The thoughts of worldly men are for ever regulated by a moral law of gravitation, which, like the physical one, holds them down to earth. The bright glory of day, and the silent wonders of a starlit night, appeal to their minds in vain. There are no signs in the sun, or in the moon, or in the stars, for their reading. They are like some wise men, who, learning to know each planet by its Latin name, have quite forgotten such small heavenly constellations1 as Charity, Forbearance, Universal Love, and Mercy, although they shine by night and day so brightly that the blind may see them; and who, looking upward at the spangled sky, see nothing there but the reflection of their own great wisdom and book-learning.
It is curious to imagine these people of the world, busy in thought, turning their eyes towards the countless2 spheres that shine above us, and making them reflect the only images their minds contain. The man who lives but in the breath of princes, has nothing his sight but stars for courtiers’ breasts. The envious3 man beholds4 his neighbours’ honours even in the sky; to the money-hoarder, and the mass of worldly folk, the whole great universe above glitters with sterling5 coin — fresh from the mint — stamped with the sovereign’s head — coming always between them and heaven, turn where they may. So do the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.
Everything was fresh and gay, as though the world were but that morning made, when Mr Chester rode at a tranquil6 pace along the Forest road. Though early in the season, it was warm and genial7 weather; the trees were budding into leaf, the hedges and the grass were green, the air was musical with songs of birds, and high above them all the lark8 poured out her richest melody. In shady spots, the morning dew sparkled on each young leaf and blade of grass; and where the sun was shining, some diamond drops yet glistened9 brightly, as in unwillingness11 to leave so fair a world, and have such brief existence. Even the light wind, whose rustling12 was as gentle to the ear as softly-falling water, had its hope and promise; and, leaving a pleasant fragrance13 in its track as it went fluttering by, whispered of its intercourse14 with Summer, and of his happy coming.
The solitary15 rider went glancing on among the trees, from sunlight into shade and back again, at the same even pace — looking about him, certainly, from time to time, but with no greater thought of the day or the scene through which he moved, than that he was fortunate (being choicely dressed) to have such favourable16 weather. He smiled very complacently17 at such times, but rather as if he were satisfied with himself than with anything else: and so went riding on, upon his chestnut18 cob, as pleasant to look upon as his own horse, and probably far less sensitive to the many cheerful influences by which he was surrounded.
In the course of time, the Maypole’s massive chimneys rose upon his view: but he quickened not his pace one jot19, and with the same cool gravity rode up to the tavern20 porch. John Willet, who was toasting his red face before a great fire in the bar, and who, with surpassing foresight21 and quickness of apprehension22, had been thinking, as he looked at the blue sky, that if that state of things lasted much longer, it might ultimately become necessary to leave off fires and throw the windows open, issued forth23 to hold his stirrup; calling lustily for Hugh.
‘Oh, you’re here, are you, sir?’ said John, rather surprised by the quickness with which he appeared. ‘Take this here valuable animal into the stable, and have more than particular care of him if you want to keep your place. A mortal lazy fellow, sir; he needs a deal of looking after.’
‘But you have a son,’ returned Mr Chester, giving his bridle24 to Hugh as he dismounted, and acknowledging his salute25 by a careless motion of his hand towards his hat. ‘Why don’t you make HIM useful?’
‘Why, the truth is, sir,’ replied John with great importance, ‘that my son — what, you’re a-listening are you, villain26?’
‘Who’s listening?’ returned Hugh angrily. ‘A treat, indeed, to hear YOU speak! Would you have me take him in till he’s cool?’
‘Walk him up and down further off then, sir,’ cried old John, ‘and when you see me and a noble gentleman entertaining ourselves with talk, keep your distance. If you don’t know your distance, sir,’ added Mr Willet, after an enormously long pause, during which he fixed27 his great dull eyes on Hugh, and waited with exemplary patience for any little property in the way of ideas that might come to him, ‘we’ll find a way to teach you, pretty soon.’
Hugh shrugged28 his shoulders scornfully, and in his reckless swaggering way, crossed to the other side of the little green, and there, with the bridle slung29 loosely over his shoulder, led the horse to and fro, glancing at his master every now and then from under his bushy eyebrows30, with as sinister31 an aspect as one would desire to see.
Mr Chester, who, without appearing to do so, had eyed him attentively32 during this brief dispute, stepped into the porch, and turning abruptly33 to Mr Willet, said,
‘You keep strange servants, John.’
‘Strange enough to look at, sir, certainly,’ answered the host; ‘but out of doors; for horses, dogs, and the likes of that; there an’t a better man in England than is that Maypole Hugh yonder. He an’t fit for indoors,’ added Mr Willet, with the confidential34 air of a man who felt his own superior nature. ‘I do that; but if that chap had only a little imagination, sir —’
‘He’s an active fellow now, I dare swear,’ said Mr Chester, in a musing35 tone, which seemed to suggest that he would have said the same had there been nobody to hear him.
‘Active, sir!’ retorted John, with quite an expression in his face; ‘that chap! Hallo there! You, sir! Bring that horse here, and go and hang my wig36 on the weathercock, to show this gentleman whether you’re one of the lively sort or not.’
Hugh made no answer, but throwing the bridle to his master, and snatching his wig from his head, in a manner so unceremonious and hasty that the action discomposed Mr Willet not a little, though performed at his own special desire, climbed nimbly to the very summit of the maypole before the house, and hanging the wig upon the weathercock, sent it twirling round like a roasting jack37. Having achieved this performance, he cast it on the ground, and sliding down the pole with inconceivable rapidity, alighted on his feet almost as soon as it had touched the earth.
‘There, sir,’ said John, relapsing into his usual stolid38 state, ‘you won’t see that at many houses, besides the Maypole, where there’s good accommodation for man and beast — nor that neither, though that with him is nothing.’
This last remark bore reference to his vaulting39 on horseback, as upon Mr Chester’s first visit, and quickly disappearing by the stable gate.
‘That with him is nothing,’ repeated Mr Willet, brushing his wig with his wrist, and inwardly resolving to distribute a small charge for dust and damage to that article of dress, through the various items of his guest’s bill; ‘he’ll get out of a’most any winder in the house. There never was such a chap for flinging himself about and never hurting his bones. It’s my opinion, sir, that it’s pretty nearly allowing to his not having any imagination; and that if imagination could be (which it can’t) knocked into him, he’d never be able to do it any more. But we was a-talking, sir, about my son.’
‘True, Willet, true,’ said his visitor, turning again towards the landlord with his accustomed serenity40 of face. ‘My good friend, what about him?’
It has been reported that Mr Willet, previously41 to making answer, winked42. But as he was never known to be guilty of such lightness of conduct either before or afterwards, this may be looked upon as a malicious43 invention of his enemies — founded, perhaps, upon the undisputed circumstance of his taking his guest by the third breast button of his coat, counting downwards44 from the chin, and pouring his reply into his ear:
‘Sir,’ whispered John, with dignity, ‘I know my duty. We want no love-making here, sir, unbeknown to parents. I respect a certain young gentleman, taking him in the light of a young gentleman; I respect a certain young lady, taking her in the light of a young lady; but of the two as a couple, I have no knowledge, sir, none whatever. My son, sir, is upon his patrole.’
‘I thought I saw him looking through the corner window but this moment,’ said Mr Chester, who naturally thought that being on patrole, implied walking about somewhere.
‘No doubt you did, sir,’ returned John. ‘He is upon his patrole of honour, sir, not to leave the premises45. Me and some friends of mine that use the Maypole of an evening, sir, considered what was best to be done with him, to prevent his doing anything unpleasant in opposing your desires; and we’ve put him on his patrole. And what’s more, sir, he won’t be off his patrole for a pretty long time to come, I can tell you that.’
When he had communicated this bright idea, which had its origin in the perusal46 by the village cronies of a newspaper, containing, among other matters, an account of how some officer pending47 the sentence of some court-martial had been enlarged on parole, Mr Willet drew back from his guest’s ear, and without any visible alteration48 of feature, chuckled49 thrice audibly. This nearest approach to a laugh in which he ever indulged (and that but seldom and only on extreme occasions), never even curled his lip or effected the smallest change in — no, not so much as a slight wagging of — his great, fat, double chin, which at these times, as at all others, remained a perfect desert in the broad map of his face; one changeless, dull, tremendous blank.
Lest it should be matter of surprise to any, that Mr Willet adopted this bold course in opposition50 to one whom he had often entertained, and who had always paid his way at the Maypole gallantly51, it may be remarked that it was his very penetration52 and sagacity in this respect, which occasioned him to indulge in those unusual demonstrations53 of jocularity, just now recorded. For Mr Willet, after carefully balancing father and son in his mental scales, had arrived at the distinct conclusion that the old gentleman was a better sort of a customer than the young one. Throwing his landlord into the same scale, which was already turned by this consideration, and heaping upon him, again, his strong desires to run counter to the unfortunate Joe, and his opposition as a general principle to all matters of love and matrimony, it went down to the very ground straightway, and sent the light cause of the younger gentleman flying upwards54 to the ceiling. Mr Chester was not the kind of man to be by any means dim-sighted to Mr Willet’s motives56, but he thanked him as graciously as if he had been one of the most disinterested57 martyrs58 that ever shone on earth; and leaving him, with many complimentary59 reliances on his great taste and judgment60, to prepare whatever dinner he might deem most fitting the occasion, bent61 his steps towards the Warren.
Dressed with more than his usual elegance62; assuming a gracefulness63 of manner, which, though it was the result of long study, sat easily upon him and became him well; composing his features into their most serene64 and prepossessing expression; and setting in short that guard upon himself, at every point, which denoted that he attached no slight importance to the impression he was about to make; he entered the bounds of Miss Haredale’s usual walk. He had not gone far, or looked about him long, when he descried65 coming towards him, a female figure. A glimpse of the form and dress as she crossed a little wooden bridge which lay between them, satisfied him that he had found her whom he desired to see. He threw himself in her way, and a very few paces brought them close together.
He raised his hat from his head, and yielding the path, suffered her to pass him. Then, as if the idea had but that moment occurred to him, he turned hastily back and said in an agitated66 voice:
‘I beg pardon — do I address Miss Haredale?’
She stopped in some confusion at being so unexpectedly accosted67 by a stranger; and answered ‘Yes.’
‘Something told me,’ he said, LOOKING a compliment to her beauty, ‘that it could be no other. Miss Haredale, I bear a name which is not unknown to you — which it is a pride, and yet a pain to me to know, sounds pleasantly in your ears. I am a man advanced in life, as you see. I am the father of him whom you honour and distinguish above all other men. May I for weighty reasons which fill me with distress68, beg but a minute’s conversation with you here?’
Who that was inexperienced in deceit, and had a frank and youthful heart, could doubt the speaker’s truth — could doubt it too, when the voice that spoke69, was like the faint echo of one she knew so well, and so much loved to hear? She inclined her head, and stopping, cast her eyes upon the ground.
‘A little more apart — among these trees. It is an old man’s hand, Miss Haredale; an honest one, believe me.’
She put hers in it as he said these words, and suffered him to lead her to a neighbouring seat.
‘You alarm me, sir,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You are not the bearer of any ill news, I hope?’
‘Of none that you anticipate,’ he answered, sitting down beside her. ‘Edward is well — quite well. It is of him I wish to speak, certainly; but I have no misfortune to communicate.’
She bowed her head again, and made as though she would have begged him to proceed; but said nothing.
‘I am sensible that I speak to you at a disadvantage, dear Miss Haredale. Believe me that I am not so forgetful of the feelings of my younger days as not to know that you are little disposed to view me with favour. You have heard me described as cold-hearted, calculating, selfish —’
‘I have never, sir,’— she interposed with an altered manner and a firmer voice; ‘I have never heard you spoken of in harsh or disrespectful terms. You do a great wrong to Edward’s nature if you believe him capable of any mean or base proceeding71.’
‘Pardon me, my sweet young lady, but your uncle —’
‘Nor is it my uncle’s nature either,’ she replied, with a heightened colour in her cheek. ‘It is not his nature to stab in the dark, nor is it mine to love such deeds.’
She rose as she spoke, and would have left him; but he detained her with a gentle hand, and besought72 her in such persuasive73 accents to hear him but another minute, that she was easily prevailed upon to comply, and so sat down again.
‘And it is,’ said Mr Chester, looking upward, and apostrophising the air; ‘it is this frank, ingenuous74, noble nature, Ned, that you can wound so lightly. Shame — shame upon you, boy!’
She turned towards him quickly, and with a scornful look and flashing eyes. There were tears in Mr Chester’s eyes, but he dashed them hurriedly away, as though unwilling10 that his weakness should be known, and regarded her with mingled75 admiration76 and compassion77.
‘I never until now,’ he said, ‘believed, that the frivolous78 actions of a young man could move me like these of my own son. I never knew till now, the worth of a woman’s heart, which boys so lightly win, and lightly fling away. Trust me, dear young lady, that I never until now did know your worth; and though an abhorrence79 of deceit and falsehood has impelled80 me to seek you out, and would have done so had you been the poorest and least gifted of your sex, I should have lacked the fortitude81 to sustain this interview could I have pictured you to my imagination as you really are.’
Oh! If Mrs Varden could have seen the virtuous82 gentleman as he said these words, with indignation sparkling from his eyes — if she could have heard his broken, quavering voice — if she could have beheld83 him as he stood bareheaded in the sunlight, and with unwonted energy poured forth his eloquence84!
With a haughty85 face, but pale and trembling too, Emma regarded him in silence. She neither spoke nor moved, but gazed upon him as though she would look into his heart.
‘I throw off,’ said Mr Chester, ‘the restraint which natural affection would impose on some men, and reject all bonds but those of truth and duty. Miss Haredale, you are deceived; you are deceived by your unworthy lover, and my unworthy son.’
Still she looked at him steadily87, and still said not one word.
‘I have ever opposed his professions of love for you; you will do me the justice, dear Miss Haredale, to remember that. Your uncle and myself were enemies in early life, and if I had sought retaliation88, I might have found it here. But as we grow older, we grow wiser — bitter, I would fain hope — and from the first, I have opposed him in this attempt. I foresaw the end, and would have spared you, if I could.’
‘Speak plainly, sir,’ she faltered89. ‘You deceive me, or are deceived yourself. I do not believe you — I cannot — I should not.’
‘First,’ said Mr Chester, soothingly90, ‘for there may be in your mind some latent angry feeling to which I would not appeal, pray take this letter. It reached my hands by chance, and by mistake, and should have accounted to you (as I am told) for my son’s not answering some other note of yours. God forbid, Miss Haredale,’ said the good gentleman, with great emotion, ‘that there should be in your gentle breast one causeless ground of quarrel with him. You should know, and you will see, that he was in no fault here.’
There appeared something so very candid91, so scrupulously92 honourable93, so very truthful94 and just in this course something which rendered the upright person who resorted to it, so worthy86 of belief — that Emma’s heart, for the first time, sunk within her. She turned away and burst into tears.
‘I would,’ said Mr Chester, leaning over her, and speaking in mild and quite venerable accents; ‘I would, dear girl, it were my task to banish95, not increase, those tokens of your grief. My son, my erring96 son,— I will not call him deliberately97 criminal in this, for men so young, who have been inconstant twice or thrice before, act without reflection, almost without a knowledge of the wrong they do,— will break his plighted98 faith to you; has broken it even now. Shall I stop here, and having given you this warning, leave it to be fulfilled; or shall I go on?’
‘You will go on, sir,’ she answered, ‘and speak more plainly yet, in justice both to him and me.’
‘My dear girl,’ said Mr Chester, bending over her more affectionately still; ‘whom I would call my daughter, but the Fates forbid, Edward seeks to break with you upon a false and most unwarrantable pretence99. I have it on his own showing; in his own hand. Forgive me, if I have had a watch upon his conduct; I am his father; I had a regard for your peace and his honour, and no better resource was left me. There lies on his desk at this present moment, ready for transmission to you, a letter, in which he tells you that our poverty — our poverty; his and mine, Miss Haredale — forbids him to pursue his claim upon your hand; in which he offers, voluntarily proposes, to free you from your pledge; and talks magnanimously (men do so, very commonly, in such cases) of being in time more worthy of your regard — and so forth. A letter, to be plain, in which he not only jilts you — pardon the word; I would summon to your aid your pride and dignity — not only jilts you, I fear, in favour of the object whose slighting treatment first inspired his brief passion for yourself and gave it birth in wounded vanity, but affects to make a merit and a virtue100 of the act.’
She glanced proudly at him once more, as by an involuntary impulse, and with a swelling101 breast rejoined, ‘If what you say be true, he takes much needless trouble, sir, to compass his design. He’s very tender of my peace of mind. I quite thank him.’
‘The truth of what I tell you, dear young lady,’ he replied, ‘you will test by the receipt or non-receipt of the letter of which I speak. Haredale, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you, although we meet under singular circumstances, and upon a melancholy102 occasion. I hope you are very well.’
At these words the young lady raised her eyes, which were filled with tears; and seeing that her uncle indeed stood before them, and being quite unequal to the trial of hearing or of speaking one word more, hurriedly withdrew, and left them. They stood looking at each other, and at her retreating figure, and for a long time neither of them spoke.
‘What does this mean? Explain it,’ said Mr Haredale at length. ‘Why are you here, and why with her?’
‘My dear friend,’ rejoined the other, resuming his accustomed manner with infinite readiness, and throwing himself upon the bench with a weary air, ‘you told me not very long ago, at that delightful103 old tavern of which you are the esteemed104 proprietor105 (and a most charming establishment it is for persons of rural pursuits and in robust106 health, who are not liable to take cold), that I had the head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception107. I thought at the time; I really did think; you flattered me. But now I begin to wonder at your discernment, and vanity apart, do honestly believe you spoke the truth. Did you ever counterfeit108 extreme ingenuousness109 and honest indignation? My dear fellow, you have no conception, if you never did, how faint the effort makes one.’
Mr Haredale surveyed him with a look of cold contempt. ‘You may evade110 an explanation, I know,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘But I must have it. I can wait.’
‘Not at all. Not at all, my good fellow. You shall not wait a moment,’ returned his friend, as he lazily crossed his legs. ‘The simplest thing in the world. It lies in a nutshell. Ned has written her a letter — a boyish, honest, sentimental111 composition, which remains112 as yet in his desk, because he hasn’t had the heart to send it. I have taken a liberty, for which my parental113 affection and anxiety are a sufficient excuse, and possessed114 myself of the contents. I have described them to your niece (a most enchanting115 person, Haredale; quite an angelic creature), with a little colouring and description adapted to our purpose. It’s done. You may be quite easy. It’s all over. Deprived of their adherents116 and mediators; her pride and jealousy117 roused to the utmost; with nobody to undeceive her, and you to confirm me; you will find that their intercourse will close with her answer. If she receives Ned’s letter by to-morrow noon, you may date their parting from to-morrow night. No thanks, I beg; you owe me none. I have acted for myself; and if I have forwarded our compact with all the ardour even you could have desired, I have done so selfishly, indeed.’
‘I curse the compact, as you call it, with my whole heart and soul,’ returned the other. ‘It was made in an evil hour. I have bound myself to a lie; I have leagued myself with you; and though I did so with a righteous motive55, and though it cost me such an effort as haply few men know, I hate and despise myself for the deed.’
‘You are very warm,’ said Mr Chester with a languid smile.
‘I AM warm. I am maddened by your coldness. ‘Death, Chester, if your blood ran warmer in your veins118, and there were no restraints upon me, such as those that hold and drag me back — well; it is done; you tell me so, and on such a point I may believe you. When I am most remorseful119 for this treachery, I will think of you and your marriage, and try to justify120 myself in such remembrances, for having torn asunder121 Emma and your son, at any cost. Our bond is cancelled now, and we may part.’
Mr Chester kissed his hand gracefully122; and with the same tranquil face he had preserved throughout — even when he had seen his companion so tortured and transported by his passion that his whole frame was shaken — lay in his lounging posture123 on the seat and watched him as he walked away.
‘My scapegoat124 and my drudge125 at school,’ he said, raising his head to look after him; ‘my friend of later days, who could not keep his mistress when he had won her, and threw me in her way to carry off the prize; I triumph in the present and the past. Bark on, ill-favoured, ill-conditioned cur; fortune has ever been with me — I like to hear you.’
The spot where they had met, was in an avenue of trees. Mr Haredale not passing out on either hand, had walked straight on. He chanced to turn his head when at some considerable distance, and seeing that his late companion had by that time risen and was looking after him, stood still as though he half expected him to follow and waited for his coming up.
‘It MAY come to that one day, but not yet,’ said Mr Chester, waving his hand, as though they were the best of friends, and turning away. ‘Not yet, Haredale. Life is pleasant enough to me; dull and full of heaviness to you. No. To cross swords with such a man — to indulge his humour unless upon extremity126 — would be weak indeed.’
For all that, he drew his sword as he walked along, and in an absent humour ran his eye from hilt to point full twenty times. But thoughtfulness begets127 wrinkles; remembering this, he soon put it up, smoothed his contracted brow, hummed a gay tune70 with greater gaiety of manner, and was his unruffled self again.
收听单词发音 |
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constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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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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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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33
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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34
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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35
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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36
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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37
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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38
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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39
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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40
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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41
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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42
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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43
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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44
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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45
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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46
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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47
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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48
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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49
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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51
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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52
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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53
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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54
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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55
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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56
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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57
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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58
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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59
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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60
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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61
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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62
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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63
gracefulness
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64
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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65
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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66
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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67
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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68
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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69
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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70
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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71
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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72
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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73
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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74
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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75
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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76
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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77
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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78
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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79
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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80
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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82
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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83
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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84
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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85
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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86
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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87
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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88
retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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89
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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90
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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91
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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92
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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93
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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94
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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95
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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96
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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97
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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98
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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100
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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101
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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102
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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103
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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104
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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105
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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106
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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107
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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108
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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109
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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110
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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111
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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112
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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113
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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114
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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115
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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116
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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117
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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118
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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119
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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120
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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121
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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122
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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123
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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124
scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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125
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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126
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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127
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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