Leaving the favoured, and well-received, and flattered of the world; him of the world most worldly, who never compromised himself by an ungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly1 one; to lie smilingly asleep — for even sleep, working but little change in his dissembling face, became with him a piece of cold, conventional hypocrisy3 — we follow in the steps of two slow travellers on foot, making towards Chigwell.
Barnaby and his mother. Grip in their company, of course.
The widow, to whom each painful mile seemed longer than the last, toiled4 wearily along; while Barnaby, yielding to every inconstant impulse, fluttered here and there, now leaving her far behind, now lingering far behind himself, now darting5 into some by-lane or path and leaving her to pursue her way alone, until he stealthily emerged again and came upon her with a wild shout of merriment, as his wayward and capricious nature prompted. Now he would call to her from the topmost branch of some high tree by the roadside; now using his tall staff as a leaping-pole, come flying over ditch or hedge or five-barred gate; now run with surprising swiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, and halting, sport upon a patch of grass with Grip till she came up. These were his delights; and when his patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked into his flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated6 them by one sad word or murmur7, though each had been to her a source of suffering in the same degree as it was to him of pleasure.
It is something to look upon enjoyment8, so that it be free and wild and in the face of nature, though it is but the enjoyment of an idiot. It is something to know that Heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such a creature’s breast; it is something to be assured that, however lightly men may crush that faculty9 in their fellows, the Great Creator of mankind imparts it even to his despised and slighted work. Who would not rather see a poor idiot happy in the sunlight, than a wise man pining in a darkened jail!
Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of Infinite Benevolence10 with an eternal frown; read in the Everlasting11 Book, wide open to your view, the lesson it would teach. Its pictures are not in black and sombre hues13, but bright and glowing tints14; its music — save when ye drown it — is not in sighs and groans15, but songs and cheerful sounds. Listen to the million voices in the summer air, and find one dismal16 as your own. Remember, if ye can, the sense of hope and pleasure which every glad return of day awakens18 in the breast of all your kind who have not changed their nature; and learn some wisdom even from the witless, when their hearts are lifted up they know not why, by all the mirth and happiness it brings.
The widow’s breast was full of care, was laden19 heavily with secret dread20 and sorrow; but her boy’s gaiety of heart gladdened her, and beguiled21 the long journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon his arm, and would keep beside her steadily22 for a short distance; but it was more his nature to be rambling23 to and fro, and she better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself.
She had quitted the place to which they were travelling, directly after the event which had changed her whole existence; and for two-and-twenty years had never had courage to revisit it. It was her native village. How many recollections crowded on her mind when it appeared in sight!
Two-and-twenty years. Her boy’s whole life and history. The last time she looked back upon those roofs among the trees, she carried him in her arms, an infant. How often since that time had she sat beside him night and day, watching for the dawn of mind that never came; how had she feared, and doubted, and yet hoped, long after conviction forced itself upon her! The little stratagems24 she had devised to try him, the little tokens he had given in his childish way — not of dulness but of something infinitely25 worse, so ghastly and unchildlike in its cunning — came back as vividly26 as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which they used to be; the spot in which his cradle stood; he, old and elfin-like in face, but ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacant eye, and crooning some uncouth27 song as she sat by and rocked him; every circumstance of his infancy28 came thronging29 back, and the most trivial, perhaps, the most distinctly.
His older childhood, too; the strange imaginings he had; his terror of certain senseless things — familiar objects he endowed with life; the slow and gradual breaking out of that one horror, in which, before his birth, his darkened intellect began; how, in the midst of all, she had found some hope and comfort in his being unlike another child, and had gone on almost believing in the slow development of his mind until he grew a man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting12; one after another, all these old thoughts sprung up within her, strong after their long slumber30 and bitterer than ever.
She took his arm and they hurried through the village street. It was the same as it was wont31 to be in old times, yet different too, and wore another air. The change was in herself, not it; but she never thought of that, and wondered at its alteration32, and where it lay, and what it was.
The people all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came flocking round him — as she remembered to have done with their fathers and mothers round some silly beggarman, when a child herself. None of them knew her; they passed each well-remembered house, and yard, and homestead; and striking into the fields, were soon alone again.
The Warren was the end of their journey. Mr Haredale was walking in the garden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate, unlocked it, and bade them enter that way.
‘At length you have mustered33 heart to visit the old place,’ he said to the widow. ‘I am glad you have.’
‘For the first time, and the last, sir,’ she replied.
‘The first for many years, but not the last?’
‘The very last.’
‘You mean,’ said Mr Haredale, regarding her with some surprise, ‘that having made this effort, you are resolved not to persevere34 and are determined35 to relapse? This is unworthy of you. I have often told you, you should return here. You would be happier here than elsewhere, I know. As to Barnaby, it’s quite his home.’
‘And Grip’s,’ said Barnaby, holding the basket open. The raven36 hopped37 gravely out, and perching on his shoulder and addressing himself to Mr Haredale, cried — as a hint, perhaps, that some temperate38 refreshment39 would be acceptable —‘Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea!’
‘Hear me, Mary,’ said Mr Haredale kindly40, as he motioned her to walk with him towards the house. ‘Your life has been an example of patience and fortitude41, except in this one particular which has often given me great pain. It is enough to know that you were cruelly involved in the calamity42 which deprived me of an only brother, and Emma of her father, without being obliged to suppose (as I sometimes am) that you associate us with the author of our joint43 misfortunes.’
‘Associate you with him, sir!’ she cried.
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I think you do. I almost believe that because your husband was bound by so many ties to our relation, and died in his service and defence, you have come in some sort to connect us with his murder.’
‘Alas!’ she answered. ‘You little know my heart, sir. You little know the truth!’
‘It is natural you should do so; it is very probable you may, without being conscious of it,’ said Mr Haredale, speaking more to himself than her. ‘We are a fallen house. Money, dispensed44 with the most lavish45 hand, would be a poor recompense for sufferings like yours; and thinly scattered46 by hands so pinched and tied as ours, it becomes a miserable47 mockery. I feel it so, God knows,’ he added, hastily. ‘Why should I wonder if she does!’
‘You do me wrong, dear sir, indeed,’ she rejoined with great earnestness; ‘and yet when you come to hear what I desire your leave to say —’
‘I shall find my doubts confirmed?’ he said, observing that she faltered48 and became confused. ‘Well!’
He quickened his pace for a few steps, but fell back again to her side, and said:
‘And have you come all this way at last, solely49 to speak to me?’
She answered, ‘Yes.’
‘A curse,’ he muttered, ‘upon the wretched state of us proud beggars, from whom the poor and rich are equally at a distance; the one being forced to treat us with a show of cold respect; the other condescending51 to us in their every deed and word, and keeping more aloof52, the nearer they approach us.— Why, if it were pain to you (as it must have been) to break for this slight purpose the chain of habit forged through two-and-twenty years, could you not let me know your wish, and beg me to come to you?’
‘There was not time, sir,’ she rejoined. ‘I took my resolution but last night, and taking it, felt that I must not lose a day — a day! an hour — in having speech with you.’
They had by this time reached the house. Mr Haredale paused for a moment, and looked at her as if surprised by the energy of her manner. Observing, however, that she took no heed53 of him, but glanced up, shuddering54, at the old walls with which such horrors were connected in her mind, he led her by a private stair into his library, where Emma was seated in a window, reading.
The young lady, seeing who approached, hastily rose and laid aside her book, and with many kind words, and not without tears, gave her a warm and earnest welcome. But the widow shrunk from her embrace as though she feared her, and sunk down trembling on a chair.
‘It is the return to this place after so long an absence,’ said Emma gently. ‘Pray ring, dear uncle — or stay — Barnaby will run himself and ask for wine —’
‘Not for the world,’ she cried. ‘It would have another taste — I could not touch it. I want but a minute’s rest. Nothing but that.’
Miss Haredale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent pity. She remained for a little time quite still; then rose and turned to Mr Haredale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was contemplating55 her with fixed56 attention.
The tale connected with the mansion57 borne in mind, it seemed, as has been already said, the chosen theatre for such a deed as it had known. The room in which this group were now assembled — hard by the very chamber58 where the act was done — dull, dark, and sombre; heavy with worm-eaten books; deadened and shut in by faded hangings, muffling59 every sound; shadowed mournfully by trees whose rustling60 boughs61 gave ever and anon a spectral62 knocking at the glass; wore, beyond all others in the house, a ghostly, gloomy air. Nor were the group assembled there, unfitting tenants63 of the spot. The widow, with her marked and startling face and downcast eyes; Mr Haredale stern and despondent64 ever; his niece beside him, like, yet most unlike, the picture of her father, which gazed reproachfully down upon them from the blackened wall; Barnaby, with his vacant look and restless eye; were all in keeping with the place, and actors in the legend. Nay65, the very raven, who had hopped upon the table and with the air of some old necromancer66 appeared to be profoundly studying a great folio volume that lay open on a desk, was strictly67 in unison68 with the rest, and looked like the embodied69 spirit of evil biding70 his time of mischief71.
‘I scarcely know,’ said the widow, breaking silence, ‘how to begin. You will think my mind disordered.’
‘The whole tenor72 of your quiet and reproachless life since you were last here,’ returned Mr Haredale, mildly, ‘shall bear witness for you. Why do you fear to awaken17 such a suspicion? You do not speak to strangers. You have not to claim our interest or consideration for the first time. Be more yourself. Take heart. Any advice or assistance that I can give you, you know is yours of right, and freely yours.’
‘What if I came, sir,’ she rejoined, ‘I who have but one other friend on earth, to reject your aid from this moment, and to say that henceforth I launch myself upon the world, alone and unassisted, to sink or swim as Heaven may decree!’
‘You would have, if you came to me for such a purpose,’ said Mr Haredale calmly, ‘some reason to assign for conduct so extraordinary, which — if one may entertain the possibility of anything so wild and strange — would have its weight, of course.’
‘That, sir,’ she answered, ‘is the misery73 of my distress74. I can give no reason whatever. My own bare word is all that I can offer. It is my duty, my imperative75 and bounden duty. If I did not discharge it, I should be a base and guilty wretch50. Having said that, my lips are sealed, and I can say no more.’
As though she felt relieved at having said so much, and had nerved herself to the remainder of her task, she spoke76 from this time with a firmer voice and heightened courage.
‘Heaven is my witness, as my own heart is — and yours, dear young lady, will speak for me, I know — that I have lived, since that time we all have bitter reason to remember, in unchanging devotion, and gratitude77 to this family. Heaven is my witness that go where I may, I shall preserve those feelings unimpaired. And it is my witness, too, that they alone impel78 me to the course I must take, and from which nothing now shall turn me, as I hope for mercy.’
‘These are strange riddles,’ said Mr Haredale.
‘In this world, sir,’ she replied, ‘they may, perhaps, never be explained. In another, the Truth will be discovered in its own good time. And may that time,’ she added in a low voice, ‘be far distant!’
‘Let me be sure,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘that I understand you, for I am doubtful of my own senses. Do you mean that you are resolved voluntarily to deprive yourself of those means of support you have received from us so long — that you are determined to resign the annuity79 we settled on you twenty years ago — to leave house, and home, and goods, and begin life anew — and this, for some secret reason or monstrous80 fancy which is incapable81 of explanation, which only now exists, and has been dormant82 all this time? In the name of God, under what delusion83 are you labouring?’
‘As I am deeply thankful,’ she made answer, ‘for the kindness of those, alive and dead, who have owned this house; and as I would not have its roof fall down and crush me, or its very walls drip blood, my name being spoken in their hearing; I never will again subsist84 upon their bounty85, or let it help me to subsistence. You do not know,’ she added, suddenly, ‘to what uses it may be applied86; into what hands it may pass. I do, and I renounce87 it.’
‘Surely,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘its uses rest with you.’
‘They did. They rest with me no longer. It may be — it IS— devoted88 to purposes that mock the dead in their graves. It never can prosper89 with me. It will bring some other heavy judgement on the head of my dear son, whose innocence90 will suffer for his mother’s guilt2.’
‘What words are these!’ cried Mr Haredale, regarding her with wonder. ‘Among what associates have you fallen? Into what guilt have you ever been betrayed?’
‘I am guilty, and yet innocent; wrong, yet right; good in intention, though constrained91 to shield and aid the bad. Ask me no more questions, sir; but believe that I am rather to be pitied than condemned92. I must leave my house to-morrow, for while I stay there, it is haunted. My future dwelling93, if I am to live in peace, must be a secret. If my poor boy should ever stray this way, do not tempt94 him to disclose it or have him watched when he returns; for if we are hunted, we must fly again. And now this load is off my mind, I beseech95 you — and you, dear Miss Haredale, too — to trust me if you can, and think of me kindly as you have been used to do. If I die and cannot tell my secret even then (for that may come to pass), it will sit the lighter96 on my breast in that hour for this day’s work; and on that day, and every day until it comes, I will pray for and thank you both, and trouble you no more.
With that, she would have left them, but they detained her, and with many soothing97 words and kind entreaties98, besought99 her to consider what she did, and above all to repose100 more freely upon them, and say what weighed so sorely on her mind. Finding her deaf to their persuasions101, Mr Haredale suggested, as a last resource, that she should confide102 in Emma, of whom, as a young person and one of her own sex, she might stand in less dread than of himself. From this proposal, however, she recoiled103 with the same indescribable repugnance104 she had manifested when they met. The utmost that could be wrung105 from her was, a promise that she would receive Mr Haredale at her own house next evening, and in the mean time reconsider her determination and their dissuasions — though any change on her part, as she told them, was quite hopeless. This condition made at last, they reluctantly suffered her to depart, since she would neither eat nor drink within the house; and she, and Barnaby, and Grip, accordingly went out as they had come, by the private stair and garden-gate; seeing and being seen of no one by the way.
It was remarkable106 in the raven that during the whole interview he had kept his eye on his book with exactly the air of a very sly human rascal107, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was listening to everything. He still appeared to have the conversation very strongly in his mind, for although, when they were alone again, he issued orders for the instant preparation of innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, he was thoughtful, and rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense of duty, than with any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what is commonly called good company.
They were to return by the coach. As there was an interval108 of full two hours before it started, and they needed rest and some refreshment, Barnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole. But his mother, who had no wish to be recognised by any of those who had known her long ago, and who feared besides that Mr Haredale might, on second thoughts, despatch109 some messenger to that place of entertainment in quest of her, proposed to wait in the churchyard instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy and carry thither110 such humble111 viands112 as they required, he cheerfully assented113, and in the churchyard they sat down to take their frugal114 dinner.
Here again, the raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up and down when he had dined, with an air of elderly complacency which was strongly suggestive of his having his hands under his coat-tails; and appearing to read the tombstones with a very critical taste. Sometimes, after a long inspection115 of an epitaph, he would strop his beak116 upon the grave to which it referred, and cry in his hoarse117 tones, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil!’ but whether he addressed his observations to any supposed person below, or merely threw them off as a general remark, is matter of uncertainty118.
It was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby’s mother; for Mr Reuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault119 in which his ashes rested, was a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscription120 recording121 how and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtful and apart, until their time was out, and the distant horn told that the coach was coming.
Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at the sound; and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well, walked into his basket straightway, entreating122 society in general (as though he intended a kind of satire123 upon them in connection with churchyards) never to say die on any terms. They were soon on the coach-top and rolling along the road.
It went round by the Maypole, and stopped at the door. Joe was from home, and Hugh came sluggishly124 out to hand up the parcel that it called for. There was no fear of old John coming out. They could see him from the coach-roof fast asleep in his cosy125 bar. It was a part of John’s character. He made a point of going to sleep at the coach’s time. He despised gadding126 about; he looked upon coaches as things that ought to be indicted127; as disturbers of the peace of mankind; as restless, bustling128, busy, horn-blowing contrivances, quite beneath the dignity of men, and only suited to giddy girls that did nothing but chatter129 and go a-shopping. ‘We know nothing about coaches here, sir,’ John would say, if any unlucky stranger made inquiry130 touching131 the offensive vehicles; ‘we don’t book for ’em; we’d rather not; they’re more trouble than they’re worth, with their noise and rattle132. If you like to wait for ’em you can; but we don’t know anything about ’em; they may call and they may not — there’s a carrier — he was looked upon as quite good enough for us, when I was a boy.’
She dropped her veil as Hugh climbed up, and while he hung behind, and talked to Barnaby in whispers. But neither he nor any other person spoke to her, or noticed her, or had any curiosity about her; and so, an alien, she visited and left the village where she had been born, and had lived a merry child, a comely133 girl, a happy wife — where she had known all her enjoyment of life, and had entered on its hardest sorrows.
收听单词发音 |
1
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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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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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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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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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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45
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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47
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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48
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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49
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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50
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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51
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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52
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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53
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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54
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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55
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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56
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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57
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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58
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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59
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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60
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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61
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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62
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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63
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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64
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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65
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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66
necromancer
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| n. 巫师 | |
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67
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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68
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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69
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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70
biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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71
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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72
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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73
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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74
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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75
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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76
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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77
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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78
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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79
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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80
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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81
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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82
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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83
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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84
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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85
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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86
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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87
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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88
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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89
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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90
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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91
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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92
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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93
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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94
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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95
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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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
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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98
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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99
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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100
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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101
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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102
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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103
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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104
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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105
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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106
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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107
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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108
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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109
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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110
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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111
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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112
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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113
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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115
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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116
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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117
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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118
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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119
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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120
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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121
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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122
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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123
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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124
sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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125
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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126
gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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127
indicted
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| 控告，起诉( indict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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129
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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130
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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131
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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132
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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133
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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