Alas12! we will not wait,—hence our life in these latter days of analysis is a mere13 querulous complaint, instead of what it should be, a perpetual thanksgiving.
Four seasons have passed away since the “Soul of Lilith” was caught up into its native glory,—four seasons,—summer, autumn, winter and spring—and now it is summer again,—summer in the Isle14 of Cyprus, that once most sacred spot, dear to historic and poetic15 lore16. Up among the low olive-crowned hills of Baffo or Paphos, there is more shade and coolness than in other parts of the island, and the retreat believed to have been the favourite haunt of Venus is still full of something like the mystical glamour17 that hallowed it of old. As the singer of “Love-Letters of a Violinist” writes:
“There is a glamour all about the bay
As if the nymphs of Greece had tarried here.
The sands are golden and the rocks appear
Snatches of song they hummed when far away,
And then are hush’d as if from sudden fear.”
Flowers bloom luxuriantly, as though the white, blue-veined feet of the goddess had but lately passed by,—there is a suggestive harmony in the subdued19 low whispering of the trees, accompanied by the gentle murmur20 of the waves, and “Hieros Kiphos,” or the Sacred Grove21, still bends its thick old boughs22 caressingly23 towards the greensward as though to remind the dreaming earth of the bygone glories here buried deep in its silent bosom25. The poor fragment of the ruined “Temple of Venus” once gorgeous with the gold and precious stones, silks and embroideries26, and other offerings brought from luxury-loving Tyre, stands in its desolation among the quiet woods, and no sound of rejoicing comes forth27 from its broken wall to stir the heated air. Yet there is music not far off,—the sweet and solemn music of an organ chant, accompanying a chorus of mild and mellow28 voices singing the “Agnus Dei.” Here in this part of the country, the native inhabitants are divided in their notions of religious worship,—they talk Greek, albeit29 modern Greek, with impurities30 which were unknown to the sonorous31 ancient tongue, and they are heroes no more, as the heroic Byron has told us in his superb poesy, but simply slaves. They but dimly comprehend Christianity,—the joyous32 paganism of the past is not yet extinct, and the Virgin33 Mother of Christ is here adored as “Aphroditissa.” Perhaps in dirty Famagousta they may be more orthodox,—but among these sea-fronting hills where the sound of the “Agnus Dei” solemnly rises and falls in soft surges of harmony, it is still the old home of the Queen of Beauty, and still the birthplace of Adonis, son of a Cyprian King. Commercial England is now the possessor of this bower34 of sweet fancies,—this little corner of the world haunted by a thousand poetic memories,—and in these prosy days but few pilgrimages are made to a shrine35 that was once the glory of a glorious age. To the native Cypriotes themselves the gods have simply changed their names and become a little sadder and less playful, that is all,—and to make up for the lost “Temple of Venus” there is, hidden deep among the foliage36, a small monastic retreat with a Cross on its long low roof,—a place where a few poor monks37 work and pray,—good men whose virtues38 are chiefly known to the sick, destitute39 and needy40. They call themselves simply “The Brotherhood,” and there are only ten of them in all, including the youngest, who joined their confraternity quite recently. They are very poor,—they wear rough white garments and go barefooted, and their food is of the simplest; but they do a vast amount of good in their unassuming way, and when any of their neighbours are in trouble, such afflicted41 ones at once climb the little eminence42 where Venus was worshipped with such pomp in ancient days, and make direct for the plain unadorned habitation devoted43 to the service of One who was “a Man of Sorrows and acquainted with grief.” There they never fail to find consolation44 and practical aid,—even their persistent45 prayers to “Aphroditissa” are condoned46 with a broad and tender patience by these men who honestly strive to broaden and not confine the road that leads to heaven. Thus Paphos is sacred still,—with the glamour of old creeds47 and the wider glory of the new,—yet though it is an interesting enough nook of the earth, it is seldom that travellers elect to go thither48 either to admire or explore. Therefore the sight of a travelling-carriage, a tumble-down sort of vehicle, yet one of the best to be obtained thereabouts, making its way slowly up the ascent49, with people in modern fashionable dress sitting therein, was a rare and wonderful spectacle to the ragged50 Cypriote youth of both sexes, who either stood by the roadway, pushing their tangled51 locks from their dark eyes and staring at it, or else ran swiftly alongside its wheels to beg for coppers52 from its occupants. There were four of these,—two ladies and two gentlemen,—Sir Frederick Vaughan and Lady Vaughan (née Idina Chester); the fair and famous authoress, Irene Vassilius, and a distinguished53-looking handsome man of about forty or thereabouts, the Duke of Strathlea, a friend of the Vaughans, who had entertained them royally during the previous autumn at his grand old historic house in Scotland. By a mere chance during the season, he had made the acquaintance of Madame Vassilius, with whom he had fallen suddenly, deeply and ardently55 in love. She, however, was the same unresponsive far-gazing dreamy sibyl as ever, and though not entirely56 indifferent to the gentle reverential homage57 paid to her by this chivalrous58 and honourable59 gentleman, she could not make up her mind to give him any decided60 encouragement. He appeared to make no progress with her whatever,—and of course his discouragement increased his ardour. He devised every sort of plan he could think of for obtaining as much of her society as possible,—and finally, he had entreated61 the Vaughans to persuade her to join them in a trip to the Mediterranean62 in his yacht. At first she had refused,—then, with a sudden change of humour, she had consented to go, provided the Island of Cyprus were one of the places to be visited. Strathlea eagerly caught at and agreed to this suggestion,—the journey had been undertaken, and had so far proved most enjoyable. Now they had reached the spot Irene most wished to see,—it was to please her that they were making the present excursion to the “Temple of Venus,” or rather, to the small and obscure monastery63 among the hills which she had expressed a strong desire to visit,—and Strathlea, looking wistfully at her fair thoughtful face, wondered whether after all these pleasant days passed together between sparkling sea and radiant sky, she had any kinder thoughts of him,—whether she would always be so quiet, so impassive, so indifferent to the love of a true man’s heart?
The carriage went slowly,—the view widened with every upward yard of the way,—and they were all silent, gazing at the glittering expanse of blue ocean below them.
“How very warm it is!” said Lady Vaughan at last breaking the dumb spell, and twirling her sunshade round and round to disperse64 a cloud of gnats65 and small flies—“Fred, you look absolutely broiled66! You are so dreadfully sunburnt!”
“Am I?” and Sir Frederick smiled blandly,—he was as much in love with his pretty frivolous67 wife as it is becoming for a man to be, and all her remarks were received by him with the utmost docility—“Well, I daresay I am. Yachting doesn’t improve the transparent68 delicacy69 of a man’s complexion70. Strathlea is too dark to show it much,—but I was always a florid sort of fellow. You’ve no lack of colour yourself, Idina.”
“Oh, I’m sure I look a fright!” responded her ladyship vivaciously71 and with a slight touch of petulance—“Irene is the only one who appears to keep cool. I believe her aspect would be positively72 frosty with the thermometer marking 100 in the shade!”
Irene, who was gazing abstractedly out to sea, turned slowly and lifted her drooping73 lace parasol slightly higher from her face. She was pale,—and her deep-set gray eyes were liquid as though unshed tears filled them.
Lady Vaughan laughed.
“No, of course you haven’t. The idea of your vexing75 anybody! You look irritatingly cool in this tremendous heat,—that’s all.”
“I love the sun,”—said Irene dreamily—“To me it is always the visible sign of God in the world. In London we have so little sunshine,—and, one might add, so little of God also! I was just then watching that golden blaze of light upon the sea.”
Strathlea looked at her interrogatively.
“And what does it suggest to you, Madame?” he asked—“The glory of a great fame, or the splendour of a great love?”
“Neither”—she replied tranquilly—“Simply the reflex of Heaven on Earth.”
“Love might be designated thus,” said Strathlea in a low tone.
She coloured a little, but offered no response.
“It was odd that you alone should have been told the news of poor El-Râmi’s misfortune,” said Sir Frederick, abruptly77 addressing her,—“None of us, not even my cousin Melthorpe, who knew him before you did, had the least idea of it.”
“His brother wrote to me”—replied Irene; “Féraz, that beautiful youth who accompanied him to Lady Melthorpe’s reception last year. But he gave me no details,—he simply explained that El-Râmi, through prolonged overstudy, had lost the balance of his mind. The letter was very short, and in it he stated he was about to enter a religious fraternity who had their abode78 near Baffo in Cyprus, and that the brethren had consented to receive his brother also and take charge of him in his great helplessness.”
“And their place is what we are going to see now”—finished Lady Vaughan—“I daresay it will be immensely interesting. Poor El-Râmi! Who would ever have thought it possible for him to lose his wits! I shall never forget the first time I saw him at the theatre. Hamlet was being played, and he entered in the very middle of the speech ‘To be or not to be.’ I remember how he looked, perfectly79. What eyes he had!—they positively scared me!”
Her husband glanced at her admiringly.
“Do you know, Idina”—he said, “that El-Râmi told me on that very night—the night of Hamlet that I was destined80 to marry you?”
“No! Really! And did you feel yourself compelled to carry out the prophecy?”—and she laughed.
“No, I did not feel myself compelled,—but somehow, it happened—didn’t it?” he inquired with naïve persistency82.
“Of course it did! How absurd you are!” and she laughed again—“Are you sorry?”
He gave her an expressive83 look,—he was really very much in love, and she was still a new enough bride to blush at his amorous84 regard. Strathlea moved impatiently in his seat;—the assured happiness of others made him envious85.
“I suppose this prophet,—El-Râmi, as you call him, prophesies86 no longer, if his wits are lacking”—he said—“otherwise I should have asked him to prophesy87 something good for me.”
No one answered. Lady Vaughan stole a meaning glance and smile at Irene, but there was no touch of embarrassment88 or flush of colour on that fair, serene89, rather plaintive90 face.
“He always went into things with such terrible closeness, did El-Râmi,—” said Sir Frederick after a pause—“No wonder his brain gave way at last. You know you can’t keep on asking the why, why, why of everything without getting shut up in the long run.”
“I think we were not meant to ask ‘why’ at all,” said Irene slowly—“We are made to accept and believe that everything is for the best.”
“There is a story extant in France of a certain philosopher who was always asking why—” said Strathlea—“He was a taciturn man as a rule, and seldom opened his lips except to say ‘Pourquoi?’ When his wife died suddenly, he manifested no useless regrets—he merely said ‘Pourquoi?’ One day they told him his house in the country was burned to the ground,—he shrugged91 his shoulders and said ‘Pourquoi?’ After a bit he lost all his fortune,—his furniture was sold up,—he stared at the bailiffs and said ‘Pourquoi?’ Later on he was suspected of being in a plot to assassinate92 the King,—men came and seized his papers and took him away to prison,—he made no resistance,—he only said ‘Pourquoi?’ He was tried, found guilty and condemned93 to death; the judge asked him if he had anything to say? He replied at once ‘Pourquoi?’ No answer was vouchsafed94 to him, and in due time he was taken to the scaffold. There the executioner bandaged his eyes,—he said ‘Pourquoi?’—he was told to kneel down; he did so, but again demanded ‘Pourquoi?’—the knife fell, and his head was severed95 from his body—yet before it rolled into the basket, it trembled on the block, its eyes opened, its lips moved, and for the last time uttered that final, never-to-be answered query96 ‘Pourquoi?’!”
They all laughed at this story, and just then the carriage stopped. The driver got down and explained in very bad French that he could go no farther,—that the road had terminated, and that there was now only a footpath97 which led through the trees to the little monastic retreat whither they were bound. They alighted, therefore, and found themselves close to the ruin supposed to have once been the “Temple of Venus.” They paused for a moment, looking at the scene in silence.
“There must have been a great joyousness98 in the old creeds,” said Strathlea softly, with an admiring glance at Irene’s slight, slim, almost fairy-like figure clad in its close-fitting garb99 of silky white—“At the shrine of Venus for example, one could declare one’s love without fear or shame.”
“That can be done still,” observed Sir Frederick laughingly, “And is done, pretty often. People haven’t left off making love because the faith in Venus is exploded. I expect they’ll go on in the same old abandoned way to the end of the chapter.”
And, throwing his arm round his wife’s waist, he sauntered on with her towards the thicket100 of trees at the end of which their driver had told them the “refuge” was situated101, leaving Strathlea and Madame Vassilius to follow. Strathlea perceived and was grateful for the opportunity thus given, and ventured to approach Irene a little more closely. She was still gazing out to the sea, her soft eyes were dreamy and abstracted,—her small ungloved right hand hung down at her side,—after a moment’s hesitation102, he boldly lifted it and touched its delicate whiteness with a kiss. She started nervously—she had been away in the land of dreams,—and now she met his gaze with a certain vague reproach in the sweet expression of her face.
“I cannot help it—” said Strathlea quickly, and in a low eager tone—“I cannot, Irene! You know I love you,—you have seen it, and you have discouraged and repelled103 me in every possible way,—but I am not made of stone or marble—I am mere flesh and blood, and I must speak. I love you, Irene! I love you—I will not unsay it. I want you to be my wife. Will you, Irene? Do not be in a hurry to answer me—think long enough to allow some pity for me to mingle105 with your thoughts. Just imagine a little hand like this”—and he kissed it again—“holding the pen with such a masterful grip and inditing106 to the world the thoughts and words that live in the minds of thousands,—is it such a cold hand that it is impervious107 to love’s caress24? I cannot—I will not believe it. You cannot be obdurate108 for ever. What is there in love that it should repel104 you?”
She smiled gravely; and gently, very gently, withdrew her hand.
“It is not love that repels109 me—” she said, “It is what is called love, in this world,—a selfish sentiment that is not love at all. I assure you I am not insensible to your affection for me, my dear Duke, ... I wish for your sake I were differently constituted.”
She paused a moment, then added hastily, “See, the others are out of sight—do let us overtake them.”
She moved away quickly with that soft gliding110 tread of hers which reminded one of a poet’s sylph walking on a moonbeam, and he paced beside her, half mortified111, yet not altogether without hope.
“Why are you so anxious to see this man who has lost his wits,—this El-Râmi Zarânos?” he asked, with a touch of jealousy112 in his accents—“Was he more to you than most people?”
She raised her eyes with an expression of grave remonstrance113.
“Your thoughts wrong me—” she said simply—“I never saw El-Râmi but twice in my life,—I only pitied him greatly. I used to have a strong instinct upon me that all would not be well with him in the end.”
“Why?”
“First, because he had no faith,—secondly, because he had an excess of pride. He dismissed God out of his calculations altogether, and was perfectly content to rely on the onward114 march of his own intellect. Intellectual Egoism is always doomed115 to destruction,—this seems to be a Law of the Universe. Indeed, Egoism, whether sensual or intellectual, is always a defiance116 of God.”
Strathlea walked along in silence for a minute, then he said abruptly:
“It is odd to hear you speak like this, as if you were a religious woman. You are not religious,—every one says so,—you are a free-thinker,—and also, pardon me for repeating it, society supposes you to be full of this sin you condemn—Intellectual Egoism.”
“Society may suppose what it pleases of me”—said Irene, “I was never its favourite, and never shall be, nor do I court its good opinion. Yes, I am a free-thinker, and freely think without narrow law or boundary, of the majesty117, beauty and surpassing goodness of God. As for intellectual egoism,—I hope I am not in any respect guilty of it. To be proud of what one does, or what one knows, has always seemed to me the poorest sort of vanity,—and it is the stumbling block over which a great many workers in the literary profession fall, never to rise again. But you are quite right in saying I am not a ‘religious’ woman; I never go to church and I never patronise bazaars118.”
The sparkle of mirth in her eyes was infectious, and he laughed. But suddenly she stopped, and laid her hand on his arm.
“Listen,” she said, with a slight tremor119 in her voice—“You love me, you say ... and I—I am not altogether indifferent to you—I confess that much. Wait!” for in an excess of delight he had caught both her hands in his own, and she loosened them gently—“Wait—you do not know me, my dear friend. You do not understand my nature at all,—I sometimes think myself it is not what is understood as ‘feminine.’ I am an abnormal creature—and perhaps if you knew me better you would not like me ...”
“I adore you!” said Strathlea impetuously, “and I shall always adore you!”
She smiled rather sadly.
“You think so now,”—she said—“but you cannot be sure,—no man can always be sure of himself. You spoke120 of society and its opinion of me;—now, as a rule, average people do not like me,—they are vaguely121 afraid of me,—and they think it is strange and almost dangerous for a ‘writing woman’ to be still young, and not entirely hideous122. Literary women generally are so safely and harmlessly repellent in look and bearing. Then again, as you said, I am not a religious woman,—no, not at all so in the accepted sense of the term. But with all my heart and soul I believe in God, and the ultimate good of everything. I abhor123 those who would narrow our vision of heavenly things by dogma or rule—I resent all ideas of the Creator that seem to lessen124 His glory by one iota125. I may truly say I live in an ecstasy126 of faith, accepting life as a wondrous127 miracle, and death as a crowning joy. I pray but seldom, as I have nothing to ask for, being given far more than I deserve,—and I complain of nothing save the blind, cruel injustice128 and misjudgment shown by one human unit to another. This is not God’s doing, but Man’s—and it will, it must, bring down full punishment in due season.”
She paused a moment,—Strathlea was looking at her admiringly, and she coloured suddenly at his gaze.
“Besides”—she added with an abrupt76 change of tone, from enthusiasm to coldness, “you must not, my dear Duke, think that I feel myself in any way distinguished or honoured by your proposal to make me your wife. I do not. This sounds very brusque, I know, but I think as a general rule in marriage, a woman gives a great deal more than she ever receives. I am aware how very much your position and fortune might appeal to many of my sex,—but I need scarcely tell you they have no influence upon me. For, notwithstanding an entire lack of log-rollers and press ‘booms’”—and she smiled—“my books bring me in large sums, sufficient and more than sufficient for all my worldly needs. And I am not ambitious to be a duchess.”
“You are cruel, Irene”—said Strathlea—“Should I ever attaint you with worldly motives129? I never wanted to be a duke—I was born so,—and a horrid130 bore it is! If I were a poor man, could you fancy me?”
He looked at her,—and her eyes fell under his ardent54 gaze. He saw his advantage, and profited by it.
“You do not positively hate me?” he asked.
She gave him one fleeting131 glance through her long lashes132, and a faint smile rested on her mouth.
“How could I?” she murmured—“you are my friend.”
“Well, will you try to like me a little more than a friend?”—he continued eagerly—“Will you say to yourself now and then—‘He is a big, bluff133, clumsy Englishman, with more faults than virtues, more money than brains, and a stupid title sticking upon him like a bow of ribbon on a boar’s head, but he is very fond of me, and would give up everything in the world for me’—will you say that to yourself, and think as well as you can of me?—will you, Irene?”
She raised her head. All coldness and hauteur134 had left her face, and her eyes were very soft and tender.
“My dear friend, I cannot hear you do yourself wrong”—she said—“and I am not as unjust as you perhaps imagine. I know your worth. You have more virtues than faults, more brains than money,—you are generous and kindly135, and in this instance, your title sets off the grace of a true and gallant136 gentleman. Give me time to consider a little,—let us join the Vaughans,—I promise you I will give you your answer to-day.”
A light flashed over his features, and stooping, he once more kissed her hand. Then, as she moved on, a gracefully137 gliding figure under the dark arching boughs, he followed with a firm joyous step such as might have befitted a knight138 of the court of King Arthur who had, after hard fighting, at last won some distinct pledge of his “ladye’s” future favour.
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1
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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3
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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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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impurities
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| 不纯( impurity的名词复数 )； 不洁； 淫秽； 杂质 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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41
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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43
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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44
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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45
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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46
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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48
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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49
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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50
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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51
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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52
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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53
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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54
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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55
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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56
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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57
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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58
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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59
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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60
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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61
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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63
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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64
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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65
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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66
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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67
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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68
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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69
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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70
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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71
vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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72
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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73
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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74
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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76
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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78
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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79
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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80
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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81
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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82
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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83
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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84
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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85
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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86
prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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88
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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89
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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90
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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91
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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92
assassinate
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| vt.暗杀，行刺，中伤 | |
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93
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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96
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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97
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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98
joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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99
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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100
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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101
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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102
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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103
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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104
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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105
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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106
inditing
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的现在分词 ) | |
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107
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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108
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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109
repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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110
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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111
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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112
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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113
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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114
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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115
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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116
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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117
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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118
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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119
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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120
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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121
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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122
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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123
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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124
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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125
iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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126
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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127
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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128
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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129
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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130
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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131
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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132
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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133
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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134
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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135
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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136
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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137
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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138
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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