'Journeys end in lovers meeting.'
Stephen lay watching the Great Bear; Elfride was regarding a monotonous1 parallelogram of window blind. Neither slept that night.
Early the next morning--that is to say, four hours after their stolen interview, and just as the earliest servant was heard moving about--Stephen Smith went downstairs, portmanteau in hand. Throughout the night he had intended to see Mr. Swancourt again, but the sharp rebuff of the previous evening rendered such an interview particularly distasteful. Perhaps there was another and less honest reason. He decided2 to put it off. Whatever of moral timidity or obliquity3 may have lain in such a decision, no perception of it was strong enough to detain him. He wrote a note in his room, which stated simply that he did not feel happy in the house after Mr. Swancourt's sudden veto on what he had favoured a few hours before; but that he hoped a time would come, and that soon, when his original feelings of pleasure as Mr. Swancourt's guest might be recovered.
He expected to find the downstairs rooms wearing the gray and cheerless aspect that early morning gives to everything out of the sun. He found in the dining room a breakfast laid, of which somebody had just partaken.
Stephen gave the maid-servant his note of adieu. She stated that Mr. Swancourt had risen early that morning, and made an early breakfast. He was not going away that she knew of.
Stephen took a cup of coffee, left the house of his love, and turned into the lane. It was so early that the shaded places still smelt4 like night time, and the sunny spots had hardly felt the sun. The horizontal rays made every shallow dip in the ground to show as a well-marked hollow. Even the channel of the path was enough to throw shade, and the very stones of the road cast tapering5 dashes of darkness westward6, as long as Jael's tent-nail.
At a spot not more than a hundred yards from the vicar's residence the lane leading thence crossed the high road. Stephen reached the point of intersection7, stood still and listened. Nothing could be heard save the lengthy8, murmuring line of the sea upon the adjacent shore. He looked at his watch, and then mounted a gate upon which he seated himself, to await the arrival of the carrier. Whilst he sat he heard wheels coming in two directions.
The vehicle approaching on his right he soon recognized as the carrier's. There were the accompanying sounds of the owner's voice and the smack9 of his whip, distinct in the still morning air, by which he encouraged his horses up the hill.
The other set of wheels sounded from the lane Stephen had just traversed. On closer observation, he perceived that they were moving from the precincts of the ancient manor10-house adjoining the vicarage grounds. A carriage then left the entrance gates of the house, and wheeling round came fully11 in sight. It was a plain travelling carriage, with a small quantity of luggage, apparently12 a lady's. The vehicle came to the junction13 of the four ways half- a-minute before the carrier reached the same spot, and crossed directly in his front, proceeding14 by the lane on the other side.
Inside the carriage Stephen could just discern an elderly lady with a younger woman, who seemed to be her maid. The road they had taken led to Stratleigh, a small watering-place sixteen miles north.
He heard the manor-house gates swing again, and looking up saw another person leaving them, and walking off in the direction of the parsonage. 'Ah, how much I wish I were moving that way!' felt he parenthetically. The gentleman was tall, and resembled Mr. Swancourt in outline and attire15. He opened the vicarage gate and went in. Mr. Swancourt, then, it certainly was. Instead of remaining in bed that morning Mr. Swancourt must have taken it into his head to see his new neighbour off on a journey. He must have been greatly interested in that neighbour to do such an unusual thing.
The carrier's conveyance16 had pulled up, and Stephen now handed in his portmanteau and mounted the shafts17. 'Who is that lady in the carriage?' he inquired indifferently of Lickpan the carrier.
'That, sir, is Mrs. Troyton, a widder wi' a mint o' money. She's the owner of all that part of Endelstow that is not Lord Luxellian's. Only been here a short time; she came into it by law. The owner formerly18 was a terrible mysterious party--never lived here--hardly ever was seen here except in the month of September, as I might say.'
The horses were started again, and noise rendered further discourse19 a matter of too great exertion20. Stephen crept inside under the tilt21, and was soon lost in reverie.
Three hours and a half of straining up hills and jogging down brought them to St. Launce's, the market town and railway station nearest to Endelstow, and the place from which Stephen Smith had journeyed over the downs on the, to him, memorable22 winter evening at the beginning of the same year. The carrier's van was so timed as to meet a starting up-train, which Stephen entered. Two or three hours' railway travel through vertical23 cuttings in metamorphic rock, through oak copses rich and green, stretching over slopes and down delightful24 valleys, glens, and ravines, sparkling with water like many-rilled Ida, and he plunged25 amid the hundred and fifty thousand people composing the town of Plymouth.
There being some time upon his hands he left his luggage at the cloak-room, and went on foot along Bedford Street to the nearest church. Here Stephen wandered among the multifarious tombstones and looked in at the chancel window, dreaming of something that was likely to happen by the altar there in the course of the coming month. He turned away and ascended26 the Hoe, viewed the magnificent stretch of sea and massive promontories27 of land, but without particularly discerning one feature of the varied28 perspective. He still saw that inner prospect--the event he hoped for in yonder church. The wide Sound, the Breakwater, the light- house on far-off Eddystone, the dark steam vessels29, brigs, barques, and schooners30, either floating stilly, or gliding31 with tiniest motion, were as the dream, then; the dreamed-of event was as the reality.
Soon Stephen went down from the Hoe, and returned to the railway station. He took his ticket, and entered the London train.
That day was an irksome time at Endelstow vicarage. Neither father nor daughter alluded32 to the departure of Stephen. Mr. Swancourt's manner towards her partook of the compunctious kindness that arises from a misgiving33 as to the justice of some previous act.
Either from lack of the capacity to grasp the whole coup34 d'oeil, or from a natural endowment for certain kinds of stoicism, women are cooler than men in critical situations of the passive form. Probably, in Elfride's case at least, it was blindness to the greater contingencies35 of the future she was preparing for herself, which enabled her to ask her father in a quiet voice if he could give her a holiday soon, to ride to St. Launce's and go on to Plymouth.
Now, she had only once before gone alone to Plymouth, and that was in consequence of some unavoidable difficulty. Being a country girl, and a good, not to say a wild, horsewoman, it had been her delight to canter, without the ghost of an attendant, over the fourteen or sixteen miles of hard road intervening between their home and the station at St. Launce's, put up the horse, and go on the remainder of the distance by train, returning in the same manner in the evening. It was then resolved that, though she had successfully accomplished36 this journey once, it was not to be repeated without some attendance.
But Elfride must not be confounded with ordinary young feminine equestrians37. The circumstances of her lonely and narrow life made it imperative39 that in trotting41 about the neighbourhood she must trot40 alone or else not at all. Usage soon rendered this perfectly42 natural to herself. Her father, who had had other experiences, did not much like the idea of a Swancourt, whose pedigree could be as distinctly traced as a thread in a skein of silk, scampering43 over the hills like a farmer's daughter, even though he could habitually44 neglect her. But what with his not being able to afford her a regular attendant, and his inveterate45 habit of letting anything be to save himself trouble, the circumstance grew customary. And so there arose a chronic46 notion in the villagers' minds that all ladies rode without an attendant, like Miss Swancourt, except a few who were sometimes visiting at Lord Luxellian's.
'I don't like your going to Plymouth alone, particularly going to St. Launce's on horseback. Why not drive, and take the man?'
'It is not nice to be so overlooked.' Worm's company would not seriously have interfered47 with her plans, but it was her humour to go without him.
'When do you want to go?' said her father.
She only answered, 'Soon.'
'I will consider,' he said.
Only a few days elapsed before she asked again. A letter had reached her from Stephen. It had been timed to come on that day by special arrangement between them. In it he named the earliest morning on which he could meet her at Plymouth. Her father had been on a journey to Stratleigh, and returned in unusual buoyancy of spirit. It was a good opportunity; and since the dismissal of Stephen her father had been generally in a mood to make small concessions48, that he might steer49 clear of large ones connected with that outcast lover of hers.
'Next Thursday week I am going from home in a different direction,' said her father. 'In fact, I shall leave home the night before. You might choose the same day, for they wish to take up the carpets, or some such thing, I think. As I said, I don't like you to be seen in a town on horseback alone; but go if you will.'
Thursday week. Her father had named the very day that Stephen also had named that morning as the earliest on which it would be of any use to meet her; that was, about fifteen days from the day on which he had left Endelstow. Fifteen days--that fragment of duration which has acquired such an interesting individuality from its connection with the English marriage law.
She involuntarily looked at her father so strangely, that on becoming conscious of the look she paled with embarrassment50. Her father, too, looked confused. What was he thinking of?
There seemed to be a special facility offered her by a power external to herself in the circumstance that Mr. Swancourt had proposed to leave home the night previous to her wished-for day. Her father seldom took long journeys; seldom slept from home except perhaps on the night following a remote Visitation. Well, she would not inquire too curiously51 into the reason of the opportunity, nor did he, as would have been natural, proceed to explain it of his own accord. In matters of fact there had hitherto been no reserve between them, though they were not usually confidential52 in its full sense. But the divergence53 of their emotions on Stephen's account had produced an estrangement54 which just at present went even to the extent of reticence55 on the most ordinary household topics.
Elfride was almost unconsciously relieved, persuading herself that her father's reserve on his business justified56 her in secrecy57 as regarded her own--a secrecy which was necessarily a foregone decision with her. So anxious is a young conscience to discover a palliative, that the ex post facto nature of a reason is of no account in excluding it.
The intervening fortnight was spent by her mostly in walking by herself among the shrubs58 and trees, indulging sometimes in sanguine59 anticipations60; more, far more frequently, in misgivings61. All her flowers seemed dull of hue62; her pets seemed to look wistfully into her eyes, as if they no longer stood in the same friendly relation to her as formerly. She wore melancholy63 jewellery, gazed at sunsets, and talked to old men and women. It was the first time that she had had an inner and private world apart from the visible one about her. She wished that her father, instead of neglecting her even more than usual, would make some advance--just one word; she would then tell all, and risk Stephen's displeasure. Thus brought round to the youth again, she saw him in her fancy, standing64, touching65 her, his eyes full of sad affection, hopelessly renouncing66 his attempt because she had renounced68 hers; and she could not recede69.
On the Wednesday she was to receive another letter. She had resolved to let her father see the arrival of this one, be the consequences what they might: the dread70 of losing her lover by this deed of honesty prevented her acting71 upon the resolve. Five minutes before the postman's expected arrival she slipped out, and down the lane to meet him. She met him immediately upon turning a sharp angle, which hid her from view in the direction of the vicarage. The man smilingly handed one missive, and was going on to hand another, a circular from some tradesman.
'No,' she said; 'take that on to the house.'
'Why, miss, you are doing what your father has done for the last fortnight.'
She did not comprehend.
'Why, come to this corner, and take a letter of me every morning, all writ72 in the same handwriting, and letting any others for him go on to the house.' And on the postman went.
No sooner had he turned the corner behind her back than she heard her father meet and address the man. She had saved her letter by two minutes. Her father audibly went through precisely73 the same performance as she had just been guilty of herself.
This stealthy conduct of his was, to say the least, peculiar74.
Given an impulsive75 inconsequent girl, neglected as to her inner life by her only parent, and the following forces alive within her; to determine a resultant:
First love acted upon by a deadly fear of separation from its object: inexperience, guiding onward76 a frantic77 wish to prevent the above-named issue: misgivings as to propriety78, met by hope of ultimate exoneration79: indignation at parental80 inconsistency in first encouraging, then forbidding: a chilling sense of disobedience, overpowered by a conscientious81 inability to brook82 a breaking of plighted83 faith with a man who, in essentials, had remained unaltered from the beginning: a blessed hope that opposition84 would turn an erroneous judgement: a bright faith that things would mend thereby85, and wind up well.
Probably the result would, after all, have been nil86, had not the following few remarks been made one day at breakfast.
Her father was in his old hearty87 spirits. He smiled to himself at stories too bad to tell, and called Elfride a little scamp for surreptitiously preserving some blind kittens that ought to have been drowned. After this expression, she said to him suddenly:
If Mr. Smith had been already in the family, you would not have been made wretched by discovering he had poor relations?'
'Do you mean in the family by marriage?' he replied inattentively, and continuing to peel his egg.
The accumulating scarlet88 told that was her meaning, as much as the affirmative reply.
'I should have put up with it, no doubt,' Mr. Swancourt observed.
'So that you would not have been driven into hopeless melancholy, but have made the best of him?'
Elfride's erratic89 mind had from her youth upwards90 been constantly in the habit of perplexing her father by hypothetical questions, based on absurd conditions. The present seemed to be cast so precisely in the mould of previous ones that, not being given to syntheses of circumstances, he answered it with customary complacency.
'If he were allied91 to us irretrievably, of course I, or any sensible man, should accept conditions that could not be altered; certainly not be hopelessly melancholy about it. I don't believe anything in the world would make me hopelessly melancholy. And don't let anything make you so, either.'
'I won't, papa,' she cried, with a serene92 brightness that pleased him.
Certainly Mr. Swancourt must have been far from thinking that the brightness came from an exhilarating intention to hold back no longer from the mad action she had planned.
In the evening he drove away towards Stratleigh, quite alone. It was an unusual course for him. At the door Elfride had been again almost impelled93 by her feelings to pour out all.
'Why are you going to Stratleigh, papa?' she said, and looked at him longingly94.
'I will tell you to-morrow when I come back,' he said cheerily; 'not before then, Elfride. Thou wilt95 not utter what thou dost not know, and so far will I trust thee, gentle Elfride.'
She was repressed and hurt.
'I will tell you my errand to Plymouth, too, when I come back,' she murmured.
He went away. His jocularity made her intention seem the lighter96, as his indifference97 made her more resolved to do as she liked.
It was a familiar September sunset, dark-blue fragments of cloud upon an orange-yellow sky. These sunsets used to tempt67 her to walk towards them, as any beautiful thing tempts98 a near approach. She went through the field to the privet hedge, clambered into the middle of it, and reclined upon the thick boughs99. After looking westward for a considerable time, she blamed herself for not looking eastward100 to where Stephen was, and turned round. Ultimately her eyes fell upon the ground.
A peculiarity101 was observable beneath her. A green field spread itself on each side of the hedge, one belonging to the glebe, the other being a part of the land attached to the manor-house adjoining. On the vicarage side she saw a little footpath102, the distinctive103 and altogether exceptional feature of which consisted in its being only about ten yards long; it terminated abruptly104 at each end.
A footpath, suddenly beginning and suddenly ending, coming from nowhere and leading nowhere, she had never seen before.
Yes, she had, on second thoughts. She had seen exactly such a path trodden in the front of barracks by the sentry105.
And this recollection explained the origin of the path here. Her father had trodden it by pacing up and down, as she had once seen him doing.
Sitting on the hedge as she sat now, her eyes commanded a view of both sides of it. And a few minutes later, Elfride looked over to the manor side.
Here was another sentry path. It was like the first in length, and it began and ended exactly opposite the beginning and ending of its neighbour, but it was thinner, and less distinct.
Two reasons existed for the difference. This one might have been trodden by a similar weight of tread to the other, exercised a less number of times; or it might have been walked just as frequently, but by lighter feet.
Probably a gentleman from Scotland-yard, had he been passing at the time, might have considered the latter alternative as the more probable. Elfride thought otherwise, so far as she thought at all. But her own great To-Morrow was now imminent106; all thoughts inspired by casual sights of the eye were only allowed to exercise themselves in inferior corners of her brain, previously107 to being banished108 altogether.
Elfride was at length compelled to reason practically upon her undertaking109. All her definite perceptions thereon, when the emotion accompanying them was abstracted, amounted to no more than these:
'Say an hour and three-quarters to ride to St. Launce's.
'Say half an hour at the Falcon110 to change my dress.
'Say two hours waiting for some train and getting to Plymouth.
'Say an hour to spare before twelve o'clock.
'Total time from leaving Endelstow till twelve o'clock, five hours.
'Therefore I shall have to start at seven.'
No surprise or sense of unwontedness entered the minds of the servants at her early ride. The monotony of life we associate with people of small incomes in districts out of the sound of the railway whistle, has one exception, which puts into shade the experience of dwellers111 about the great centres of population--that is, in travelling. Every journey there is more or less an adventure; adventurous112 hours are necessarily chosen for the most commonplace outing. Miss Elfride had to leave early--that was all.
Elfride never went out on horseback but she brought home something--something found, or something bought. If she trotted113 to town or village, her burden was books. If to hills, woods, or the seashore, it was wonderful mosses114, abnormal twigs115, a handkerchief of wet shells or seaweed.
Once, in muddy weather, when Pansy was walking with her down the street of Castle Boterel, on a fair-day, a packet in front of her and a packet under her arm, an accident befell the packets, and they slipped down. On one side of her, three volumes of fiction lay kissing the mud; on the other numerous skeins of polychromatic wools lay absorbing it. Unpleasant women smiled through windows at the mishap116, the men all looked round, and a boy, who was minding a ginger-bread stall whilst the owner had gone to get drunk, laughed loudly. The blue eyes turned to sapphires117, and the cheeks crimsoned118 with vexation.
After that misadventure she set her wits to work, and was ingenious enough to invent an arrangement of small straps119 about the saddle, by which a great deal could be safely carried thereon, in a small compass. Here she now spread out and fastened a plain dark walking-dress and a few other trifles of apparel. Worm opened the gate for her, and she vanished away.
One of the brightest mornings of late summer shone upon her. The heather was at its purplest, the furze at its yellowest, the grasshoppers120 chirped121 loud enough for birds, the snakes hissed122 like little engines, and Elfride at first felt lively. Sitting at ease upon Pansy, in her orthodox riding-habit and nondescript hat, she looked what she felt. But the mercury of those days had a trick of falling unexpectedly. First, only for one minute in ten had she a sense of depression. Then a large cloud, that had been hanging in the north like a black fleece, came and placed itself between her and the sun. It helped on what was already inevitable123, and she sank into a uniformity of sadness.
She turned in the saddle and looked back. They were now on an open table-land, whose altitude still gave her a view of the sea by Endelstow. She looked longingly at that spot.
During this little revulsion of feeling Pansy had been still advancing, and Elfride felt it would be absurd to turn her little mare's head the other way. 'Still,' she thought, 'if I had a mamma at home I WOULD go back!'
And making one of those stealthy movements by which women let their hearts juggle124 with their brains, she did put the horse's head about, as if unconsciously, and went at a hand-gallop towards home for more than a mile. By this time, from the inveterate habit of valuing what we have renounced directly the alternative is chosen, the thought of her forsaken125 Stephen recalled her, and she turned about, and cantered on to St. Launce's again.
This miserable126 strife127 of thought now began to rage in all its wildness. Overwrought and trembling, she dropped the rein128 upon Pansy's shoulders, and vowed129 she would be led whither the horse would take her.
Pansy slackened her pace to a walk, and walked on with her agitated131 burden for three or four minutes. At the expiration132 of this time they had come to a little by-way on the right, leading down a slope to a pool of water. The pony133 stopped, looked towards the pool, and then advanced and stooped to drink.
Elfride looked at her watch and discovered that if she were going to reach St. Launce's early enough to change her dress at the Falcon, and get a chance of some early train to Plymouth--there were only two available--it was necessary to proceed at once.
She was impatient. It seemed as if Pansy would never stop drinking; and the repose134 of the pool, the idle motions of the insects and flies upon it, the placid135 waving of the flags, the leaf-skeletons, like Genoese filigree136, placidly137 sleeping at the bottom, by their contrast with her own turmoil138 made her impatience139 greater.
Pansy did turn at last, and went up the slope again to the high- road. The pony came upon it, and stood cross-wise, looking up and down. Elfride's heart throbbed140 erratically141, and she thought, 'Horses, if left to themselves, make for where they are best fed. Pansy will go home.'
Pansy turned and walked on towards St. Launce's
Pansy at home, during summer, had little but grass to live on. After a run to St. Launce's she always had a feed of corn to support her on the return journey. Therefore, being now more than half way, she preferred St. Launce's.
But Elfride did not remember this now. All she cared to recognize was a dreamy fancy that to-day's rash action was not her own. She was disabled by her moods, and it seemed indispensable to adhere to the programme. So strangely involved are motives142 that, more than by her promise to Stephen, more even than by her love, she was forced on by a sense of the necessity of keeping faith with herself, as promised in the inane143 vow130 of ten minutes ago.
She hesitated no longer. Pansy went, like the steed of Adonis, as if she told the steps. Presently the quaint144 gables and jumbled145 roofs of St. Launce's were spread beneath her, and going down the hill she entered the courtyard of the Falcon. Mrs. Buckle146, the landlady147, came to the door to meet her.
The Swancourts were well known here. The transition from equestrian38 to the ordinary guise148 of railway travellers had been more than once performed by father and daughter in this establishment.
In less than a quarter of an hour Elfride emerged from the door in her walking dress, and went to the railway. She had not told Mrs. Buckle anything as to her intentions, and was supposed to have gone out shopping.
An hour and forty minutes later, and she was in Stephen's arms at the Plymouth station. Not upon the platform--in the secret retreat of a deserted149 waiting-room.
Stephen's face boded150 ill. He was pale and despondent151.
What is the matter?' she asked.
'We cannot be married here to-day, my Elfie! I ought to have known it and stayed here. In my ignorance I did not. I have the licence, but it can only be used in my parish in London. I only came down last night, as you know.'
'What shall we do?' she said blankly.
'There's only one thing we can do, darling.'
'What's that?'
'Go on to London by a train just starting, and be married there to-morrow.'
'Passengers for the 11.5 up-train take their seats!' said a guard's voice on the platform.
'Will you go, Elfride?'
'I will.'
In three minutes the train had moved off, bearing away with it Stephen and Elfride.
收听单词发音 |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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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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obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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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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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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delightful
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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promontories
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varied
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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32
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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34
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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35
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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36
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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37
equestrians
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| n.骑手（equestrian的复数形式） | |
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38
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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39
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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40
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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41
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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42
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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43
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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44
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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45
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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46
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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47
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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48
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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49
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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50
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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51
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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52
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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53
divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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54
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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55
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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56
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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57
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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58
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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59
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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60
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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61
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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62
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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63
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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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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65
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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66
renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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67
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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68
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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69
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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70
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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71
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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72
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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73
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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74
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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75
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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76
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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77
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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78
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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79
exoneration
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| n.免罪，免除 | |
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80
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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81
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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82
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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83
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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84
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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85
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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86
nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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87
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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88
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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89
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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90
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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91
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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92
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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93
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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95
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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96
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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97
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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98
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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99
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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100
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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101
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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102
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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103
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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104
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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105
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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106
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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107
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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108
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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110
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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111
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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112
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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113
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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114
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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115
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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116
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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117
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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118
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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119
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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120
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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121
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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122
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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123
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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124
juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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125
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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126
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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127
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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128
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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129
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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130
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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131
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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132
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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133
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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134
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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135
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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136
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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137
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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138
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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139
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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140
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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141
erratically
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| adv.不规律地，不定地 | |
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142
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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143
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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144
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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145
jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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146
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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147
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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148
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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149
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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150
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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151
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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