IT was four o’clock in the morning when Melmond returned. Camilla rushed to the street-door to meet him. His silence and his mournful air announced his ill success. She wrung1 her hands in anguish2, and besought3 him to send instantly an express to Etherington, with the fatal tidings.
He went himself to the nearest stables, desiring she would prepare a letter while he got a man and horse for the journey.
In scrawling4 and indistinct characters she then wrote:
‘O my Father-our Eugenia has disappeared! she was lost last night at the Opera–Mr. Bellamy was conducting her to Mrs. Berlinton’s coach-but we have seen neither of them since! what-what must we do?’
Melmond wrote the address, which her hand could not make legible; and Miss Margland prepared for the post a laboured vindication5 to Sir Hugh of her own conduct upon this occasion.
Indiana was long gone to bed. She was really very sorry; but she was really much tired; and she could do, as she said, no good.
But Mrs. Berlinton felt an alarm for Eugenia, and an astonishment6 concerning Bellamy, that would fully7 have wakened her faculties8, had she been wholly unmoved by the misery9 of Camilla.
Far other was, however, her nature, gentle, compassionate10, and sympathising; and her own internal disturbance12, though great even beyond her own conception why, sunk at sight of the excess of wretchedness which disordered her poor friend.
There could be but one possible opinion of this disastrous14 adventure, which was, that Bellamy had spirited this young creature away, to secure her fortune, by her hand. Melmond again went forth15, to make enquiry at all the stables in London, for any carriage that might have been hired for a late hour. And at six o’clock, in great perturbation, he came back, saying, he had just traced that she was put into a chaise and four from a hackney coach; that the chaise was hired in Piccadilly, and engaged for a week. He was now determined16 to ride post himself in the pursuit, that, if any accidental delay retarded17 them, he might recover her before she arrived at Gretna Green, whither he could not doubt she was to be conveyed: but as she could not be married by force, his presence might yet be in time to prevent persecution18, or foul19 play.
Camilla nearly embraced him with transport at this ray of hope, and, leaving his tenderest condolements for Indiana, whom he implored20 his sister to watch sedulously21, he galloped22 northwards.
His heart was most sincerely in the business; what he owed to the noble conduct which the high sentiments and pure regard of Eugenia had dictated23, had excited a tender veneration24, which made him hold his life as too small an offering to be refused for her service, if its sacrifice could essentially25 shew his gratitude26. And often his secret mind had breathed a wish, that her love of literature had been instilled27 into her cousin; though he studiously checked, as profane28, all that was not admiration29 of that most exquisite30 workmanship of nature.
Mrs. Berlinton wanted not to be told this proceeding31 was wrong, yet still found it impossible to persuade herself Eugenia would not soon think it right; though Eugenia was the creature that she most revered32 in the whole world, and though, with Bellamy himself she felt irritated and disappointed.
Camilla in every evil reverted33 to the loss of Edgar, whose guardian34 care, had she preserved him, would have preserved, she thought, her loved Eugenia.
The express from Etherington brought back only a few lines written by Lavinia, with an account that Mr. Tyrold, in deep misery, was setting out post for Scotland.
A week past thus in suspence, nearly intolerable to Camilla, before Melmond returned.
Always upon the watch, she heard his voice, and flew to meet him in the dressing35 room. He was at the feet of Indiana, to whom he was pouring forth his ardent36 lamentations at this long deprivation37 of her sight.
But joy had evidently no part in his tenderness; Camilla saw at once depression and evil tidings, and, sinking upon a chair, could scarcely pronounce, ‘Have you not then found her?’
‘I have left her but this minute,’ he answered, in a tone the most melancholy38.
‘Ah! you have then seen her! you have seen my dearest Eugenia?–O, Mr. Melmond, why have you left her at all?’
It was long before he could answer; he besought her to compose herself; he expressed the extremest solicitude39 for the uneasiness of Indiana, whose eternal interruptions of ‘Dear! where is she? Dear! why did not she come back?–Dear! who took her away?’ he attributed to the agitation40 of the fondest friendship, and conjured41, while tears of terror started into his eyes, that she would moderate the excess of her sensibility. It seems the peculiar42 province of the lover, to transfuse43 all that he himself most prizes, and thinks praise-worthy, into the breast of his chosen object; nor is he more blind to the defects with which she may abound44, than prodigal45 in gifts of virtues46 which exist but in his own admiration.
‘And my Father? my poor Father!’ cried Camilla, ‘you have seen nothing of my Father?’
‘Pardon me; I have just left him also.’
‘And not with Eugenia?’
‘Yes; they are together.’
Rapture47 now defied all apprehension48 with Camilla; the idea of Eugenia restored to her Father, was an idea of entire happiness; but her joy affected49 Melmond yet more than her alarm: he could not let her fasten upon any false expectations; he bid his sister aid him to support Indiana, and then, with all the gentleness of the sincerest concern, confessed that Eugenia was married before she was overtaken.
This was a blow for which Camilla was still unprepared. She concluded it a forced marriage; horror froze her veins50, her blood no longer flowed, her heart ceased to beat, she fell lifeless on the ground.
Her recovery was more speedy than it was happy, and she was assisted to her chamber51, no longer asking any questions, no longer desiring further information. All was over of hope: and the particulars seemed immaterial, since the catastrophe52 was as irreversible as it was afflicting53.
Mrs. Berlinton still attended her, grieved for her suffering, yet believing that Eugenia would be the happiest of women; though an indignation the most forcible mingled54 with her surprise at the conduct of Bellamy.
This dread55 sort of chasm56 in the acuteness of the feelings of Camilla lasted not long; and Mrs. Berlinton then brought from Melmond the following account.
With the utmost speed he could use, he could not, though a single horseman, overtake them. They never, as he learnt by the way, remitted57 their journey, nor stopt for the smallest refreshment58 but at some cottage. At length, in the last stage to Gretna Green, he met them upon their return. It was easy to him to see that his errand was vain, and the knot indissolubly tied, by the blinds being down, and the easy air with which Bellamy was looking around him.
Eugenia sat back in the chaise with a handkerchief to her eyes. He stopt the vehicle, and told Bellamy he must speak with that lady. ‘That lady, Sir,’ he proudly answered, ‘is my wife; speak to her, therefore;... but in my hearing.’ Eugenia at this dropt her handkerchief, and looked up. Her eyes were sunk into her head by weeping, and her face was a living picture of grief. Melmond loudly exclaimed: ‘I come by the authority of her friends, and I demand her own account of this transaction.’ ‘We are now going to our friends,’ replied he, ‘ourselves, and we shall send them no messages.’ He then ordered the postillion to drive on, telling him at his peril59 to stop no more; Eugenia, in a tone but just audible, saying: ‘Adieu, Mr. Melmond! Adieu!’
To have risked his life in her rescue, at such a moment, seemed to him nothing, could he but more certainly have ascertained60 her own wishes, and real situation: but as she attempted neither resistance nor remonstrance61, he concluded Bellamy spoke62 truth; and if they were married, he could not unmarry them; and if they were going to her friends, they were doing all he could now exact. He resolved, however, to follow, and if they should turn any other road, to call for assistance till he could investigate the truth.
They stopt occasionally for refreshments63 at the usual inns, and travelled no more in the dark; but Bellamy never lost sight of her; and Melmond, in watching, observed that she returned to the chaise with as little opposition64 as she quitted it, though weeping always, and never, for a voluntary moment, uncovering her face. Bellamy seemed always most assiduous in his attentions: she never appeared to repulse65 him, nor to receive from him any comfort.
On the second day’s journey, just as Bellamy had handed her from the chaise, at the inn where they meant to dine, and which Melmond, as usual, entered at the same time, he saw Mr. Tyrold-hurrying, but so shaking he could scarcely support himself, from a parlour, whence he had seen them alight, into the passage.
The eyes, ever downcast, of Eugenia, perceived him not, till she was clasped, in mute agony, in his arms. She then looked up, saw who it was, and fainted away. Bellamy, though he knew him not, supposed who he might be, and his reverend appearance seemed to impress him with awe66.
Nevertheless, he was himself seizing the now senseless Eugenia, to convey her to some room; when Mr. Tyrold, reviving from indignation, fixed67 his eyes upon his face, and said: ‘By what authority, Sir, do you presume to take charge of my daughter?’–‘By the authority,’ he answered, ‘of a husband.’ Mr. Tyrold said no more; he caught at the arm of Melmond, though he had not yet seen who he was, and Bellamy carried Eugenia into the first vacant parlour, followed only by the woman of the house.
Melmond then, respectfully, and filled with the deepest commiseration68, sought to make himself known to Mr. Tyrold; but he heard him not, he heeded69 no one; he sat down upon a trunk, accidentally in the passage where all this had passed, saying, but almost without seeming conscious that he spoke aloud: ‘This, indeed, is a blow to break both our hearts!’ Melmond then stood silently by, for he saw, by his folded hands and uplighted eyes, he was ejaculating some prayer: after which, with a countenance70 more firm, and limbs better able to sustain him, he rose, and moved towards the parlour into which the fainting Eugenia had been carried.
Melmond then again spoke to him by his name. He recollected71 the voice, turned to him, and gave him his hand, which was of an icy coldness. ‘You are very kind, Mr. Melmond,’ he said; ‘my poor girl’-but stopt, checking what he meant to add, and went to the parlour-door.
It was locked. The woman of the house had left it, and said, the lady was recovered from her fit. Mr. Tyrold, from a thousand feelings, seemed unable to demand admission for himself: he desired Melmond to speak, and claim an audience alone for him with his daughter.
Bellamy opened the door with a look evidently humbled72 and frightened, yet affecting perfect ease. When Melmond made known his commission, Eugenia, starting up, exclaimed: ‘Yes, yes! I will see my dear Father alone!-and O! that this poor frame might sink to rest on his loved bosom73!’
‘In a moment! in a moment!’ cried Bellamy, motioning Melmond to withdraw; ‘tell Mr. Tyrold he shall come in a moment.’
Melmond was forced to retreat; but heard him hastily say, as again he fastened the door, ‘My life, O Eugenia! is in your hands-and is it thus you requite74 my ardent love and constancy?’
Mr. Tyrold now would wait but a few minutes: it was palpable Bellamy feared the interview; and he could fear it but from one motive75: he sent him, therefore, word by Melmond, that if he did not immediately retire, and leave him to a conference alone with his daughter, he would apply no more for a meeting till he claimed it in a court of justice.
Bellamy soon came out, bowed obsequiously77 to Mr. Tyrold, who passed him without notice, and who was then for half an hour shut up with Eugenia. Longer Bellamy could not endure; he broke in upon them, and left the room no more.
Soon after, Mr. Tyrold came out, his own eyes now as red as those of the weeping bride. He took Melmond apart, thanked him for his kindness, but said nothing could be done. He entreated78 him therefore to return to his own happier affairs; adding, ‘I cannot talk upon this miserable79 event. Tell Camilla, her sister is, for the present, going home with me-though not, alas80! alone! Tell her, too, I will write to her upon my arrival at Etherington.’
‘This,’ concluded Mrs. Berlinton, ‘is all my brother has to relate; all that for himself he adds, is, that if ever, to something human, the mind of an angel was accorded-that mind seems enshrined in the heart of Eugenia!’
Nothing that Camilla had yet experienced of unhappiness, had penetrated81 her with feelings of such deadly woe82 as this event. Eugenia, from her childhood, had seemed marked by calamity83: her ill health, even from infancy84, and her subsequent misfortunes, had excited in her whole house the tenderest pity, to which the uncommon85 character with which she grew up, had added respect and admiration. And the strange, and almost continual trials she had had to encounter, from the period of her attaining86 her fifteenth year, which, far from souring her mind, had seemed to render it more perfect, had now nearly sanctified her in the estimation of them all. To see her, therefore, fall, at last, a sacrifice to deceit or violence,-for one, if not both, had palpably put her into the possession of Bellamy, was a grief more piercingly wounding than all she had yet suffered. Whatever she had personally to bear, she constantly imagined some imprudence or impropriety had provoked; but Eugenia, while she appeared to her so blameless, that she could merit no evil, was so amiable87, that willingly she would have borne for her their united portions.
How it had been effected, since force would be illegal, still kept amazement88 joined to sorrow, till the promised letter arrived from Mr. Tyrold, with an account of the transaction.
Eugenia, parted from Miss Margland by Bellamy, in the crowd, was obliged to accept his protection, which, till then, she had refused, to restore her to her company. The coach, he said, he knew, had orders to wait in Pall89 Mall, whither the other ladies would be conveyed in chairs, to avoid danger from the surrounding carriages. She desired to go, also, in a chair: but he hurried her by quick surprize into a hackney-coach, which, he said, would be more speedy, and bidding the man drive to Pall Mall, seated himself opposite to her. She had not the most remote suspicion of his design, as his behaviour was even coldly distant, though she wondered Pall Mall was so far off, and that the coachman drove so fast, till they stopt at a turnpike-and then, in one quick and decided90 moment, she comprehended her situation, and made an attempt for her own deliverance-but he prevented her from being heard.–And the scenes that followed she declined relating. Yet, what she would not recount, she could not, to the questions of her Father, deny, that force, from that moment, was used, to repel91 all her efforts for obtaining help, and to remove her into a chaise.
Mr. Tyrold required to hear nothing more, to establish a prosecution92, and to seize her, publickly, from Bellamy. But from this she recoiled93. ‘No, my dear Father,’ she continued, ‘the die is cast! and I am his! Solemn has been my vow94! sacred I must hold it!’
She then briefly95 narrated96, that though violence was used to silence her at every place where she sought to be rescued, every interval97 was employed, by Bellamy, in the humblest supplications for her pardon, and most passionate11 protestations of regard, all beginning and all ending in declaring, that to live longer without her was impossible, and pledging his ardent attachment98 for obtaining her future favour; spending the period from stage to stage, or turnpike to turnpike, in kneeling to beseech99 forgiveness for the desperation to which he was driven, by the most cruel and hopeless passion that ever seized the heart of man. When they were near their journey’s end, he owned that his life was in her hands, but he was indifferent whether he lost it from the misery of living without her, or from her vengeance100 of this last struggle of his despair. She assured him his life was safe, and offered him pardon upon condition of immediate76 restoration to her friends; but, suddenly producing a pistol, ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘O! amiable object of my constant love! bless me with your hand, or prepare to see me die at your feet!’ And, with a terrifying oath, he bound himself not to lose her and outlive her loss. She besought him to be more reasonable, with the gentlest prayers; but his vehemence101 only encreased; she offered him every other promise he could name; but he preferred death to every other she should grant. She then pronounced, though in trembling, a positive refusal. Instantly he lifted up his pistol, and calling out; ‘Forgive, then, O hard-hearted Eugenia, my uncontroulable passion, and shed a tear over the corpse102 I am going to prostrate103 at your feet!’ was pointing it to his temple, when, overcome with horror, she caught his arm, exclaiming; ‘Ah! stop! I consent to what you please!’ It was in vain she strove afterwards to retract104; one scene followed another, till he had bound her by all she herself held sacred, to rescue him from suicide, by consenting to the union. He found a person who performed the marriage ceremony on the minute of her quitting the chaise. She uttered not one word; she was passive, scared, and scarce alive; but resisted not the eventful ring, with which he encircled her finger, and seemed rousing as from a dream, upon hearing him call her his wife. He professed105 eternal gratitude, and eternal devotion; but no sooner was all conflict at an end, than, consigning106 herself wholly to grief, she wept without intermission.
When Mr. Tyrold had heard her history, abhorrence107 of such barbarous force, and detestation of such foul play upon the ingenuous108 credulity of her nature, made him insist, yet more strongly, upon taking legal measures for procuring109 an immediate separation, and subsequent punishment; but the reiterated110 vows111 with which, since the ceremony, he had bound her to himself, so forcibly awed112 the strict conscientiousness114 of her principles, that no representations could absolve115 her opinion of what she now held her duty; and while she confessed her unhappiness at a connection formed by such cruel means, she conjured him not to encrease it, by rendering116 her, in her own estimation, perjured117.
‘Patiently, therefore,’ continued Mr. Tyrold, ‘we must bear, what vainly we should combat, and bow down to those calamities118 of which the purpose is hidden, nor fancy no good is answered, because none is obvious. Man develops but little, though he experiences much. The time will come for his greater diffusion119 of knowledge; let him meet it without dread, by using worthily120 his actual portion, I resign myself, therefore, with reverence121 to this blow; though none yet has struck so hardly at my heart. We must now do what we can for this victim to her own purity, by seeking means to secure her future independence, and by bettering-if possible!-her betrayer. What a daughter, what a sister, what a friend, has her family thus lost! How will your poor Mother receive such killing122 tidings! Misfortune, sickness, and poverty, she has heroism123 to endure; but innocence124 oppressed through its own artlessness, and inexperience duped by villainy, will shake her utmost firmness, and harass125 into disorder13 her, as yet, unbroken powers of encountering adversity. Alas!-no evils that visited the early years of this loved child, have proved to her so grievous as the large fortune with which they were followed! We repined, my Camilla, at the deprivation you sustained at that period.–We owe to it, perhaps, that you have not as treacherously126 been betrayed!
‘How has the opening promise of our Eugenia more than answered our fondest expectations! Her knowledge is still less uncommon than her simplicity127, her philosophy for herself than her zeal128 in the service of others. She is singular with sweetness, peculiar, yet not impracticable; generous without parade, and wise without consciousness. Yet now, so sacrificed seems all,-that I dwell upon her excellencies as if enumerating129 them over her tomb!’
A letter from Lavinia contained some further particulars. Their Father, she said, finding the poor victim resolute130, meant to spare Sir Hugh all that was possible of the detestable craft of Bellamy; and Eugenia was already struggling to recover her natural serenity131, that she might appear before him without endangering his own. Bellamy talked of nothing but love and rapture; yet the unsuspicious Eugenia was the only person he deceived; for so little from the heart seemed either his looks or his expressions, that it was palpable he was acting132 a part, to all who believed it possible words and thoughts could be divided.
A postscript133 to this letter was added by Eugenia herself
‘Ah, my Camilla!... where now are all our sweet promised participations?–But let me not talk of myself; nor do you, my affectionate sister, dwell upon me at this period. One thing I undertook shall yet be performed; the moment I am able to go to Cleves, I will deliver, through Lavinia, what I mentioned. Does anything else remain that is yet in my power? Tell me, my Camilla, and think but with what joy you will give joy again to your
EUGENIA.
Broken hearted over these letters, Camilla spent her time in their perpetual perusal134, in wiping from them her tears, and pressing with fond anguish to her lips the signature of her hapless sister, self-beguiled by her own credulous135 goodness, and self-devoted by her conscientious113 scruples136.
1 wrung | |
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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2 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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3 besought | |
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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4 scrawling | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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5 vindication | |
n.洗冤,证实 | |
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6 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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7 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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8 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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9 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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10 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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11 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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12 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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13 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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14 disastrous | |
adj.灾难性的,造成灾害的;极坏的,很糟的 | |
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15 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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16 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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17 retarded | |
a.智力迟钝的,智力发育迟缓的 | |
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18 persecution | |
n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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19 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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20 implored | |
恳求或乞求(某人)( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21 sedulously | |
ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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22 galloped | |
(使马)飞奔,奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 ); 快速做[说]某事 | |
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23 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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24 veneration | |
n.尊敬,崇拜 | |
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25 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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26 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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27 instilled | |
v.逐渐使某人获得(某种可取的品质),逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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29 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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30 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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31 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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32 revered | |
v.崇敬,尊崇,敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33 reverted | |
恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
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34 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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35 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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36 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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37 deprivation | |
n.匮乏;丧失;夺去,贫困 | |
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38 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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39 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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40 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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41 conjured | |
用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 ); 祈求,恳求; 变戏法; (变魔术般地) 使…出现 | |
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42 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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43 transfuse | |
v.渗入;灌输;输血 | |
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44 abound | |
vi.大量存在;(in,with)充满,富于 | |
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45 prodigal | |
adj.浪费的,挥霍的,放荡的 | |
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46 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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47 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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48 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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49 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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50 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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51 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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52 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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53 afflicting | |
痛苦的 | |
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54 mingled | |
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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55 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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56 chasm | |
n.深坑,断层,裂口,大分岐,利害冲突 | |
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57 remitted | |
v.免除(债务),宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 );使某事缓和;寄回,传送 | |
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58 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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59 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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60 ascertained | |
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 remonstrance | |
n抗议,抱怨 | |
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62 spoke | |
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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63 refreshments | |
n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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64 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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65 repulse | |
n.击退,拒绝;vt.逐退,击退,拒绝 | |
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66 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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67 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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68 commiseration | |
n.怜悯,同情 | |
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69 heeded | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 );变平,使(某物)变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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71 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72 humbled | |
adj. 卑下的,谦逊的,粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下,贬低 | |
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73 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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74 requite | |
v.报酬,报答 | |
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75 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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76 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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77 obsequiously | |
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78 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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80 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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81 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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82 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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83 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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84 infancy | |
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
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85 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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86 attaining | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的现在分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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87 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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88 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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89 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
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90 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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91 repel | |
v.击退,抵制,拒绝,排斥 | |
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92 prosecution | |
n.起诉,告发,检举,执行,经营 | |
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93 recoiled | |
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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94 vow | |
n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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95 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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96 narrated | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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98 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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99 beseech | |
v.祈求,恳求 | |
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100 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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101 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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102 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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103 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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104 retract | |
vt.缩回,撤回收回,取消 | |
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105 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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106 consigning | |
v.把…置于(令人不快的境地)( consign的现在分词 );把…托付给;把…托人代售;丟弃 | |
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107 abhorrence | |
n.憎恶;可憎恶的事 | |
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108 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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109 procuring | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的现在分词 );拉皮条 | |
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110 reiterated | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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112 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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114 conscientiousness | |
责任心 | |
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115 absolve | |
v.赦免,解除(责任等) | |
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116 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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117 perjured | |
adj.伪证的,犯伪证罪的v.发假誓,作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118 calamities | |
n.灾祸,灾难( calamity的名词复数 );不幸之事 | |
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119 diffusion | |
n.流布;普及;散漫 | |
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120 worthily | |
重要地,可敬地,正当地 | |
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121 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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122 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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123 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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124 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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125 harass | |
vt.使烦恼,折磨,骚扰 | |
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126 treacherously | |
背信弃义地; 背叛地; 靠不住地; 危险地 | |
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127 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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128 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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129 enumerating | |
v.列举,枚举,数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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130 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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131 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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132 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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133 postscript | |
n.附言,又及;(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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134 perusal | |
n.细读,熟读;目测 | |
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135 credulous | |
adj.轻信的,易信的 | |
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136 scruples | |
n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 );顾虑,顾忌v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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