Indeed, although he never flattered or even praised her, Mr. Hammond let her see that he liked her society. She had gone out of her way to avoid him, very fearful lest he should think her bold or masculine; but he had taken pains to frustrate4 all her efforts in that direction; he had refused to go upon excursions which she could not share. ‘Lady Mary must come with us,’ he said, when they were planning a morning’s ramble5. Thus it happened that Mary was his guide and companion in all his walks, and roamed with him bamboo in hand, over every one of those mountainous paths she knew and loved so well. Distance was as nothing to them — sometimes a boat helped them, and they went over wintry Windermere to climb the picturesque6 heights above Bowness. Sometimes they took ponies7, and a groom8, and left their steeds to perform the wilder part of the way on foot. In this wise John Hammond saw all that was to be seen within a day’s journey of Grasmere, except the top of Helvellyn. Maulevrier had shirked the expedition, had always put off Mary and Mr. Hammond when they proposed it. The season was not advanced enough — the rugged9 pathway by the Tongue Ghyll would be as slippery as glass — no pony10 could get up there in such weather.
‘We have not had any frost to speak of for the last fortnight,’ pleaded Mary, who was particularly anxious to do the honours of Helvellyn, as the real lion of the neighbourhood.
‘What a simpleton you are, Molly!’ cried Maulevrier. ‘Do you suppose because there is no frost in your grandmother’s garden — and if you were to ask Staples11 about his peaches he would tell you a very different story — that there’s a tropical atmosphere on Dolly Waggon12 Pike? Why, I’d wager13 the ice on Grisdale Tarn14 is thick enough for skating. Helvellyn won’t run away, child. You and Hammond can dance the Highland15 Schottische on Striding Edge in June, if you like.’
‘Mr. Hammond won’t be here in June,’ said Mary.
‘Who knows? — the train service is pretty fair between London and Windermere. Hammond and I would think nothing of putting ourselves in the mail on a Friday night, and coming down to spend Saturday and Sunday with you — if you are good.’
There came a sunny morning soon after Easter which seemed mild enough for June; and when Hammond suggested that this was the very day for Helvellyn, Maulevrier had not a word to say against the truth of that proposition. The weather had been exceptionally warm for the last week, and they had played tennis and sat in the garden just as if it had been actually summer. Patches of snow might still linger on the crests16 of the hills — but the approach to those bleak18 heights could hardly be glacial.
Mary clasped her hands delightedly.
‘Dear old Maulevrier!’ she exclaimed, ‘you are always good to me. And now I shall be able to show you the Red Tarn, the highest pool of water in England,’ she said, turning to Hammond. ‘And you will see Windermere winding19 like a silvery serpent between the hills, and Grasmere shining like a jewel in the depth of the valley, and the sea glittering like a line of white light between the edges of earth and heaven, and the dark Scotch21 hills like couchant lions far away to the north.’
‘That is to say these things are all supposed to be on view from the top of the mountain; but as a peculiar22 and altogether exceptional state of the atmosphere is essential to their being seen, I need not tell you that they are rarely visible,’ said Maulevrier. ‘You are talking to old mountaineers, Molly. Hammond has done Cotapaxi and had his little clamber on the equatorial Andes, and I— well, child, I have done my Righi, and I have always found the boasted panorama23 enveloped24 in dense25 fog.’
‘It won’t be foggy to-day,’ said Mary. ‘Shall we do the whole thing on foot, or shall I order the ponies?’
Mr. Hammond inquired the distance up and down, and being told that it involved only a matter of eight miles, decided26 upon walking.
‘I’ll walk, and lead your pony,’ he said to Mary, but Mary declared herself quite capable of going on foot, so the ponies were dispensed27 with as a possible encumbrance28.
This was planned and discussed in the garden before breakfast. Fr?ulein was told that Mary was going for a long walk with her brother and Mr. Hammond; a walk which might last over the usual luncheon29 hour; so Fr?ulein was not to wait luncheon. Mary went to her grandmother’s room to pay her duty visit. There were no letters for her to write that morning, so she was perfectly30 free.
The three pedestrians31 started an hour after breakfast, in light marching order. The two young men wore their Argyleshire shooting clothes — homespun knickerbockers and jackets, thick-ribbed hose knitted by Highland lasses in Inverness. They carried a couple of hunting flasks33 filled with claret, and a couple of sandwich boxes, and that was all. Mary wore her substantial tailor-gown of olive tweed, and a little toque to match, with a silver mounted grouse-claw for her only ornament34.
It was a delicious morning, the air fresh and sweet, the sun comfortably warm, a little too warm, perhaps, presently, when they had trodden the narrow path by the Tongue Ghyll, and were beginning to wind slowly upwards35 over rough boulders36 and last year’s bracken, tough and brown and tangled38, towards that rugged wall of earth and stone tufted with rank grasses, which calls itself Dolly Waggon Pike. Here they all came to a stand-still, and wiped the dews of honest labour from their foreheads; and here Maulevrier flung himself down upon a big boulder37, with the soles of his stout39 shooting boots in running water, and took out his cigar case.
‘How do you like it?’ he asked his friend, when he had lighted his cigarette. ‘I hope you are enjoying yourself.’
‘I never was happier in my life,’ answered Hammond.
He was standing40 on higher ground, with Mary at his elbow, pointing out and expatiating41 upon the details of the prospect42. There were the lakes — Grasmere, a disk of shining blue; Rydal, a patch of silver; and Windermere winding amidst a labyrinth43 of wooded hills.
‘Aren’t you tired?’ asked Maulevrier.
‘Not a whit20.’
‘Oh, I forgot you had done Cotapaxi, or as much of Cotapaxi as living mortal ever has done. That makes a difference. I am going home.’
‘Oh, Maulevrier!’ exclaimed Mary, piteously.
‘I am going home. You two can go to the top. You are both hardened mountaineers, and I am not in it with either of you. When I rashly consented to a pedestrian ascent44 of Helvellyn I had forgotten what the gentleman was like; and as to Dolly Waggon I had actually forgotten her existence. But now I see the lady — as steep as the side of a house, and as stony45 — no, naught46 but herself can be her parallel in stoniness47. No, Molly, I will go no further.’
‘But we shall go down on the other side,’ urged Mary. ‘It is a little steeper on the Cumberland side, but not nearly so far.’
‘A little steeper! I Can anything be steeper than Dolly Waggon? Yes, you are right. It is steeper on the Cumberland side. I remember coming down a sheer descent, like an exaggerated sugar-loaf; but I was on a pony, and it was the brute’s look-out. I will not go down the Cumberland side on my own legs. No, Molly, not even for you. But if you and Hammond want to go to the top, there is nothing to prevent you. He is a skilled mountaineer. I’ll trust you with him.’
Mary blushed, and made no reply. Of all things in the world she least wanted to abandon the expedition. Yet to climb Helvellyn alone with her brother’s friend would no doubt be a terrible violation49 of those laws of maidenly50 propriety51 which Fr?ulein was always expounding52. If Mary were to do this thing, which she longed to do, she must hazard a lecture from her governess, and probably a biting reproof53 from her grandmother.
‘Will you trust yourself with me, Lady Mary?’ asked Hammond, looking at her with a gaze so earnest — so much more earnest than the occasion required — that her blushes deepened and her eyelids54 fell. ‘I have done a good deal of climbing in my day, and I am not afraid of anything Helvellyn can do to me. I promise to take great care of you if you will come.’
How could she refuse? How could she for one moment pretend that she did not trust him, that her heart did not yearn55 to go with him. She would have climbed the shingly56 steep of Cotapaxi with him — or crossed the great Sahara with him — and feared nothing. Her trust in him was infinite — as infinite as her reverence57 and love.
‘I am afraid Fr?ulein would make a fuss,’ she faltered58, after a pause.
‘Hang Fr?ulein,’ cried Maulevrier, puffing59 at his cigarette, and kicking about the stones in the clear running water. ‘I’ll square it with Fr?ulein. I’ll give her a pint60 of fiz with her lunch, and make her see everything in a rosy61 hue62. The good soul is fond of her Heidseck. You will be back by afternoon tea. Why should there be any fuss about the matter? Hammond wants to see the Red Tarn, and you are dying to show him the way. Go, and joy go with you both. Climbing a stony hill is a form of pleasure to which I have not yet risen. I shall stroll home at my leisure, and spend the afternoon on the billiard-room sofa reading Mudie’s last contribution to the comforts of home.’
‘What a Sybarite,’ said Hammond. ‘Come, Lady Mary, we mustn’t loiter, if we are to be back at Fellside by five o’clock.’
Mary looked at her brother doubtfully, and he gave her a little nod which seemed to say, ‘Go, by all means;’ so she dug the end of her staff into Dolly’s rugged breast, and mounted cheerily, stepping lightly from boulder to boulder.
The sun was not so warm as it had been ten minutes ago, when Maulevrier flung himself down to rest. The sky had clouded over a little, and a cooler wind was blowing across the breast of the hill. Fairfield yonder, that long smooth slope of verdure which a little while ago looked emerald green in the sunlight, now wore a soft and shadowy hue. All the world was greyer and dimmer in a moment, as it were, and Coniston Lake in its distant valley disappeared beneath a veil of mist, while the shimmering63 sea-line upon the verge64 of the horizon melted and vanished among the clouds that overhung it. The weather changes very quickly in this part of the world. Sharp drops of rain came spitting at Hammond and Mary as they climbed the crest17 of the Pike, and stopped, somewhat breathless, to look back at Maulevrier. He was trudging65 blithely66 down the winding way, and seemed to have done wonders while they had been doing very little.
‘How fast he is going!’ said Mary.
‘Easy is the descent of Avernus. He is going down-hill, and we are going upwards. That makes all the difference in life, you see,’ answered Hammond.
Mary looked at him with divine compassion67. She thought that for him the hill of life would be harder than Helvellyn. He was brave, honest, clever; but her grandmother had impressed upon her that modern civilisation68 hardly has room for a young man who wants to get on in the world, without either fortune or powerful connexions. He had better go to Australia and keep sheep, than attempt the impossible at home.
The rain was a passing shower, hardly worth speaking of, but the glory of the day was over. The sky was grey, and there were dark clouds creeping up from the sea-line. Silvery Windermere had taken a leaden hue; and now they turned their last fond look upon the Westmoreland valley, and set their faces steadily69 towards Cumberland, and the fine grassy70 plateau on the top of the hill.
All this was not done in a flash. It took them some time to scale Dolly’s stubborn breast, and it took them another hour to reach Seat Sandal; and by the time they came to the iron gate in the fence, which at this point divides the two counties, the atmosphere had thickened ominously71, and dark wreaths of fog were floating about and around them, whirled here and there by a boisterous72 wind which shrieked73 and roared at them with savage74 fury, as if it were the voice of some Titan monarch75 of the mountain protesting against this intrusion upon his domain76.
‘I’m afraid you won’t see the Scottish hills,’ shouted Mary, holding on her little cloth hat.
She was obliged to shout at the top of her voice, though she was close to Mr. Hammond’s elbow, for that shrill77 screaming wind would have drowned the voice of a stentor.
‘Never mind the view,’ replied Hammond in the same fortissimo, ‘but I really wish I hadn’t brought you up here. If this fog should get any worse, it may be dangerous.’
‘The fog is sure to get worse,’ said Mary, in a brief lull78 of the hurly-burly, ‘but there is no danger. I know every inch of the hill, and I am not a bit afraid. I can guide you, if you will trust me.’
‘My bravest of girls,’ he exclaimed, looking down at her. ‘Trust you! Yes, I would trust my life to you — my soul — my honour — secure in your purity and good faith.’
Never had eyes of living man or woman looked down upon her with such tenderness, such fervent79 love. She looked up at him; looked with eyes which, at first bewildered, then grew bold, and lost themselves, as it were, in the dark grey depths of the eyes they met. The savage wind, hustling80 and howling, blew her nearer to him, as a reed is blown against a rock. Dark grey mists were rising round them like a sea; but had that ever-thickening, ever-darkening vapour been the sea itself, and death inevitable81, Mary Haselden would have hardly cared. For in this moment the one precious gift for which her soul had long been yearning82 had been freely given to her. She knew all at once, that she was fondly loved by that one man whom she had chosen for her idol83 and her hero.
What matter that he was fortuneless, a nobody, with but the poorest chances of success in the world? What if he must needs, only to win the bare means of existence, go to Australia and keep sheep, or to the Bed River valley and grow corn? What if he must labour, as the peasants laboured on the sides of this rude hill? Gladly would she go with him to a strange country, and keep his log cabin, and work for him, and share his toilsome life, rough or smooth. No loss of social rank could lessen84 her pride in him, her belief in him.
They were standing side by side a little way from the edge of the sheer descent, below which the Bed Tarn showed black in a basin scooped85 out of the naked hill, like water held in the hollow of a giant’s hand.
‘Look,’ cried Mary, pointing downward, ‘you must see the Red Tarn, the highest water in England?’
But just at this moment there came a blast which shook even Hammond’s strong frame, and with a cry of fear he snatched Mary in his arms and carried her away from the edge of the hill. He folded her in his arms and held her there, thirty yards away from the precipice86, safely sheltered against his breast, while the wind raved87 round them, blowing her hair from the broad, white brow, and showing him that noble forehead in all its power and beauty; while the darkness deepened round them so that they could see hardly anything except each other’s eyes.
‘My love, my own dear love,’ he murmured fondly; ‘I will trust you with my life. Will you accept the trust? I am hardly worthy88; for less than a year ago I offered myself to your sister, and I thought she was the only woman in this wide world who could make me happy. And when she refused me I was in despair, Mary; and I left Fellside in the full belief that I had done with life and happiness. And then I came back, only to oblige Maulevrier, and determined89 to be utterly90 miserable91 at Fellside. I was miserable for the first two hours. Memories of dead and gone joys and disappointed hopes were very bitter. And I tried honestly to keep up my feeling of wretchedness for the first few days. But it was no use, Molly. There was a genial92 spirit in the place, a laughing fairy who would not let me be sad; and I found myself becoming most unromantically happy, eating my breakfast with a hearty93 appetite, thinking my cup of afternoon tea nectar for love of the dear hand that gave it. And so, and so, till the new love, the purer and better love, grew and grew into a mighty94 tree, which was as an oak to an orchid95, compared with that passion flower of earlier growth. Mary, will you trust your life to me, as I trust mine to you. I say to you almost in the words I spoke96 last year to Lesbia,’ and here his tone grew grave almost to solemnity, ‘trust me, and I will make your life free from the shadow of care — trust me, for I have a brave spirit and a strong arm to fight the battle of life — trust me, and I will win for you the position you have a right to occupy — trust me, and you shall never repent97 your trust.’
She looked up at him with eyes which told of infinite faith, child-like, unquestioning faith.
‘I will trust you in all things, and for ever,’ she said. ‘I am not afraid to face evil fortune. I do not care how poor you are — how hard our lives may be — if — if you are sure you love me.’
‘Sure! There is not a beat of my heart or a thought of my mind that does not belong to you. I am yours to the very depths of my soul. My innocent love, my clear-eyed, clear-souled angel! I have studied you and watched you and thought of you, and sounded the depths of your lovely nature, and the result is that you are for me earth’s one woman. I will have no other, Mary, no other love, no other wife.’
‘Lady Maulevrier will be dreadfully angry,’ faltered Mary.
‘Are you afraid of her anger?’
‘No; I am afraid of nothing, for your sake.’
He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it reverently98, and there was a touch of chivalry99 in that reverential kiss. His eyes clouded with tears as he looked down into the trustful face. The fog had darkened to a denser100 blackness, and it was almost as if they were engulfed101 in sudden night.
‘If we are never to find our way down the hill; if this were to be the last hour of our lives, Mary, would you be content?’
‘Quite content,’ she answered, simply. ‘I think I have lived long enough, if you really love me — if you are not making fun.’
‘What, Molly, do you still doubt? Is it strange that I love you?’
‘Very strange. I am so different from Lesbia.’
‘Yes, very different, and the difference is your highest charm. And now, love, we had better go down whichever side of the hill is easiest, for this fog is rather appalling102. I forgive the wind, because it blew you against my heart just now, and that is where I want you to dwell for ever!’
‘Don’t be frightened,’ said Mary. ‘I know every step of the way.’
So, leaning on her lover, and yet guiding him, slowly, step by step, groping their way through the darkness, Lady Mary led Mr. Hammond down the winding track along which the ponies and the guides travel so often in the summer season. And soon they began to descend103 out of that canopy104 of fog which enveloped the brow of Helvellyn, and to see the whole world smiling beneath them, a world of green pastures and sheepfolds, with a white homestead here and there amidst the fields, looking so human and so comfortable after that gloomy mountain top, round which the tempest howled so outrageously105. Beyond those pastures stretched the dark waters of Thirlmere, looking like a broad river.
The descent was passing steep, but Hammond’s strong arm and steady steps made Mary’s progress very easy, while she had in no wise exaggerated her familiarity with the windings106 and twistings of the track. Yet as they had need to travel very slowly so long as the fog still surrounded them, the journey downward lasted a considerable time, and it was past five when they arrived at the little roadside inn at the foot of the hill.
Here Mr. Hammond insisted that Mary should rest at least long enough to take a cup of tea. She was very white and tired. She had been profoundly agitated107, and looked on the point of fainting, although she protested that she was quite ready to walk on.
‘You are not going to walk another step,’ said Hammond. ‘While you are taking your tea I will get you a carriage.’
‘Indeed, I had rather hurry on at once,’ urged Mary. ‘We are so late already.’
‘You will get home all the sooner if you obey me. It is your duty to obey me now,’ said Hammond, in a lowered voice.
She smiled at him, but it was a weak, wan48 little smile, for that descent in the wind and the fog had quite exhausted108 her. Mr. Hammond took her into a snug109 little parlour where there was a cheerful fire, and saw her comfortably seated in an arm chair by the hearth110, before he went to look after a carriage.
There was no such thing as a conveyance111 to be had, but the Windermere coach would pass in about half an hour, and for this they must wait. It would take them back to Grasmere sooner than they could get there on foot, in Mary’s exhausted condition.
The tea-tray was brought in presently, and Hammond poured out the tea and waited upon Lady Mary. It was a reversal of the usual formula but it was very pleasant to Mary to sit with her feet on the low brass112 fender and be waited upon by her lover. That fog on the brow of Helvellyn — that piercing wind — had chilled her to the bone, and there was unspeakable comfort in the glow and warmth of the fire, in the refreshment113 of a good cup of tea.
‘Mary, you are my own property now, remember,’ said Hammond, watching her tenderly as she sipped114 her tea.
She glanced up at him shyly, now and then, with eyes full of innocent wonder. It was so strange to her, as strange as sweet, to know that he loved her; such a marvellous thing that she had pledged herself to be his wife.
‘You are my very own — mine to guard and cherish, mine to think and work for,’ he went on, ‘and you will have to trust me, sweet one, even if the beginning of things is not altogether free from trouble.’
‘I am not afraid of trouble.’
‘Bravely spoken! First and foremost, then, you will have to announce your engagement to Lady Maulevrier. She will take it ill, no doubt; will do her utmost to persuade you to give me up. Have you courage and resolution, do you think, to stand against her arguments? Can you hold to your purpose bravely, and cry, no surrender?’
‘There shall be no surrender,’ answered Mary, ‘I promise you that. No doubt grandmother will be very angry. But she has never cared for me very much. It will not hurt her for me to make a bad match, as it would have done in Lesbia’s case. She has had no day-dreams — no grand ambition about me!’
‘So much the better, my wayside flower! When you have said all that is sweet and dutiful to her, and have let her know at the same time that you mean to be my wife, come weal come woe115, I will see her, and will have my say. I will not promise her a grand career for my darling: but I will pledge myself that nothing of that kind which the world calls evil — no penury116, or shabbiness of surroundings — shall ever touch Mary Haselden after she is Mary Hammond. I can promise at least so much as that.’
‘It is more than enough,’ said Mary. ‘I have told you that I would gladly share poverty with you.’
‘Sweet! it is good of you to say as much, but I would not take you at your word. You don’t know what poverty is.’
‘Do you think I am a coward, or self-indulgent? You are wrong, Jack32. May I call you Jack, as Maulevrier does?’
‘May you?’
The question evoked117 such a gush118 of tenderness that he was fain to kneel beside her chair and kiss the little hand holding the cup, before he considered he had answered properly.
‘You are wrong, Jack. I do know what poverty means. I have studied the ways of the poor, tried to console them, and help them a little in their troubles; and I know there is no pain that want of money can bring which I would not share willingly with you. Do you suppose my happiness is dependent on a fine house and powdered footmen? I should like to go to the Red River with you, and wear cotton gowns, and tuck up my sleeves and clean our cottage.’
‘Very pretty sport, dear, for a summer day; but my Mary shall have a sweeter life, and shall occasionally walk in silk attire119.’
That tea-drinking by the fireside in the inn parlour was the most delicious thing within John Hammond’s experience. Mary was a bewitching compound of earnestness and simplicity120, so humble121, so confiding122, so perplexed123 and astounded124 at her own bliss125.
‘Confess, now, in the summer, when you were in love with Lesbia, you thought me a horrid126 kind of girl,’ she said, presently, when they were standing side by side at the window, waiting for the coach.
‘Never, Mary. My crime is to have thought very little about you in those days. I was so dazzled by Lesbia’s beauty, so charmed by her accomplishments127 and girlish graces, that I forgot to take notice of anything else in the world. If I thought of you at all it was as another Maulevrier — a younger Maulevrier in petticoats, very gay, and good-humoured, and nice.’
‘But when you saw me rushing about with the terriers — I must have seemed utterly horrid.’
‘Why, dearest There is nothing essentially128 horrible in terriers, or in a bright lively girl running races with them. You made a very pretty picture in the sunlight, with your hat hanging on your shoulder, and your curly brown hair and dancing hazel eyes. If I had not been deep in love with Lesbia’s peerless complexion129 and Grecian features, I should have looked below the surface of that Gainsborough picture, and discovered what treasures of goodness, and courage, and truth and purity those frank brown eyes and that wide forehead betokened130. I was sowing my wild oats last summer, Mary, and they brought me a crop of sorrow But I am wiser now — wiser and happier.
‘But if you were to see Lesbia again would not the old love revive?’
‘The old love is dead, Mary. There is nothing left of it but a handful of ashes, which I scatter131 thus to the four winds,’ with a wave of his hand towards the open casement132. ‘The new love absorbs and masters my being. If Lesbia were to re-appear at Fellside this evening, I could offer her my hand in all brotherly frankness, and ask her to accept me as a brother. Here comes the coach. We shall be at Fellside just in time for dinner.’
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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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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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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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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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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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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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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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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winding
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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peculiar
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panorama
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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28
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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29
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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30
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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31
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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32
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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33
flasks
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| n.瓶，长颈瓶， 烧瓶( flask的名词复数 ) | |
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34
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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35
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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36
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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37
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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38
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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42
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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43
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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44
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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45
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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46
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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47
stoniness
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| 冷漠，一文不名 | |
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48
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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49
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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50
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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51
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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52
expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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53
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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54
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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55
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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56
shingly
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| adj.小石子多的 | |
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57
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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58
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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59
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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60
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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61
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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62
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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63
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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64
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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65
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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66
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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67
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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68
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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69
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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70
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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71
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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72
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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73
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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75
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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76
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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77
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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78
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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79
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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80
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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81
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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82
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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83
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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84
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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85
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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86
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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87
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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88
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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89
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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90
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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91
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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92
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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93
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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94
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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95
orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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96
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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97
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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98
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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99
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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100
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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101
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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103
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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104
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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105
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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106
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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107
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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108
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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109
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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110
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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111
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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112
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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113
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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114
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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116
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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117
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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118
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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119
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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120
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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121
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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122
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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123
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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124
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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125
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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126
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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127
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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128
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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129
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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130
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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132
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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