But there was another visitor at the rectory whose feelings in this unfortunate matter must be somewhat strictly1 analysed. Mr. Arabin had heard from his friend of the probability of Eleanor’s marriage with Mr. Slope with amazement2 but not with incredulity. It has been said that he was not in love with Eleanor, and up to this period this certainly had been true. But as soon as he heard that she loved someone else, he began to be very fond of her himself. He did not make up his mind that he wished to have her for his wife; he had never thought of her, and did not now think of her, in connexion with himself; but he experienced an inward, indefinable feeling of deep regret, a gnawing3 sorrow, an unconquerable depression of spirits, and also a species of self-abasement that he — he, Mr. Arabin — had not done something to prevent that other he, that vile4 he whom he so thoroughly5 despised, from carrying off this sweet prize.
Whatever man may have reached the age of forty unmarried without knowing something of such feelings must have been very successful or else very cold-hearted.
Mr. Arabin had never thought of trimming the sails of his bark so that he might sail as convoy6 to this rich argosy. He had seen that Mrs. Bold was beautiful, but he had not dreamt of making her beauty his own. He knew that Mrs. Bold was rich, but he had had no more idea of appropriating her wealth than that of Dr. Grantly. He had discovered that Mrs. Bold was intelligent, warm-hearted, agreeable, sensible, all in fact that a man could wish his wife to be; but the higher were her attractions, the greater her claims to consideration, the less had he imagined that he might possibly become the possessor of them. Such had been his instinct rather than his thoughts, so humble7 and so diffident. Now his diffidence was to be rewarded by his seeing this woman, whose beauty was to his eyes perfect, whose wealth was such as to have deterred8 him from thinking of her, whose widowhood would have silenced him had he not been so deterred, by his seeing her become the prey9 of — Obadiah Slope!
On the morning of Mrs. Bold’s departure he got on his horse to ride over to St. Ewold’s. As he rode he kept muttering to himself a line from Van Artevelde,
How little flattering is woman’s love.
And then he strove to recall his mind and to think of other affairs — his parish, his college, his creed10 — but his thoughts would revert11 to Mr. Slope and the Flemish chieftain.
When we think upon it, How little flattering is woman’s love, Given commonly to whosoe’er is nearest And propped12 with most advantage.
It was not that Mrs. Bold should marry anyone but him — he had not put himself forward as a suitor — but that she should marry Mr. Slope, and so he repeated over again —
Outward grace Nor inward light is needful — day by day Men wanting both are mated with the best And loftiest of God’s feminine creation, Whose love takes no distinction but of gender13, And ridicules14 the very name of choice.
And so he went on, troubled much in his mind.
He had but an uneasy ride of it that morning, and little good did he do at St. Ewold’s.
The necessary alterations15 in his house were being fast completed, and he walked through the rooms, and went up and down the stairs, and rambled16 through the garden, but he could not wake himself to much interest about them. He stood still at every window to look out and think upon Mr. Slope. At almost every window he had before stood and chatted with Eleanor. She and Mrs. Grantly had been there continually, and while Mrs. Grantly had been giving orders, and seeing that orders had been complied with, he and Eleanor had conversed17 on all things appertaining to a clergyman’s profession. He thought how often he had laid down the law to her and how sweetly she had borne with his somewhat dictatorial18 decrees. He remembered her listening intelligence, her gentle but quick replies, her interest in all that concerned the church, in all that concerned him; and then he struck his riding-whip against the window-sill and declared to himself that it was impossible that Eleanor Bold should marry Mr. Slope.
And yet he did not really believe, as he should have done, that it was impossible. He should have known her well enough to feel that it was truly impossible. He should have been aware that Eleanor had that within her which would surely protect her from such degradation19. But he, like so many others, was deficient20 in confidence in woman. He said to himself over and over again that it was impossible that Eleanor Bold should become Mrs. Slope, and yet he believed that she would do so. And so he rambled about, and could do and think of nothing. He was thoroughly uncomfortable, thoroughly ill at ease, cross with himself and everybody else, and feeding in his heart on animosity towards Mr. Slope. This was not as it should be, as he knew and felt, but he could not help himself. In truth Mr. Arabin was now in love with Mrs. Bold, though ignorant of the fact himself. He was in love and, though forty years old, was in love without being aware of it. He fumed21 and fretted22 and did not know what was the matter, as a youth might do at one-and-twenty. And so having done no good at St. Ewold’s, he rode back much earlier than was usual with him, instigated23 by some inward, unacknowledged hope that he might see Mrs. Bold before she left.
Eleanor had not passed a pleasant morning. She was irritated with everyone, and not least with herself. She felt that she had been hardly used, but she felt also that she had not played her own cards well. She should have held herself so far above suspicion as to have received her sister’s innuendoes25 and the archdeacon’s lecture with indifference26. She had not done this but had shown herself angry and sore, and was now ashamed of her own petulance27, yet unable to discontinue it.
The greater part of the morning she had spent alone, but after awhile her father joined her. He had fully28 made up his mind that, come what come might, nothing should separate him from his younger daughter. It was a hard task for him to reconcile himself to the idea of seeing her at the head of Mr. Slope’s table, but he got through it. Mr. Slope, as he argued to himself, was a respectable man and a clergyman, and he, as Eleanor’s father, had no right even to endeavour to prevent her from marrying such a one. He longed to tell her how he had determined29 to prefer her to all the world, how he was prepared to admit that she was not wrong, how thoroughly he differed from Dr. Grantly, but he could not bring himself to mention Mr. Slope’s name. There was yet a chance that they were all wrong in their surmise30, and being thus in doubt, he could not bring himself to speak openly to her on the subject.
He was sitting with her in the drawing-room, with his arm round her waist, saying every now and then some little soft words of affection and working hard with his imaginary fiddle-bow, when Mr. Arabin entered the room. He immediately got up, and the two made some trite31 remarks to each other, neither thinking of what he was saying, while Eleanor kept her seat on the sofa, mute and moody32. Mr. Arabin was included in the list of those against whom her anger was excited. He, too, had dared to talk about her acquaintance with Mr. Slope; he, too, had dared to blame her for not making an enemy of his enemy. She had not intended to see him before her departure, and was now but little inclined to be gracious.
There was a feeling through the whole house that something was wrong. Mr. Arabin, when he saw Eleanor, could not succeed in looking or in speaking as though he knew nothing of all this. He could not be cheerful and positive and contradictory33 with her, as was his wont34. He had not been two minutes in the room before he felt that he had done wrong to return; and the moment he heard her voice, he thoroughly wished himself back at St. Ewold’s. Why, indeed, should he have wished to have aught further to say to the future wife of Mr. Slope?
“I am sorry to hear that you are to leave us so soon,” said he, striving in vain to use his ordinary voice. In answer to this she muttered something about the necessity of her being in Barchester and betook herself most industriously35 to her crochet36 work.
Then there was a little more trite conversation between Mr. Arabin and Mr. Harding — trite, and hard, and vapid37, and senseless. Neither of them had anything to say to the other, and yet neither at such a moment liked to remain silent. At last Mr. Harding, taking advantage of a pause, escaped out of the room, and Eleanor and Mr. Arabin were left together.
“Your going will be a great break-up to our party,” said he.
She again muttered something which was all but inaudible, but kept her eyes fixed38 upon her work.
“We have had a very pleasant month here,” said he; “at least I have; and I am sorry it should be so soon over.”
“I have already been from home longer than I intended,” said she, “and it is time that I should return.”
“Well, pleasant hours and pleasant days must come to an end. It is a pity that so few of them are pleasant; or perhaps, rather —”
“It is a pity, certainly, that men and women do so much to destroy the pleasantness of their days,” said she, interrupting him. “It is a pity that there should be so little charity abroad.”
“Charity should begin at home,” said he, and he was proceeding39 to explain that he as a clergyman could not be what she would call charitable at the expense of those principles which he considered it his duty to teach when he remembered that it would be worse than vain to argue on such a matter with the future wife of Mr. Slope. “But you are just leaving us,” he continued, “and I will not weary your last hour with another lecture. As it is, I fear I have given you too many.”
“You should practise as well as preach, Mr. Arabin.”
“Undoubtedly I should. So should we all. All of us who presume to teach are bound to do our utmost towards fulfilling our own lessons. I thoroughly allow my deficiency in doing so, but I do not quite know now to what you allude40. Have you any special reason for telling me now that I should practise as well as preach?”
Eleanor made no answer. She longed to let him know the cause of her anger, to upbraid41 him for speaking of her disrespectfully, and then at last to forgive him, and so part friends. She felt that she would be unhappy to leave him in her present frame of mind, but yet she could hardly bring herself to speak to him of Mr. Slope. And how could she allude to the innuendo24 thrown out by the archdeacon, and thrown out, as she believed, at the instigation of Mr. Arabin? She wanted to make him know that he was wrong, to make him aware that he had ill-treated her, in order that the sweetness of her forgiveness might be enhanced. She felt that she liked him too well to be contented42 to part with him in displeasure, yet she could not get over her deep displeasure without some explanation, some acknowledgement on his part, some assurance that he would never again so sin against her.
“Why do you tell me that I should practise what I preach?” continued he.
“All men should do so.”
“Certainly. That is as it were understood and acknowledged. But you do not say so to all men, or to all clergymen. The advice, good as it is, is not given except in allusion43 to some special deficiency. If you will tell me my special deficiency, I will endeavour to profit by the advice.”
She paused for awhile and then, looking full in his face, she said, “You are not bold enough, Mr. Arabin, to speak out to me openly and plainly, and yet you expect me, a woman, to speak openly to you. Why did you speak calumny44 of me to Dr. Grantly behind my back?”
“Calumny!” said he, and his whole face became suffused45 with blood. “What calumny? If I have spoken calumny of you, I will beg your pardon, and his to whom I spoke46 it, and God’s pardon also. But what calumny have I spoken of you to Dr. Grantly?”
She also blushed deeply. She could not bring herself to ask him whether he had not spoken of her as another man’s wife. “You know that best yourself,” said she. “But I ask you as a man of honour, if you have not spoken of me as you would not have spoken of your own sister — or rather I will not ask you,” she continued, finding that he did not immediately answer her. “I will not put you to the necessity of answering such a question. Dr. Grantly has told me what you said.”
“Dr. Grantly certainly asked me for my advice, and I gave it. He asked me —”
“I know he did, Mr. Arabin. He asked you whether he would be doing right to receive me at Plumstead if I continued my acquaintance with a gentleman who happens to be personally disagreeable to yourself and to him.”
“You are mistaken, Mrs. Bold. I have no personal knowledge of Mr. Slope; I never met him in my life.”
“You are not the less individually hostile to him. It is not for me to question the propriety47 of your enmity, but I had a right to expect that my name should not have been mixed up in your hostilities48. This has been done and been done by you in a manner the most injurious and the most distressing49 to me as a woman. I must confess, Mr. Arabin, that from you I expected a different sort of usage.”
As she spoke she with difficulty restrained her tears — but she did restrain them. Had she given way and sobbed50 aloud, as in such cases a woman should do, he would have melted at once, implored51 her pardon, perhaps knelt at her feet ‘ and declared his love. Everything would have been explained, and Eleanor would have gone back to Barchester with a contented mind. How easily would she have forgiven and forgotten the archdeacon’s suspicions had she but heard the whole truth from Mr. Arabin. But then where would have been my novel? She did not cry, and Mr. Arabin did not melt.
“‘You do me an injustice,” said he. “My advice was asked by Dr. Grantly, and I was obliged to give it.”
“Dr. Grantly has been most officious, most impertinent. I have as complete a right to form my acquaintance as he has to form his. What would you have said had I consulted you as to the propriety of my banishing52 Dr. Grantly from my house because he knows Lord Tattenham Corner? I am sure Lord Tattenham is quite as objectionable an acquaintance for a clergyman as Mr. Slope is for a clergyman’s daughter.”
“I do not know Lord Tattenham Corner.”
“No, but Dr. Grantly does. It is nothing to me if he knows all the young lords on every race-course in England. I shall not interfere53 with him, nor shall he with me.”
“I am sorry to differ with you, Mrs. Bold, but as you have spoken to me on this matter, and especially as you blame me for what little I said on the subject, I must tell you that I do differ from you. Dr. Grantly’s position as a man in the world gives him a right to choose his own acquaintances, subject to certain influences. If he chooses them badly, those influences will be used. If he consorts54 with persons unsuitable to him, his bishop55 will interfere. What the bishop is to Dr. Grantly, Dr. Grantly is to you.”
“I deny it. I utterly56 deny it,” said Eleanor, jumping from her seat and literally57 flashing before Mr. Arabin, as she stood on the drawing-room floor. He had never seen her so excited, he had never seen her look half so beautiful.
“I utterly deny it,” said she. “Dr. Grantly has no sort of jurisdiction58 over me whatsoever59. Do you and he forget that I am not altogether alone in the world? Do you forget that I have a father? Dr. Grantly, I believe, always has forgotten it.
“From you, Mr. Arabin,” she continued, “I would have listened to advice because I should have expected it to have been given as one friend may advise another — not as a schoolmaster gives an order to a pupil. I might have differed from you — on this matter I should have done so — but had you spoken to me in your usual manner and with your usual freedom, I should not have been angry. But now — was it manly60 of you, Mr. Arabin, to speak of me in this way — so disrespectful — so —? I cannot bring myself to repeat what you said. You must understand what I feel. Was it just of you to speak of me in such a way and to advise my sister’s husband to turn me out of my sister’s house because I chose to know a man of whose doctrine61 you disapprove62?”
“I have no alternative left to me, Mrs. Bold,” said he, standing63 with his back to the fire-place, looking down intently at the carpet pattern, and speaking with a slow, measured voice, “but to tell you plainly what did take place between me and Dr. Grantly.”
“Well,” said she, finding that he paused for a moment.
“I am afraid that what I may say may pain you.”
“It cannot well do so more than what you have already done,” said she.
“Dr. Grantly asked me whether I thought it would be prudent64 for him to receive you in his house as the wife of Mr. Slope, and I told him that I thought it would be imprudent. Believing it to be utterly impossible that Mr. Slope and —”
“Thank you, Mr. Arabin, that is sufficient. I do not want to know your reasons,” said she, speaking with a terribly calm voice. “I have shown to this gentleman the commonplace civility of a neighbour; and because I have done so, because I have not indulged against him in all the rancour and hatred65 which you and Dr. Grantly consider due to all clergymen who do not agree with yourselves, you conclude that I am to marry him; or rather you do not conclude so — no rational man could really come to such an outrageous66 conclusion without better ground; you have not thought so, but, as I am in a position in which such an accusation67 must be peculiarly painful, it is made in order that I may be terrified into hostility68 against this enemy of yours.”
As she finished speaking, she walked to the drawing-room window and stepped out into the garden. Mr. Arabin was left in the room, still occupied in counting the pattern on the carpet. He had, however, distinctly heard and accurately69 marked every word that she had spoken. Was it not clear from what she had said that the archdeacon had been wrong in imputing70 to her any attachment71 to Mr. Slope? Was it not clear that Eleanor was still free to make another choice? It may seem strange that he should for a moment have had a doubt, and yet he did doubt. She had not absolutely denied the charge; she had not expressly said that it was untrue. Mr. Arabin understood little of the nature of a woman’s feelings, or he would have known how improbable it was that she should make any clearer declaration than she had done. Few men do understand the nature of a woman’s heart, till years have robbed such understanding of its value. And it is well that it should be so, or men would triumph too easily.
Mr. Arabin stood counting the carpet, unhappy, wretchedly unhappy, at the hard words that had been spoken to him, and yet happy, exquisitely72 happy, as he thought that after all the woman whom he so regarded was not to become the wife of the man whom he so much disliked. As he stood there he began to be aware that he was himself in love. Forty years had passed over his head, and as yet woman’s beauty had never given him an uneasy hour. His present hour was very uneasy.
Not that he remained there for half or a quarter of that time. In spite of what Eleanor had said Mr. Arabin was, in truth, a manly man. Having ascertained73 that he loved this woman, and having now reason to believe that she was free to receive his love, at least if she pleased to do so, he followed her into the garden to make such wooing as he could.
He was not long in finding her. She was walking to and fro beneath the avenue of elms that stood in the archdeacon’s grounds, skirting the churchyard. What had passed between her and Mr. Arabin had not, alas74, tended to lessen75 the acerbity76 of her spirit. She was very angry — more angry with him than with anyone. How could he have so misunderstood her? She had been so intimate with him, had allowed him such latitude77 in what he had chosen to say to her, had complied with his ideas, cherished his views, fostered his precepts78, cared for his comforts, made much of him in every way in which a pretty woman can make much of an unmarried man without committing herself or her feelings! She had been doing this, and while she had been doing it he had regarded her as the affianced wife of another man.
As she passed along the avenue, every now and then an unbidden tear would force itself on her cheek, and as she raised her hand to brush it away, she stamped with her little foot upon the sward with very spite to think that she had been so treated.
Mr. Arabin was very near to her when she first saw him, and she turned short round and retraced79 her steps down the avenue, trying to rid her cheeks of all trace of the tell-tale tears. It was a needless endeavour, for Mr. Arabin was in a state of mind that hardly allowed him to observe such trifles. He followed her down the walk and overtook her just as she reached the end of it.
He had not considered how he would address her; he had not thought what he would say. He had only felt that it was wretchedness to him to quarrel with her and that it would be happiness to be allowed to love her. And yet he could not lower himself by asking her pardon. He had done her no wrong. He had not calumniated80 her, not injured her, as she had accused him of doing. He could not confess sins of which he had not been guilty. He could only let the past be past and ask her as to her and his hopes for the future.
“I hope we are not to part as enemies?” said he.
“There shall be no enmity on my part,” said Eleanor; “I endeavour to avoid all enmities. It would be a hollow pretence81 were I to say that there can be true friendship between us, after what has just passed. People cannot make their friends of those whom they despise.”
“And am I despised?”
“I must have been so before you could have spoken of me as you did. And I was deceived, cruelly deceived. I believed that you thought well of me; I believed that you esteemed83 me.”
“Thought well of you and esteemed you!” said he. “In justifying84 myself before you, I must use stronger words than those.” He paused for a moment, and Eleanor’s heart beat with painful violence within her bosom86 as she waited for him to go on. “I have esteemed, do esteem82 you, as I never yet esteemed any woman. Think well of you! I never thought to think so well, so much of any human creature. Speak calumny of you! Insult you! Wilfully87 injure you! I wish it were my privilege to shield you from calumny, insult, and injury. Calumny! Ah me! ’Twere almost better that it were so. Better than to worship with a sinful worship; sinful and vain also.” And then he walked along beside her, with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down on the grass beneath his feet and utterly at a loss how to express his meaning. And Eleanor walked beside him determined at least to give him no assistance.
“Ah me!” he uttered at last, speaking rather to himself than to her. “Ah me! These Plumstead walks were pleasant enough, if one could have but heart’s ease, but without that the dull, dead stones of Oxford88 were far preferable — and St. Ewold’s, too. Mrs. Bold, I am beginning to think that I mistook myself when I came hither. A Romish priest now would have escaped all this. Oh, Father of heaven, how good for us would it be if thou couldest vouchsafe89 to us a certain rule.”
“And have we not a certain rule, Mr. Arabin?”
“Yes — yes, surely; ‘Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.’ But what is temptation? What is evil? Is this evil — is this temptation?”
Poor Mr. Arabin! It would not come out of him, that deep, true love of his. He could not bring himself to utter it in plain language that would require and demand an answer. He knew not how to say to the woman by his side, “Since the fact is that you do not love that other man, that you are not to be his wife, can you love me, will you be my wife?” These were the words which were in his heart, but with all his sighs he could not draw them to his lips. He would have given anything, everything for power to ask this simple question, but glib90 as was his tongue in pulpits and on platforms, now he could not find a word wherewith to express the plain wish of his heart.
And yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly as though he had declared his passion with all the elegant fluency91 of a practised Lothario. With a woman’s instinct, she followed every bend of his mind as he spoke of the pleasantness of Plumstead and the stones of Oxford, as he alluded92 to the safety of the Romish priest and the hidden perils93 of temptation. She knew that it all meant love. She knew that this man at her side, this accomplished94 scholar, this practised orator95, this great polemical combatant, was striving and striving in vain to tell her that his heart was no longer his own.
She knew this and felt a sort of joy in knowing it, yet she would not come to his aid. He had offended her deeply, had treated her unworthily, the more unworthily seeing that he had learnt to love her, and Eleanor could not bring herself to abandon her revenge. She did not ask herself whether or no she would ultimately accept his love. She did not even acknowledge to herself that she now perceived it with pleasure. At the present moment it did not touch her heart; it merely appeased96 her pride and flattered her vanity. Mr. Arabin had dared to associate her name with that of Mr. Slope, and now her spirit was soothed97 by finding that he would fain associate it with his own. And so she walked on beside him, inhaling98 incense99 but giving out no sweetness in return.
“Answer me this,” said Mr. Arabin, stopping suddenly in his walk and stepping forward so that he faced his companion. “Answer me this one question. You do not love Mr. Slope? You do not intend to be his wife?”
Mr. Arabin certainly did not go the right way to win such a woman as Eleanor Bold. Just as her wrath100 was evaporating, as it was disappearing before the true warmth of his untold101 love, he rekindled102 it by a most useless repetition of his original sin. Had he known what he was about, he should never have mentioned Mr. Slope’s name before Eleanor Bold, till he had made her all his own. Then, and not till then, he might have talked of Mr. Slope with as much triumph as he chose.
“I shall answer no such question,” said she; “and what is more, I must tell you that nothing can justify85 your asking it. Good morning!”
And so saying, she stepped proudly across the lawn and, passing through the drawing-room window, joined her father and sister at lunch in the dining-room. Half an hour afterwards she was in the carriage, and so she left Plumstead without again seeing Mr. Arabin.
His walk was long and sad among the sombre trees that overshadowed the churchyard. He left the archdeacon’s grounds that he might escape attention and sauntered among the green hillocks under which lay at rest so many of the once loving swains and forgotten beauties of Plumstead. To his ears Eleanor’s last words sounded like a knell103 never to be reversed. He could not comprehend that she might be angry with him, indignant with him, remorseless with him, and yet love him. He could not make up his mind whether or no Mr. Slope was in truth a favoured rival. If not, why should she not have answered his question?
Poor Mr. Arabin — untaught, illiterate104, boorish105, ignorant man! That at forty years of age you should know so little of the workings of a woman’s heart!
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strictly
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amazement
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gnawing
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vile
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thoroughly
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convoy
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humble
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deterred
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prey
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creed
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revert
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propped
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gender
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ridicules
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alterations
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rambled
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conversed
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dictatorial
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degradation
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deficient
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fumed
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fretted
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instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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industriously
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crochet
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| n.钩针织物；v.用钩针编制 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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consorts
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| n.配偶( consort的名词复数 )；（演奏古典音乐的）一组乐师；一组古典乐器；一起v.结伴( consort的第三人称单数 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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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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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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85
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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86
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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99
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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101
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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102
rekindled
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| v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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104
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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