of the strange impassive nature of her child; not from any confession12 of Clare’s, but from signs a mother can read when her eyes are not resolutely13 shut. She saw with alarm and anguish14 that Clare had fallen into the pit she had been digging for her so laboriously15. In vain she entreated16 the baronet to break the disgraceful, and, as she said, illegal alliance his son had contracted. Sir Austin would not even stop the little pension to poor Berry. “At least you will do that, Austin,” she begged pathetically. “You will show your sense of that horrid17 woman’s conduct?” He refused to offer up any victim to console her. Then Mrs. Doria told him her thoughts — and when an outraged19 energetic lady is finally brought to exhibit these painfully hoarded20 treasures, she does not use half words as a medium. His System, and his conduct generally were denounced to him, without analysis. She let him understand that the world laughed at him; and he heard this from her at a time when his mask was still soft and liable to be acted on by his nerves. “You are weak, Austin! weak, I tell you!” she said, and, like all angry and self-interested people, prophecy came easy to her. In her heart she accused him of her own fault, in imputing21 to him the wreck22 of her project. The baronet allowed her to revel23 in the proclamation of a dire24 future, and quietly counselled her to keep apart from him, which his sister assured him she would do.
But to be passive in calamity25 is the province of no woman. Mark the race at any hour. “What revolution and hubbub26 does not that little instrument, the needle, avert27 from us!” says THE PILGRIM’S SCRIP. Alas28, that in calamity women cannot stitch! Now that she saw Clare wanted other than iron, it struck her she must have a husband, and be made secure as a woman and a wife. This seemed the thing to do: and, as she had forced the iron down Clare’s throat, so she forced the husband, and Clare gulped29 at the latter as she had at the former. On the very day that Mrs. Doria had this new track shaped out before her, John Todhunter called at the Foreys’. “Old John!” sang out Mrs. Doria, “show him up to me. I want to see him particularly.” He sat with her alone. He was a man multitudes of women would have married — whom will they not? — and who would have married any presentable woman: but women do want asking, and John never had the word. The rape30 of such men is left to the practical animal. So John sat alone with his old flame. He had become resigned to her perpetual lamentation31 and living Suttee for his defunct32 rival. But, ha! what meant those soft glances now — addressed to him? His tailor and his hairdresser gave youth to John, but they had not the art to bestow33 upon him distinction, and an undistinguished man what woman looks at? John was an indistinguishable man. For that reason he was dry wood to a soft glance.
And now she said: “It is time you should marry; and you are the man to be the guide and helper of a young woman, John. You are well preserved — younger than most of the young men of our day. You are eminently34 domestic, a good son, and will be a good husband and good father. Some one you must marry. — What do you think of Clare for a wife for you?”
At first John Todhunter thought it would be very much like his marrying a baby. However, he listened to it, and that was enough for Mrs. Doria.
She went down to John’s mother, and consulted with her on the propriety35 of the scheme of wedding her daughter to John in accordance with his proposition. Mrs. Todhunter’s jealousy36 of any disturbing force in the influence she held over her son Mrs. Doria knew to be one of the causes of John’s remaining constant to the impression she had aforetime produced on him. She spoke37 so kindly38 of John, and laid so much stress on the ingrained obedience39 and passive disposition40 of her daughter, that Mrs. Todhunter was led to admit she did think it almost time John should be seeking a mate, and that he — all things considered — would hardly find a fitter one. And this, John Todhunter — old John no more — heard to his amazement41 when, a day or two subsequently, he instanced the probable disapproval42 of his mother.
The match was arranged. Mrs. Doria did the wooing. It consisted in telling Clare that she had come to years when marriage was desirable, and that she had fallen into habits of moping which might have the worse effect on her future life, as it had on her present health and appearance, and which a husband would cure. Richard was told by Mrs. Doria that Clare had instantaneously consented to accept Mr. John Todhunter as lord of her days, and with more than obedience — with alacrity43. At all events, when Richard spoke to Clare, the strange passive creature did not admit constraint44 on her inclinations45. Mrs. Doria allowed Richard to speak to her. She laughed at his futile46 endeavours to undo47 her work, and the boyish sentiments he uttered on the subject. “Let us see, child,” she said, “let us see which turns out the best; a marriage of passion, or a marriage of common sense.”
Heroic efforts were not wanting to arrest the union. Richard made repeated journeys to Hounslow, where Ralph was quartered, and if Ralph could have been persuaded to carry off a young lady who did not love him, from the bridegroom her mother averred48 she did love, Mrs. Doria might have been defeated. But Ralph in his cavalry49 quarters was cooler than Ralph in the Bursley meadows. “Women are oddities, Dick,” he remarked, running a finger right and left along his upper lip. “Best leave them to their own freaks. She’s a dear girl, though she doesn’t talk: I like her for that. If she cared for me I’d go the race. She never did. It’s no use asking a girl twice. She knows whether she cares a fig5 for a fellow.”
The hero quitted him with some contempt. As Ralph Morton was a young man, and he had determined50 that John Todhunter was an old man, he sought another private interview with Clare, and getting her alone, said: “Clare, I’ve come to you for the last time. Will you marry Ralph Morton?”
To which Clare replied, “I cannot marry two husbands, Richard.”
“Will you refuse to marry this old man?”
“I must do as mama wishes.”
“Then you’re going to marry an old man — a man you don’t love, and can’t love! Oh, good God! do you know what you’re doing?” He flung about in a fury. “Do you know what it is? Clare!” he caught her two hands violently, “have you any idea of the horror you’re going to commit?”
She shrank a little at his vehemence51, but neither blushed nor stammered52: answering: “I see nothing wrong in doing what mama thinks right, Richard.”
“Your mother! I tell you it’s an infamy53, Clare! It’s a miserable54 sin! I tell you, if I had done such a thing I would not live an hour after it. And coldly to prepare for it! to be busy about your dresses! They told me when I came in that you were with the milliner. To be smiling over the horrible outrage18! decorating yourself!” . . .
“Dear Richard,” said Clare, “you will make me very unhappy.”
“That one of my blood should be so debased!” he cried, brushing angrily at his face. “Unhappy! I beg you to feel for yourself, Clare. But I suppose,” and he said it scornfully, “girls don’t feel this sort of shame.”
She grew a trifle paler.
“Next to mama, I would wish to please you, dear Richard.”
“Have you no will of your own?” he exclaimed.
She looked at him softly; a look he interpreted for the meekness55 he detested56 in her.
“No, I believe you have none!” he added. “And what can I do? I can’t step forward and stop this accursed marriage. If you would but say a word I would save you; but you tie my hands. And they expect me to stand by and see it done!”
“Will you not be there, Richard?” said Clare, following the question with her soft eyes. It was the same voice that had so thrilled him on his marriage morn.
“Oh, my darling Clare!” he cried in the kindest way he had ever used to her, “if you knew how I feel this!” and now as he wept she wept, and came insensibly into his arms. “My darling Clare!” he repeated.
She said nothing, but seemed to shudder57, weeping.
“You will do it, Clare? You will be sacrificed? So lovely as you are, too! . . . Clare! you cannot be quite blind. If I dared speak to you, and tell you all. . . . Look up. Can you still consent?”
“I must not disobey mama,” Clare murmured, without looking up from the nest her cheek had made on his bosom58.
“Then kiss me for the last time,” said Richard. “I’ll never kiss you after it, Clare.”
He bent59 his head to meet her mouth, and she threw her arms wildly round him, and kissed him convulsively, and clung to his lips, shutting her eyes, her face suffused60 with a burning red.
Then he left her, unaware61 of the meaning of those passionate62 kisses.
Argument with Mrs. Doria was like firing paper-pellets against a stone wall. To her indeed the young married hero spoke almost indecorously, and that which his delicacy63 withheld64 him from speaking to Clare. He could provoke nothing more responsive from the practical animal than “Pooh-pooh! Tush, tush! and Fiddlededee!”
“Really,” Mrs. Doria said to her intimates, “that boy’s education acts like a disease on him. He cannot regard anything sensibly. He is for ever in some mad excess of his fancy, and what he will come to at last heaven only knows! I sincerely pray that Austin will be able to bear it.”
Threats of prayer, however, that harp66 upon their sincerity67, are not very well worth having. Mrs. Doria had embarked68 in a practical controversy69, as it were, with her brother. Doubtless she did trust he would be able to bear his sorrows to come, but one who has uttered prophecy can barely help hoping to see it fulfilled: she had prophesied70 much grief to the baronet.
Poor John Todhunter, who would rather have married the mother, and had none of your heroic notions about the sacred necessity for love in marriage, moved as one guiltless of offence, and deserving his happiness. Mrs. Doria shielded him from the hero. To see him smile at Clare’s obedient figure, and try not to look paternal71, was touching72.
Meantime Clare’s marriage served one purpose. It completely occupied Richard’s mind, and prevented him from chafing73 at the vexation of not finding his father ready to meet him when he came to town. A letter had awaited Adrian at the hotel, which said, “Detain him till you hear further from me. Take him about with you into every form of society.” No more than that. Adrian had to extemporize74, that the baronet had gone down to Wales on pressing business, and would be back in a week or so. For ulterior inventions and devices wherewith to keep the young gentleman in town, he applied75 to Mrs. Doria. “Leave him to me,” said Mrs. Doria, “I’ll manage him.” And she did.
“Who can say,” asks THE PILGRIM’S SCRIP, “when he is not walking a puppet to some woman?”
Mrs. Doria would hear no good of Lucy. “I believe,” she observed, as Adrian ventured a shrugging protest in her behalf — “it is my firm opinion, that a scullery-maid would turn any of you men round her little finger — only give her time and opportunity.” By dwelling76 on the arts of women, she reconciled it to her conscience to do her best to divide the young husband from his wife till it pleased his father they should live their unhallowed union again. Without compunction, or a sense of incongruity77, she abused her brother and assisted the fulfilment of his behests.
So the puppets were marshalled by Mrs. Doria, happy, or sad, or indifferent. Quite against his set resolve and the tide of his feelings, Richard found himself standing78 behind Clare in the church — the very edifice79 that had witnessed his own marriage, and heard, “I, Clare Doria, take thee John Pemberton,” clearly pronounced. He stood, with black brows dissecting80 the arts of the tailor and hairdresser on unconscious John. The back, and much of the middle, of Mr. Todhunter’s head was bald; the back shone like an egg-shell, but across the middle the artist had drawn81 two long dabs82 of hair from the sides, and plastered them cunningly, so that all save wilful83 eyes would have acknowledged the head to be covered. The man’s only pretension84 was to a respectable juvenility85. He had a good chest, stout86 limbs, a face inclined to be jolly. Mrs. Doria had no cause to be put out of countenance87 at all by the exterior88 of her son-inlaw: nor was she. Her splendid hair and gratified smile made a light in the church. Playing puppets must be an immense pleasure to the practical animal. The Forey bridesmaids, five in number, and one Miss Doria, their cousin, stood as girls do stand at these sacrifices, whether happy, sad, or indifferent; a smile on their lips and tears in attendance. Old Mrs. Todhunter, an exceedingly small ancient woman, was also there. “I can’t have my boy John married without seeing it done,” she said, and throughout the ceremony she was muttering audible encomiums on her John’s manly89 behaviour.
The ring was affixed90 to Clare’s finger; there was no ring lost in this common-sense marriage. The instant the clergyman bade him employ it, John drew the ring out, and dropped it on the finger of the cold passive hand in a business-like way, as one who had studied the matter. Mrs. Doria glanced aside at Richard. Richard observed Clare spread out her fingers that the operation might be the more easily effected.
He did duty in the vestry a few minutes, and then said to his aunt:
“Now I’ll go.”
“You’ll come to the breakfast, child? The Foreys”——
He cut her short. “I’ve stood for the family, and I’ll do no more. I won’t pretend to eat and make merry over it.”
“Richard!”
“Good-bye.”
She had attained91 her object and she wisely gave way.
“Well. Go and kiss Clare, and shake his hand. Pray, pray be civil.”
She turned to Adrian, and said: “He is going. You must go with him, and find some means of keeping him, or he’ll be running off to that woman. Now, no words — go!”
Richard bade Clare farewell. She put up her mouth to him humbly92, but he kissed her on the forehead.
“Do not cease to love me,” she said in a quavering whisper in his ear.
Mr. Todhunter stood beaming and endangering the art of the hairdresser with his pocket-handkerchief. Now he positively93 was married, he thought he would rather have the daughter than the mother, which is a reverse of the order of human thankfulness at a gift of the Gods.
“Richard, my boy!” he said heartily94, “congratulate me.”
“I should be happy to, if I could,” sedately95 replied the hero, to the consternation96 of those around. Nodding to the bridesmaids and bowing to the old lady, he passed out.
Adrian, who had been behind him, deputed to watch for a possible unpleasantness, just hinted to John: “You know, poor fellow, he has got into a mess with his marriage.”
“Oh! ah! yes!” kindly said John, “poor fellow!”
All the puppets then rolled off to the breakfast.
Adrian hurried after Richard in an extremely discontented state of mind. Not to be at the breakfast and see the best of the fun, disgusted him. However, he remembered that he was a philosopher, and the strong disgust he felt was only expressed in concentrated cynicism on every earthly matter engendered97 by the conversation. They walked side by side into Kensington Gardens. The hero was mouthing away to himself, talking by fits.
Presently he faced Adrian, crying: “And I might have stopped it! I see it now! I might have stopped it by going straight to him, and asking him if he dared marry a girl who did not love him. And I never thought of it. Good heavens! I feel this miserable affair on my conscience.”
“Ah!” groaned98 Adrian. “An unpleasant cargo99 for the conscience, that! I would rather carry anything on mine than a married couple. Do you purpose going to him now?”
The hero soliloquized: “He’s not a bad sort of man.” . . .
“Well, he’s not a Cavalier,” said Adrian, “and that’s why you wonder your aunt selected him, no doubt? He’s decidedly of the Roundhead type, with the Puritan extracted, or inoffensive, if latent.”
“There’s the double infamy!” cried Richard, “that a man you can’t call bad, should do this damned thing!”
“Well, it’s hard we can’t find a villain100.”
“He would have listened to me, I’m sure.”
“Go to him now, Richard, my son. Go to him now. It’s not yet too late. Who knows? If he really has a noble elevated superior mind — though not a Cavalier in person, he may be one at heart — he might, to please you, and since you put such stress upon it, abstain101 . . . perhaps with some loss of dignity, but never mind. And the request might be singular, or seem so, but everything has happened before in this world, you know, my dear boy. And what an infinite consolation102 it is for the eccentric, that reflection!”
The hero was impervious103 to the wise youth. He stared at him as if he were but a speck104 in the universe he visioned.
It was provoking that Richard should be Adrian’s best subject for cynical105 pastime, in the extraordinary heterodoxies he started, and his worst in the way he took it; and the wise youth, against his will, had to feel as conscious of the young man’s imaginative mental armour106, as he was of his muscular physical.
“The same sort of day!” mused107 Richard, looking up. “I suppose my father’s right. We make our own fates, and nature has nothing to do with it.”
Adrian yawned.
“Some difference in the trees, though,” Richard continued abstractedly.
“Growing bald at the top,” said Adrian.
“Will you believe that my aunt Helen compared the conduct of that wretched slave Clare to Lucy’s, who, she had the cruel insolence108 to say, entangled109 me into marriage?” the hero broke out loudly and rapidly. “You know — I told you, Adrian — how I had to threaten and insist, and how she pleaded, and implored110 me to wait.”
“Ah! hum!” mumbled111 Adrian.
“You remember my telling you?” Richard was earnest to hear her exonerated112.
“Pleaded and implored, my dear boy? Oh, no doubt she did. Where’s the lass that doesn’t.”
“Call my wife by another name, if you please.”
“The generic113 title can’t be cancelled because of your having married one of the body, my son.”
“She did all she could to persuade me to wait!” emphasized Richard.
Adrian shook his head with a deplorable smile.
“Come, come, my good Ricky; not all! not all!”
Richard bellowed114: “What more could she have done?”
“She could have shaved her head, for instance.”
This happy shaft115 did stick. With a furious exclamation116 Richard shot in front, Adrian following him; and asking him (merely to have his assumption verified), whether he did not think she might have shaved her head? and, presuming her to have done so, whether, in candour, he did not think he would have waited — at least till she looked less of a rank lunatic?
After a minute or so, the wise youth was but a fly buzzing about Richard’s head. Three weeks of separation from Lucy, and an excitement deceased, caused him to have soft yearnings for the dear lovely home-face. He told Adrian it was his intention to go down that night. Adrian immediately became serious. He was at a loss what to invent to detain him, beyond the stale fiction that his father was coming tomorrow. He rendered homage117 to the genius of woman in these straits. “My aunt,” he thought, “would have the lie ready; and not only that, but she would take care it did its work.”
At this juncture118 the voice of a cavalier in the Row hailed them, proving to be the Honourable119 Peter Brayder, Lord Mountfalcon’s parasite120. He greeted them very cordially; and Richard, remembering some fun they had in the Island, asked him to dine with them; postponing121 his return till the next day. Lucy was his. It was even sweet to dally122 with the delight of seeing her.
The Hon. Peter was one who did honour to the body he belonged to. Though not so tall as a West of London footman, he was as shapely; and he had a power of making his voice insinuating123, or arrogant124, as it suited the exigencies125 of his profession. He had not a rap of money in the world; yet he rode a horse, lived high, expended126 largely. The world said that the Hon. Peter was salaried by his Lordship, and that, in common with that of Parasite, he exercised the ancient companion profession. This the world said, and still smiled at the Hon. Peter; for he was an engaging fellow, and where he went not Lord Mountfalcon would not go.
They had a quiet little hotel dinner, ordered by Adrian, and made a square at the table, Ripton Thompson being the fourth. Richard sent down to his office to fetch him, and the two friends shook hands for the first time since the great deed had been executed. Deep was the Old Dog’s delight to hear the praises of his Beauty sounded by such aristocratic lips as the Hon. Peter Brayder’s. All through the dinner he was throwing out hints and small queries127 to get a fuller account of her; and when the claret had circulated, he spoke a word or two himself, and heard the Hon. Peter eulogize his taste, and wish him a bride as beautiful; at which Ripton blushed, and said, he had no hope of that, and the Hon. Peter assured him marriage did not break the mould.
After the wine this gentleman took his cigar on the balcony, and found occasion to get some conversation with Adrian alone.
“Our young friend here — made it all right with the governor?” he asked carelessly.
“Oh yes!” said Adrian. But it struck him that Brayder might be of assistance in showing Richard a little of the “society in every form,” required by his chief’s prescript. “That is,” he continued, “we are not yet permitted an interview with the august author of our being, and I have rather a difficult post. ’Tis mine both to keep him here, and also to find him the opportunity to measure himself with his fellow-man. In other words, his father wants him to see something of life before he enters upon housekeeping. Now I am proud to confess that I’m hardly equal to the task. The demi, or damnedmonde — if it’s that he wants him to observe — is one that I have not got the walk to.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Brayder. “You do the keeping, I offer to parade the demi. I must say, though, it’s a queer notion of the old gentleman.”
“It’s the continuation of a philosophic128 plan,” said Adrian.
Brayder followed the curvings of the whiff of his cigar with his eyes, and ejaculated, “Infernally philosophic!”
“Has Lord Mountfalcon left the island?” Adrian inquired.
“Mount? to tell the truth I don’t know where he is. Chasing some light craft, I suppose. That’s poor Mount’s weakness. It’s his ruin, poor fellow! He’s so confoundedly in earnest at the game.”
“He ought to know it by this time, if fame speaks true,” remarked Adrian.
“He’s a baby about women, and always will be,” said Brayder. “He’s been once or twice wanting to marry them. Now there’s a woman — you’ve heard of Mrs. Mount? All the world knows her. — If that woman hadn’t scandalized.”— The young man joined them, and checked the communication. Brayder winked129 to Adrian, and pitifully indicated the presence of an innocent.
“A married man, you know,” said Adrian.
“Yes, yes! — we won’t shock him,” Brayder observed. He appeared to study the young man while they talked.
Next morning Richard was surprised by a visit from his aunt. Mrs. Doria took a seat by his side, and spoke as follows:
“My dear nephew. Now you know I have always loved you, and thought of your welfare as if you had been my own child. More than that, I fear. Well, now, you are thinking of returning to — to that place — are you not? Yes. It is as I thought. Very well now, let me speak to you. You are in a much more dangerous position than you imagine. I don’t deny your father’s affection for you. It would be absurd to deny it. But you are of an age now to appreciate his character. Whatever you may do he will always give you money. That you are sure of; that you know. Very well. But you are one to want more than money: you want his love. Richard, I am convinced you will never be happy, whatever base pleasures you may be led into, if he should withhold130 his love from you. Now, child, you know you have grievously offended him. I wish not to animadvert on your conduct. — You fancied yourself in love, and so on, and you were rash. The less said of it the better now. But you must now — it is your duty now to do something — to do everything that lies in your power to show him you repent131. No interruptions! Listen to me. You must consider him. Austin is not like other men. Austin requires the most delicate management. You must — whether you feel it or no — present an appearance of contrition132. I counsel it for the good of all. He is just like a woman, and where his feelings are offended he wants utter subservience133. He has you in town, and he does not see you:— now you know that he and I are not in communication: we have likewise our differences:— Well, he has you in town, and he holds aloof:— he is trying you, my dear Richard. No: he is not at Raynham: I do not know where he is. He is trying you, child, and you must be patient. You must convince him that you do not care utterly134 for your own gratification. If this person — I wish to speak of her with respect, for your sake — well, if she loves you at all— if, I say, she loves you one atom, she will repeat my solicitations for you to stay and patiently wait here till he consents to see you. I tell you candidly135, it’s your only chance of ever getting him to receive her. That you should know. And now, Richard, I may add that there is something else you should know. You should know that it depends entirely136 upon your conduct now, whether you are to see your father’s heart for ever divided from you, and a new family at Raynham. You do not understand? I will explain. Brothers and sisters are excellent things for young people, but a new brood of them can hardly be acceptable to a young man. In fact, they are, and must be, aliens. I only tell you what I have heard on good authority. Don’t you understand now? Foolish boy! if you do not humour him, he will marry her. Oh! I am sure of it. I know it. And this you will drive him to. I do not warn you on the score of your prospects137, but of your feelings. I should regard such a contingency138, Richard, as a final division between you. Think of the scandal! but alas, that is the least of the evils.”
It was Mrs. Doria’s object to produce an impression, and avoid an argument. She therefore left him as soon as she had, as she supposed, made her mark on the young man. Richard was very silent during the speech, and save for an exclamation or so, had listened attentively139. He pondered on what his aunt said. He loved Lady Blandish, and yet he did not wish to see her Lady Feverel. Mrs. Doria laid painful stress on the scandal, and though he did not give his mind to this, he thought of it. He thought of his mother. Where was she? But most his thoughts recurred140 to his father, and something akin65 to jealousy slowly awakened141 his heart to him. He had given him up, and had not latterly felt extremely filial; but he could not bear the idea of a division in the love of which he had ever been the idol142 and sole object. And such a man, too! so good! so generous! If it was jealousy that roused the young man’s heart to his father, the better part of love was also revived in it. He thought of old days: of his father’s forbearance, his own wilfulness143. He looked on himself, and what he had done, with the eyes of such a man. He determined to do all he could to regain144 his favour.
Mrs. Doria learnt from Adrian in the evening that her nephew intended waiting in town another week.
“That will do,” smiled Mrs. Doria. “He will be more patient at the end of a week.”
“Oh! does patience beget145 patience?” said Adrian. “I was not aware it was a propagating virtue146. I surrender him to you. I shan’t be able to hold him in after one week more. I assure you, my dear aunt, he’s already”. . . .
“Thank you, no explanation,” Mrs. Doria begged.
When Richard saw her next, he was informed that she had received a most satisfactory letter from Mrs. John Todhunter: quite a glowing account of John’s behaviour: but on Richard’s desiring to know the words Clare had written, Mrs. Doria objected to be explicit147, and shot into worldly gossip.
“Clare seldom glows,” said Richard.
“No, I mean for her,” his aunt remarked. “Don’t look like your father, child.”
“I should like to have seen the letter,” said Richard.
Mrs. Doria did not propose to show it.
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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expeditiously
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| adv.迅速地，敏捷地 | |
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connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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fig
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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impromptu
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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14
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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15
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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16
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
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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18
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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19
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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20
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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22
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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23
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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24
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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25
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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26
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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27
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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28
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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29
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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30
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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31
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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32
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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33
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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34
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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35
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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36
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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37
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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38
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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39
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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40
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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41
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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42
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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43
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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44
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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45
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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46
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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47
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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48
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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49
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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50
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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51
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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52
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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54
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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55
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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56
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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58
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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59
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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60
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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62
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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63
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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64
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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65
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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66
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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67
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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68
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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69
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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70
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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72
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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73
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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74
extemporize
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| v.即席演说，即兴演奏，当场作成 | |
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75
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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76
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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77
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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78
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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79
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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80
dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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81
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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82
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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83
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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84
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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85
juvenility
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| n.年轻，不成熟 | |
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87
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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89
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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90
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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91
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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92
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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93
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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94
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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95
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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96
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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97
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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99
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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100
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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101
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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102
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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103
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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104
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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105
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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106
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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107
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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108
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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109
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
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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113
generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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114
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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115
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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116
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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117
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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118
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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119
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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120
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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121
postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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122
dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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123
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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124
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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125
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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126
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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127
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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128
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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129
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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130
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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131
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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132
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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133
subservience
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| n.有利，有益；从属（地位），附属性；屈从，恭顺；媚态 | |
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134
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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135
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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136
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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137
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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138
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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139
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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140
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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141
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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142
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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143
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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144
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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145
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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146
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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147
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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