On some occasions the two girls and Miss Müller were of the party, and then it seemed to John Hammond as if nothing were needed to complete the glory of earth and sky. There were other days — rougher journeys — when the men went alone, and there were days when Lady Mary stole away from her books and music, and all those studies which she was supposed still to be pursuing — no longer closely supervised by her governess, but on parole, as it were — and went with her brother and his friend across the hills and far away. Those were happy days for Mary, for it was always delight to her to be with Maulevrier; yet she had a profound conviction of John Hammond’s indifference8, kind and courteous9 as he was in all his dealings with her, and a sense of her own inferiority, of her own humble10 charms and little power to please, which was so acute as to be almost pain. One day this keen sense of humiliation11 broke from her unawares in her talk with her brother, as they two sat on a broad heathy slope face to face with one of the Langdale pikes, and with a deep valley at their feet, while John Hammond was climbing from rock to rock in the gorge12 on their right, exploring the beauties of Dungeon13 Ghyll.
‘I wonder whether he thinks me very ugly?’ said Mary, with her hands clasped upon her knees, her eyes fixed14 on Wetherlam, upon whose steep brow a craggy mass of brown rock clothed with crimson15 heather stood out from the velvety16 green of the hill-side.
‘Who thinks you ugly?’
‘Mr. Hammond. I’m sure he does. I am so sunburnt and so horrid17!’
‘But you are not ugly. Why, Molly, what are you dreaming about?’
‘Oh, yes, I am ugly. I may not seem so to you, perhaps, because you are used to me, but I know he must think me very plain compared with Lesbia, whom he admires so much.’
‘Yes, he admires Lesbia. There is no doubt of that.’
‘And I know he thinks me plain,’ said Molly, contemplating18 Wetherlam with sorrowful eyes, as if the sequence were inevitable19.
‘My dearest girl, what nonsense! Plain, forsooth? Ugly, quotha? Why, there are not a finer pair of eyes in Westmoreland than my Molly’s, or a prettier smile, or whiter teeth.’
‘But all the rest is horrid,’ said Mary, intensely in earnest. ‘I am sunburnt, freckled20, and altogether odious21 — like a haymaker or a market woman. Grandmother has said so often enough, and I know it is the truth. I can see it in Mr. Hammond’s manner.’
‘What! freckles22 and sunburn, and the haymaker, and all that?’ cried Maulevrier, laughing. ‘What an expressive23 manner Jack24’s must be, if it can convey all that — like Lord Burleigh’s nod, by Jove. Why, what a goose you are, Mary. Jack thinks you a very nice girl, and a very pretty girl, I’ll be bound; but aren’t you clever enough to understand that when a man is over head and ears in love with one woman, he is apt to seem just a little indifferent to all the other women in the world? and there is no doubt Jack is desperately25 in love with Lesbia.’
‘You ought not to let him be in love with her,’ protested Mary. ‘You know it can only lead to his unhappiness. You must know what grandmother is, and how she has made up her mind that Lesbia is to marry some great person. You ought not to have brought Mr. Hammond here. It is like letting him into a trap.’
‘Do you think it was wrong?’ asked her brother, smiling at her earnestness. ‘I should be very sorry if poor Jack should come to grief. But still, if Lesbia likes him — which I think she does — we ought to be able to talk over the dowager.’
‘Never,’ cried Mary. ‘Grandmother would never give way. You have no idea how ambitious she is. Why, once when Lesbia was in a poetical27 mood, and said she would marry the man she liked best in the world, if he were a pauper28, her ladyship flew into a terrible passion, and told her she would renounce29 her, that she would curse her, if she were to marry beneath her, or marry without her grandmother’s consent.’
‘Hard lines for Hammond,’ said Maulevrier, rather lightly. ‘Then I suppose we must give up the idea of a match between him and Lesbia.’
‘You ought not to have brought him here,’ retorted Mary. ‘You had better invent some plan for sending him away. If he stay it will be only to break his heart.’
‘Dear child, men’s hearts do not break so easily. I have fancied that mine was broken more than once in my life, yet it is sound enough, I assure you.’
‘Oh!’ sighed Mary, ‘but you are not like him; wounds do not go so deep with you.’
The subject of their conversation came out of the rocky cleft30 in the hills as Mary spoke31. She saw his hat appearing out of the gorge, and then the man himself emerged, a tall well-built figure, clad in brown tweed, coming towards them, with sketch-book and colour-box in his pocket. He had been making what he called memoranda32 of the waterfall, a stone or two here, a cluster of ferns there, or a tree torn up by the roots, and yet green and living, hanging across the torrent33, a rude natural bridge.
This round by the Langdale Pikes and Dungeon Ghyll was one of their best days; or, at least, Molly and her brother thought so; for to those two the presence of Lesbia and her chaperon was always a restraint.
Mary could walk twice as far as her elder sister, and revelled in hill-side paths and all manner of rough places. They ordered their luncheon34 at the inn below the waterfall, and had it carried up on to the furzy slope in front of Wetherlam, where they could eat and drink and be merry to the music of the force as it came down from the hills behind them, while the lights and shadows came and went upon yonder rugged35 brow, now gray in the shadow, now ruddy in the sunshine.
Mary was as gay as a bird during that rough and ready luncheon. No one would have suspected her uneasiness about John Hammond’s peril or her own plainness. She might let her real self appear to her brother, who had been her trusted friend and father confessor from her babyhood; but she was too thorough a woman to let Mr. Hammond discover the depth of her sympathy, the tenderness of her compassion36 for his woes37. Later, as they were walking home across the hills, by Great Langdale and Little Langdale, and Fox Howe and Loughrigg Fell, she fell behind a few paces with Maulevrier, and said to him very earnestly —
‘You won’t tell, will you, dear?’
‘Tell what?’ he asked, staring at her.
‘Don’t tell Mr. Hammond what I said about his thinking me ugly. He might want to apologise to me, and that would be too humiliating. I was very childish to say such a silly thing.’
‘Undoubtedly you were.’
‘And you won’t tell him?’
‘Tell him anything that would degrade my Mary? Assail38 her dignity by so much as a breath? Sooner would I have this tongue torn out with red-hot pincers.’
On the next day, and the next, sunshine and summer skies still prevailed; but Mr. Hammond did not seem to care for rambling39 far afield. He preferred loitering about in the village, rowing on the lake, reading in the garden, and playing lawn tennis. He had only inclination40 for those amusements which kept him within a stone’s throw of Fellside: and Mary knew that this disposition41 had arisen in his mind since Lesbia had withdrawn42 herself from all share in their excursions. Lesbia had not been rude to her brother or her brother’s friend; she had declined their invitations with smiles and sweetness; but there was always some reason — a new song to be practised, a new book to be read, a letter to be written — why she should not go for drives or walks or steamboat trips with Maulevrier and his friend.
So Mr. Hammond suddenly found out that he had seen all that was worth seeing in the Lake country, and that there was nothing so enjoyable as the placid43 idleness of Fellside; and at Fellside Lady Lesbia could not always avoid him without a too-marked intention, so he tasted the sweetness of her society to a much greater extent than was good for his peace, if the case were indeed as hopeless as Lady Mary declared. He strolled about the grounds with her; he drank the sweet melody of her voice in Heine’s tenderest ballads44; he read to her on the sunlit lawn in the lazy afternoon hours; he played billiards45 with her; he was her faithful attendant at afternoon tea; he gave himself up to the study of her character, which, to his charmed eyes, seemed the perfection of pure and placid womanhood. There might, perhaps, be some lack of passion and of force in this nature, a marked absence of that impulsive46 feeling which is a charm in some women: but this want was atoned47 for by sweetness of character, and Mr. Hammond argued that in these calm natures there is often an unsuspected depth, a latent force, a grandeur48 of soul, which only reveals itself in the great ordeals49 of life.
So John Hammond hung about the luxurious50 drawing-room at Fellside in a manner which his friend Maulevrier ridiculed51 as unmanly.
‘I had no idea you were such a tame cat,’ he said: ‘if when we were salmon52 fishing in Canada anybody had told me you could loll about a drawing-room all day listening to a girl squalling and reading novels, I shouldn’t have believed a word of it.’
‘We had plenty of roughing on the shores of the St. Lawrence,’ answered Hammond. ‘Summer idleness in a drawing-room is an agreeable variety.’
It is not to be supposed that John Hammond’s state of mind could long remain unperceived by the keen eyes of the dowager. She saw the gradual dawning of his love, she saw the glow of its meridian53. She was pleased to behold54 this proof of Lesbia’s power over the heart of man. So would she conquer the man foredoomed to be her husband when the coming time should bring them together. But agreeable as the fact of this first conquest might be, as an evidence of Lesbia’s supremacy56 among women, the situation was not without its peril; and Lady Maulevrier felt that she could no longer defer57 the duty of warning her granddaughter. She had wished, if possible, to treat the thing lightly to the very last, so that Lesbia should never know there had been danger. She had told her, a few days ago, that those drives, and walks with the two young men were undignified, even although guarded by the Fr?ulein’s substantial presence.
‘You are making yourself too much a companion to Maulevrier and his friend,’ said the dowager. ‘If you do not take care you will grow like Mary.’
‘I would do anything in the world to avoid that,’ replied Lesbia. ‘Our walks and drives have been very pleasant. Mr. Hammond is extremely clever, and can talk about everything.’
Her colour heightened ever so little as she spoke of him, an indication duly observed by Lady Maulevrier.
‘No doubt the man is clever; all adventurers are clever; and you have sense enough to see that this man is an adventurer — a mere3 sponge and toady58 of Maulevrier’s.’
‘There is nothing of the sponge or the toady in his manner,’ protested Lady Lesbia, with a still deeper blush, the warm glow of angry feeling.
‘My dear child, what do you know of such people — or of the atmosphere in which they are generated? The sponge and toady of to-day is not the clumsy fawning59 wretch60 you have read about in old-fashioned novels. He can flatter adroitly61, and feed upon his friends, and yet maintain a show of manhood and independence. I’ll wager26 Mr. Hammond’s trip to Canada did not cost him sixpence, and that he hardly opened his purse all the time he was in Germany.’
‘If my brother wants the company of a friend who is much poorer than himself, he must pay for it,’ argued Lesbia. ‘I think Maulevrier is lucky to have such a companion as Mr. Hammond.’
Yet, even while she so argued, Lady Lesbia felt in some manner humiliated63 by the idea that this man who so palpably worshipped her was too poor to pay his own travelling expenses.
Poets and philosophers may say what they will about the grandeur of plain living and high thinking; but a young woman thinks better of the plain liver who is not compelled to plainness by want of cash. The idea of narrow means, of dependence62 upon the capricious generosity64 of a wealthy friend is not without its humiliating influence. Lesbia was barely civil to Mr. Hammond that evening when he praised her singing; and she refused to join in a four game proposed by Maulevrier, albeit65 she and Mr. Hammond had beaten Mary and Maulevrier the evening before, with much exultant66 hilarity67.
Hammond had been at Fellside nearly a month, and Maulevrier was beginning to talk about a move further northward68. There was a grouse69 moor70 in Argyleshire which the two young men talked about as belonging to some unnamed friend of the Earl’s, which they had thought of shooting over before the grouse season was ended.
‘Lord Hartfield has property in Argyleshire,’ said the dowager, when they talked of these shootings. ‘Do you know his estate, Mr. Hammond?’
‘Hammond knows that there is such a place, I daresay,’ replied Maulevrier, replying for his friend.
‘But you do not know Lord Hartfield, perhaps,’ said her ladyship, not arrogantly71, but still in a tone which implied her conviction that John Hammond would not be hand-in-glove with earls, in Scotland or elsewhere.
‘Oh, yes! I know him by sight every one in Argyleshire knows him by sight.’
‘Naturally. A young man in his position must be widely known. Is he popular?’
‘Fairly so.’
‘His father and I were friends many years ago,’ said Lady Maulevrier, with a faint sigh. ‘Have you ever heard if he resembles his father?’
‘I believe not. I am told he is like his mother’s family.’
‘Then he ought to be handsome. Lady Florence Ilmington was a famous beauty.’
They were sitting in the drawing-room after dinner, the room dimly lighted by darkly-shaded lamps, the windows wide open to the summer sky and moonlit lake. In that subdued72 light Lady Maulevrier looked a woman in the prime of life. The classical modelling of her features and the delicacy73 of her complexion74 were unimpaired by time, while those traces of thought and care which gave age to her face in the broad light of day were invisible at night. John Hammond contemplated75 that refined and placid countenance76 with profound admiration77. He remembered how her ladyship’s grandson had compared her with the Sphinx; and it seemed to him to-night, as be studied her proud and tranquil78 beauty, that there was indeed something of the mysterious, the unreadable in that countenance, and that beneath its heroic calm there might be the ashes of tragic79 passion, the traces of a life-long struggle with fate. That such a woman, so beautiful, so gifted, so well fitted to shine and govern in the great world, should have been content to live a long life of absolute seclusion80 in this remote valley was in itself a social mystery which must needs set an observant young man wondering. It was all very well to say that Lady Maulevrier loved a country life, that she had made Fellside her earthly Paradise, and had no desire beyond it. The fact remained that it was not in Lady Maulevrier’s temperament81 to be satisfied with such an existence; that falcon82 eye was never meant to gaze for ever upon one narrow range of mountain and lake; that lip was made to speak among the great ones of the world.
Lady Maulevrier was particularly gracious to her grandson’s friend this evening. Maulevrier spoke so decisively about a speedy migration83 northward, seemed so inclined to regret the time wasted since the twelfth of the month, that she thought the danger was past, and she could afford to be civil. She really liked the young man, had no doubt in her own mind that he was a gentleman in the highest and broadest sense of the word, but not in the sense which made him an eligible84 husband for either of her granddaughters.
Lesbia was in a pensive85 mood this evening. She sat in the verandah, looking dreamily at the lake, and at Fairfield yonder, a broad green slope, silvered with moonlight, and seeming to stretch far away into unfathomable distance.
If one could but take one’s lover by the hand and go wandering over those mystic moonlit slopes into some new unreal world where it would not matter whether a man were rich or poor, high-born or low-born, where there should be no such things as rank and state to be won or lost! Lesbia felt to-night as if she would like to live out her life in dreamland. Reality was too hard, too much set round by difficulties and sacrifices.
While Lesbia was losing herself in that dream-world, Lady Maulevrier unbent considerably86 to John Hammond, and talked to him with more appearance of interest in his actual self, and in his own affairs, than she had manifested hitherto although she had been uniformly courteous.
She asked him his plans for the future — had he chosen a profession?
He told her that he had not. He meant to devote himself to literature and politics.
‘Is not that rather vague?’ inquired her ladyship.
‘Everything is vague at first.’
‘But literature now — as an amusement, no doubt, it is delightful87 — but as a profession — does literature ever pay?’
‘There have been such cases.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Walter Scott, Gibbon, Macaulay, Froude, those made money no doubt. But there is a suspicion of hopelessness in the idea of a young man starting in life intending to earn his bread by literature. One remembers Chatterton. I should have thought that in your case the law or the church would have been better. In the latter Maulevrier might have been useful to you. He is patron of three or four livings.’
‘You are too good even to think of such a thing,’ said Hammond; ‘but I have set my heart upon a political career. I must swim or sink in that sea.’
Lady Maulevrier looked at him with a compassionate88 smile Poor young man! No doubt he thought himself a genius, and that doors which had remained shut to everybody else would turn on their hinges directly he knocked at them. She was sincerely sorry for him. Young, clever, enthusiastic, and doomed55 to bitterest disappointment.
‘You have parents, perhaps, who are ambitious for you — a mother who thinks her son a heaven-born statesman!’ said her ladyship, kindly89.
‘Alas, no! that incentive90 to ambition is wanting in my case. I have neither father nor mother living.’
‘That is very sad. No doubt that fact has been a bond of sympathy between you and Maulevrier?’
‘I believe it has.’
‘Well, I hope Providence91 will smile upon your path.’
‘Come what may, I shall never forget the happy weeks I have spent at Fellside,’ said Hammond, ‘or your ladyship’s gracious hospitality.’
He took up the beautiful hand, white to transparency, showing the delicate tracing of blue veins92, and pressed his lips upon it in chivalrous93 worship of age and womanly dignity.
Lady Maulevrier smiled upon him with her calm, grave smile. She would have liked to say, ‘You shall be welcome again at Fellside,’ but she felt that the man was dangerous. Not while Lesbia remained single could she court his company. If Maulevrier brought him she must tolerate his presence, but she would do nothing to invite that danger.
There was no music that evening. Maulevrier and Mary were playing billiards; Fr?ulein Müller was sitting in her corner working at a high-art counterpane. Lesbia came in from the verandah presently, and sat on a low stool by her grandmother’s arm-chair, and talked to her in soft, cooing accents, inaudible to John Hammond, who sat a little way off turning the leaves of the Contemporary Review: and this went on till eleven o’clock, the regular hour for retiring, when Mary came in from the billiard-room, and told Mr. Hammond that Maulevrier was waiting for a smoke and a talk. Then candles were lighted, and the ladies all departed, leaving John Hammond and his friend with the house to themselves.
They played a fifty game, and smoked and talked till the stroke of midnight, by which time it seemed as if there were not another creature awake in the house. Maulevrier put out the lamps in the billiard-room, and then they went softly up the shadowy staircase, and parted in the gallery, the Earl going one way, and his friend the other.
The house was large and roomy, spread over a good deal of ground, Lady Maulevrier having insisted upon there being only two stories. The servants’ rooms were all in a side wing, corresponding with those older buildings which had been given over to Steadman and his wife, and among the villagers of Grasmere enjoyed the reputation of being haunted. A wide panelled corridor extended from one end of the house to the other. It was lighted from the roof, and served as a gallery for the display of a small and choice collection of modern art, which her ladyship had acquired during her long residence at Fellside. Here, too, in Sheraton cabinets, were those treasures of old English china which Lady Maulevrier had inherited from past generations.
Her ladyship’s rooms were situated94 at the southern end of this corridor, her bed-chamber being at the extreme end of the house, with windows commanding two magnificent views, one across the lake and the village of Grasmere to the green slopes of Fairfield, the other along the valley towards Rydal Water. This and the adjoining boudoir were the prettiest rooms in the house, and no one wondered that her ladyship should spend so much of her life in the luxurious seclusion of her own apartments.
John Hammond went to his room, which was on the same side of the house as her ladyship’s; but he was in no disposition for sleep. He opened the casement95, and stood looking out upon the moonlit lake and the quiet village, where one solitary96 light shone like a faint star in a cottage window, amidst that little cluster of houses by the old church, once known as Kirktown. Beyond the village rose gentle slopes, crowned with foliage97, and above those wooded crests98 appeared the grand outline of the hills, surrounding and guarding Easedale’s lovely valley, as the hills surrounded Jerusalem of old.
He looked at that delicious landscape with eyes that hardly saw its beauty. The image of a lovely face came between him and all the glory of earth and sky.
‘I think she likes me,’ he was saying to himself. ‘There was a look in her eyes to-night that told me the time was come when ——’
The thought died unfinished in his brain. Through the silent house, across the placid lake, there rang a wild, shrill99 cry that froze the blood in his veins, or seemed so to freeze it — a shriek100 of agony, and in a woman’s voice. It rang out from an open window near his own. The sound seemed close to his ear.
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1
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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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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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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cleft
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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42
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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ordeals
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| n.严峻的考验，苦难的经历( ordeal的名词复数 ) | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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toady
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| v.奉承；n.谄媚者，马屁精 | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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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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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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migration
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| n.迁移，移居，（鸟类等的）迁徙 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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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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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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100
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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