And now, will pardon, comfort, kindness, draw
The youth from vice1? will honour, duty, law?
Crabbe.
Jeanie arose from her seat, and made her quiet reverence2, when the elder Mr. Staunton entered the apartment. His astonishment3 was extreme at finding his son in such company.
“I perceive, madam, I have made a mistake respecting you, and ought to have left the task of interrogating4 you, and of righting your wrongs, to this young man, with whom, doubtless, you have been formerly5 acquainted.”
“It’s unwitting on my part that I am here;” said Jeanie; “the servant told me his master wished to speak with me.”
“There goes the purple coat over my ears,” murmured Tummas. “D— n her, why must she needs speak the truth, when she could have as well said anything else she had a mind?”
“George,” said Mr. Staunton, “if you are still, as you have ever been — lost to all self-respect, you might at least have spared your father and your father’s house, such a disgraceful scene as this.”
“Upon my life — upon my soul, sir!” said George, throwing his feet over the side of the bed, and starting from his recumbent posture6.
“Your life, sir?” interrupted his father, with melancholy7 sternness — “What sort of life has it been? — Your soul! alas8! what regard have you ever paid to it? Take care to reform both ere offering either as pledges of your sincerity9.”
“On my honour, sir, you do me wrong,” answered George Staunton; “I have been all that you can call me that’s bad, but in the present instance you do me injustice10. By my honour you do!”
“Your honour!” said his father, and turned from him, with a look of the most upbraiding11 contempt, to Jeanie. “From you, young woman, I neither ask nor expect any explanation; but as a father alike and as a clergyman, I request your departure from this house. If your romantic story has been other than a pretext13 to find admission into it (which, from the society in which you first appeared, I may be permitted to doubt), you will find a justice of peace within two miles, with whom, more properly than with me, you may lodge14 your complaint.”
“This shall not be,” said George Staunton, starting up to his feet. “Sir, you are naturally kind and humane15 — you shall not become cruel and inhospitable on my account. Turn out that eaves-dropping rascal,” pointing to Thomas, “and get what hartshorn drops, or what better receipt you have against fainting, and I will explain to you in two words the connection betwixt this young woman and me. She shall not lose her fair character through me. I have done too much mischief16 to her family already, and I know too well what belongs to the loss of fame.”
“Leave the room, sir,” said the Rector to the servant; and when the man had obeyed, he carefully shut the door behind him. Then, addressing his son, he said sternly, “Now, sir, what new proof of your infamy17 have you to impart to me?”
Young Staunton was about to speak, but it was one of those moments when those, who, like Jeanie Deans, possess the advantage of a steady courage and unruffled temper, can assume the superiority over more ardent18 but less determined19 spirits.
“Sir,” she said to the elder Staunton, “ye have an undoubted right to ask your ain son to render a reason of his conduct. But respecting me, I am but a wayfaring20 traveller, no ways obligated or indebted to you, unless it be for the meal of meat which, in my ain country, is willingly gien by rich or poor, according to their ability, to those who need it; and for which, forby that, I am willing to make payment, if I didna think it would be an affront21 to offer siller in a house like this — only I dinna ken22 the fashions of the country.”
“This is all very well, young woman,” said the Rector, a good deal surprised, and unable to conjecture23 whether to impute24 Jeanie’s language to simplicity25 or impertinence; “this may be all very well — but let me bring it to a point. Why do you stop this young man’s mouth, and prevent his communicating to his father and his best friend, an explanation (since he says he has one) of circumstances which seem in themselves not a little suspicious?”
“He may tell of his ain affairs what he likes,” answered Jeanie; “but my family and friends have nae right to hae ony stories told anent them without their express desire; and, as they canna be here to speak for themselves, I entreat26 ye wadna ask Mr. George Rob — I mean Staunton, or whatever his name is, ony questions anent me or my folk; for I maun be free to tell you, that he will neither have the bearing of a Christian27 or a gentleman, if he answers you against my express desire.”
“This is the most extraordinary thing I ever met with,” said the Rector, as, after fixing his eyes keenly on the placid28, yet modest countenance29 of Jeanie, he turned them suddenly upon his son. “What have you to say, sir?”
“That I feel I have been too hasty in my promise, sir,” answered George Staunton; “I have no title to make any communications respecting the affairs of this young person’s family without her assent30.”
The elder Mr. Staunton turned his eyes from one to the other with marks of surprise.
“This is more, and worse, I fear,” he said, addressing his son, “than one of your frequent and disgraceful connections — I insist upon knowing the mystery.”
“I have already said, sir,” replied his son, rather sullenly31, “that I have no title to mention the affairs of this young woman’s family without her consent.”
“And I hae nae mysteries to explain, sir,” said Jeanie, “but only to pray you, as a preacher of the gospel and a gentleman, to permit me to go safe to the next public-house on the Lunnon road.”
“I shall take care of your safety,” said young Staunton “you need ask that favour from no one.”
“Do you say so before my face?” said the justly-incensed father. “Perhaps, sir, you intend to fill up the cup of disobedience and profligacy32 by forming a low and disgraceful marriage? But let me bid you beware.”
“If you were feared for sic a thing happening wi’ me, sir,” said Jeanie, “I can only say, that not for all the land that lies between the twa ends of the rainbow wad I be the woman that should wed33 your son.”
“There is something very singular in all this,” said the elder Staunton; “follow me into the next room, young woman.”
“Hear me speak first,” said the young man. “I have but one word to say. I confide34 entirely35 in your prudence36; tell my father as much or as little of these matters as you will, he shall know neither more nor less from me.”
His father darted37 at him a glance of indignation, which softened38 into sorrow as he saw him sink down on the couch, exhausted39 with the scene he had undergone. He left the apartment, and Jeanie followed him, George Staunton raising himself as she passed the door-way, and pronouncing the word, “Remember!” in a tone as monitory as it was uttered by Charles I. upon the scaffold. The elder Staunton led the way into a small parlour, and shut the door.
“Young woman,” said he, “there is something in your face and appearance that marks both sense and simplicity, and, if I am not deceived, innocence40 also — Should it be otherwise, I can only say, you are the most accomplished41 hypocrite I have ever seen. — I ask to know no secret that you have unwillingness42 to divulge43, least of all those which concern my son. His conduct has given me too much unhappiness to permit me to hope comfort or satisfaction from him. If you are such as I suppose you, believe me, that whatever unhappy circumstances may have connected you with George Staunton, the sooner you break them through the better.”
“I think I understand your meaning, sir,” replied Jeanie; “and as ye are sae frank as to speak o’ the young gentleman in sic a way, I must needs say that it is but the second time of my speaking wi’ him in our lives, and what I hae heard frae him on these twa occasions has been such that I never wish to hear the like again.”
“Then it is your real intention to leave this part of the country, and proceed to London?” said the Rector.
“Certainly, sir; for I may say, in one sense, that the avenger44 of blood is behind me; and if I were but assured against mischief by the way”
“I have made inquiry,” said the clergyman, “after the suspicious characters you described. They have left their place of rendezvous45; but as they may be lurking46 in the neighbourhood, and as you say you have special reason to apprehend47 violence from them, I will put you under the charge of a steady person, who will protect you as far as Stamford, and see you into a light coach, which goes from thence to London.”
“A coach is not for the like of me, sir,” said Jeanie, to whom the idea of a stage-coach was unknown, as, indeed, they were then only used in the neighbourhood of London.
Mr. Staunton briefly48 explained that she would find that mode of conveyance49 more commodious50, cheaper, and more safe, than travelling on horseback. She expressed her gratitude51 with so much singleness of heart, that he was induced to ask her whether she wanted the pecuniary52 means of prosecuting53 her journey. She thanked him, but said she had enough for her purpose; and, indeed, she had husbanded her stock with great care. This reply served also to remove some doubts, which naturally enough still floated in Mr. Staunton’s mind, respecting her character and real purpose, and satisfied him, at least, that money did not enter into her scheme of deception54, if an impostor she should prove. He next requested to know what part of the city she wished to go to.
“To a very decent merchant, a cousin o’ my ain, a Mrs. Glass, sir, that sells snuff and tobacco, at the sign o’ the Thistle, somegate in the town.”
Jeanie communicated this intelligence with a feeling that a connection so respectable ought to give her consequence in the eyes of Mr. Staunton; and she was a good deal surprised when he answered —
“And is this woman your only acquaintance in London, my poor girl? and have you really no better knowledge where she is to be found?”
“I was gaun to see the Duke of Argyle, forby Mrs. Glass,” said Jeanie; “and if your honour thinks it would be best to go there first, and get some of his Grace’s folk to show me my cousin’s shop”
“Are you acquainted with any of the Duke of Argyle’s people?” said the Rector.
“No, sir.”
“Her brain must be something touched after all, or it would be impossible for her to rely on such introductions. — Well,” said he aloud, “I must not inquire into the cause of your journey, and so I cannot be fit to give you advice how to manage it. But the landlady55 of the house where the coach stops is a very decent person; and as I use her house sometimes, I will give you a recommendation to her.”
Jeanie thanked him for his kindness with her best courtesy, and said, “That with his honour’s line, and ane from worthy56 Mrs. Bickerton, that keeps the Seven Stars at York, she did not doubt to be well taken out in Lunnon.”
“And now,” said he, “I presume you will be desirous to set out immediately.”
“If I had been in an inn, sir, or any suitable resting-place,” answered Jeanie, “I wad not have presumed to use the Lord’s day for travelling but as I am on a journey of mercy, I trust my doing so will not be imputed57.”
“You may, if you choose, remain with Mrs. Dalton for the evening; but I desire you will have no farther correspondence with my son, who is not a proper counsellor for a person of your age, whatever your difficulties may be.”
“Your honour speaks ower truly in that,” said Jeanie; “it was not with my will that I spoke58 wi’ him just now, and — not to wish the gentleman onything but gude — I never wish to see him between the een again.”
“If you please,” added the Rector, “as you seem to be a seriously disposed young woman, you may attend family worship in the hall this evening.”
“I thank your honour,” said Jeanie; “but I am doubtful if my attendance would be to edification.”
“How!” said the Rector; “so young, and already unfortunate enough to have doubts upon the duties of religion!”
“God forbid, sir,” replied Jeanie; “it is not for that; but I have been bred in the faith of the suffering remnant of the Presbyterian doctrine59 in Scotland, and I am doubtful if I can lawfully60 attend upon your fashion of worship, seeing it has been testified against by many precious souls of our kirk, and specially61 by my worthy father.”
“Well, my good girl,” said the Rector, with a good-humoured smile, “far be it from me to put any force upon your conscience; and yet you ought to recollect62 that the same divine grace dispenses63 its streams to other kingdoms as well as to Scotland. As it is as essential to our spiritual, as water to our earthly wants, its springs, various in character, yet alike efficacious in virtue64, are to be found in abundance throughout the Christian world.”
“Ah, but,” said Jeanie, “though the waters may be alike, yet, with your worship’s leave, the blessing65 upon them may not be equal. It would have been in vain for Naaman the Syrian leper to have bathed in Pharpar and Abana, rivers of Damascus, when it was only the waters of Jordon that were sanctified for the cure.”
“Well,” said the Rector, “we will not enter upon the great debate betwixt our national churches at present. We must endeavour to satisfy you, that, at least, amongst our errors, we preserve Christian charity, and a desire to assist our brethren.”
He then ordered Mrs. Dalton into his presence, and consigned66 Jeanie to her particular charge, with directions to be kind to her, and with assurances, that, early in the morning, a trusty guide and a good horse should be ready to conduct her to Stamford. He then took a serious and dignified67, yet kind leave of her, wishing her full success in the objects of her journey, which he said he doubted not were laudable, from the soundness of thinking which she had displayed in conversation.
Jeanie was again conducted by the housekeeper68 to her own apartment. But the evening was not destined69 to pass over without farther torment70 from young Staunton. A paper was slipped into her hand by the faithful Tummas, which intimated his young master’s desire, or rather demand, to see her instantly, and assured her he had provided against interruption.
“Tell your young master,” said Jeanie, openly, and regardless of all the winks71 and signs by which Tummas strove to make her comprehend that Mrs. Dalton was not to be admitted into the secret of the correspondence, “that I promised faithfully to his worthy father that I would not see him again.”
“Tummas,” said Mrs. Dalton, “I think you might be much more creditably employed, considering the coat you wear, and the house you live in, than to be carrying messages between your young master and girls that chance to be in this house.”
“Why, Mrs. Dalton, as to that, I was hired to carry messages, and not to ask any questions about them; and it’s not for the like of me to refuse the young gentleman’s bidding, if he were a little wildish or so. If there was harm meant, there’s no harm done, you see.”
“However,” said Mrs. Dalton, “I gie you fair warning, Tummas Ditton, that an I catch thee at this work again, his Reverence shall make a clear house of you.”
Thomas retired72, abashed73 and in dismay. The rest of the evening passed away without anything worthy of notice.
Jeanie enjoyed the comforts of a good bed and a sound sleep with grateful satisfaction, after the perils74 and hardships of the preceding day; and such was her fatigue75, that she slept soundly until six o’clock, when she was awakened76 by Mrs. Dalton, who acquainted her that her guide and horse were ready, and in attendance. She hastily rose, and, after her morning devotions, was soon ready to resume her travels. The motherly care of the housekeeper had provided an early breakfast, and, after she had partaken of this refreshment77, she found herself safe seated on a pillion behind a stout78 Lincolnshire peasant, who was, besides, armed with pistols, to protect her against any violence which might be offered.
They trudged79 along in silence for a mile or two along a country road, which conducted them, by hedge and gate-way, into the principal highway, a little beyond Grantham. At length her master of the horse asked her whether her name was not Jean, or Jane, Deans. She answered in the affirmative, with some surprise. “Then here’s a bit of a note as concerns you,” said the man, handing it over his left shoulder. “It’s from young master, as I judge, and every man about Willingham is fain to pleasure him either for love or fear; for he’ll come to be landlord at last, let them say what they like.”
Jeanie broke the seal of the note, which was addressed to her, and read as follows:—
“You refuse to see me. I suppose you are shocked at my character: but, in painting myself such as I am, you should give me credit for my sincerity. I am, at least, no hypocrite. You refuse, however, to see me, and your conduct may be natural — but is it wise? I have expressed my anxiety to repair your sister’s misfortunes at the expense of my honour — my family’s honour — my own life, and you think me too debased to be admitted even to sacrifice what I have remaining of honour, fame, and life, in her cause. Well, if the offerer be despised, the victim is still equally at hand; and perhaps there may be justice in the decree of Heaven, that I shall not have the melancholy credit of appearing to make this sacrifice out of my own free good-will. You, as you have declined my concurrence80, must take the whole upon yourself. Go, then, to the Duke of Argyle, and, when other arguments fail you, tell him you have it in your power to bring to condign81 punishment the most active conspirator82 in the Porteous mob. He will hear you on this topic, should he be deaf to every other. Make your own terms, for they will be at your own making. You know where I am to be found; and you may be assured I will not give you the dark side of the hill, as at Muschat’s Cairn; I have no thoughts of stirring from the house I was born in; like the hare, I shall be worried in the seat I started from. I repeat it — make your own terms. I need not remind you to ask your sister’s life, for that you will do of course; but make terms of advantage for yourself — ask wealth and reward — office and income for Butler — ask anything — you will get anything — and all for delivering to the hands of the executioner a man most deserving of his office — one who, though young in years, is old in wickedness, and whose most earnest desire is, after the storms of an unquiet life, to sleep and be at rest.”
This extraordinary letter was subscribed83 with the initials G. S.
Jeanie read it over once or twice with great attention, which the slow pace of the horse, as he stalked through a deep lane, enabled her to do with facility.
When she had perused84 this billet, her first employment was to tear it into as small pieces as possible, and disperse85 these pieces in the air by a few at a time, so that a document containing so perilous86 a secret might not fall into any other person’s hand.
The question how far, in point of extremity87, she was entitled to save her sister’s life by sacrificing that of a person who, though guilty towards the state, had done her no injury, formed the next earnest and most painful subject of consideration. In one sense, indeed, it seemed as if denouncing the guilt88 of Staunton, the cause of her sister’s errors and misfortunes, would have been an act of just, and even providential retribution. But Jeanie, in the strict and severe tone of morality in which she was educated, had to consider not only the general aspect of a proposed action, but its justness and fitness in relation to the actor, before she could be, according to her own phrase, free to enter upon it. What right had she to make a barter89 between the lives of Staunton and of Effie, and to sacrifice the one for the safety of the other? His guilt — that guilt for which he was amenable90 to the laws — was a crime against the public indeed, but it was not against her.
Neither did it seem to her that his share in the death of Porteous, though her mind revolted at the idea of using violence to any one, was in the relation of a common murder, against the perpetrator of which every one is called to aid the public magistrate91. That violent action was blended with many circumstances, which, in the eyes of those in Jeanie’s rank of life, if they did not altogether deprive it of the character of guilt, softened, at least, its most atrocious features. The anxiety of the government to obtain conviction of some of the offenders92, had but served to increase the public feeling which connected the action, though violent and irregular, with the idea of ancient national independence. The rigorous measures adopted or proposed against the city of Edinburgh, the ancient metropolis93 of Scotland — the extremely unpopular and injudicious measure of compelling the Scottish clergy12, contrary to their principles and sense of duty, to promulgate94 from the pulpit the reward offered for the discovery of the perpetrators of this slaughter95, had produced on the public mind the opposite consequences from what were intended; and Jeanie felt conscious, that whoever should lodge information concerning that event, and for whatsoever96 purpose it might be done, it would be considered as an act of treason against the independence of Scotland. With the fanaticism97 of the Scottish Presbyterians, there was always mingled98 a glow of national feeling, and Jeanie, trembled at the idea of her name being handed down to posterity99 with that of the “fause Monteath,” and one or two others, who, having deserted100 and betrayed the cause of their country, are damned to perpetual remembrance and execration101 among its peasantry. Yet, to part with Effie’s life once more, when a word spoken might save it, pressed severely102 on the mind of her affectionate sister.
“The Lord support and direct me!” said Jeanie, “for it seems to be His will to try me with difficulties far beyond my ain strength.”
While this thought passed through Jeanie’s mind, her guard, tired of silence, began to show some inclination103 to be communicative. He seemed a sensible, steady peasant, but not having more delicacy104 or prudence than is common to those in his situation, he, of course, chose the Willingham family as the subject of his conversation. From this man Jeanie learned some particulars of which she had hitherto been ignorant, and which we will briefly recapitulate105 for the information of the reader.
The father of George Staunton had been bred a soldier, and during service in the West Indies, had married the heiress of a wealthy planter. By this lady he had an only child, George Staunton, the unhappy young, man who has been so often mentioned in this narrative106. He passed the first part of his early youth under the charge of a doting107 mother, and in the society of negro slaves, whose study it was to gratify his every caprice. His father was a man of worth and sense; but as he alone retained tolerable health among the officers of the regiment108 he belonged to, he was much engaged with his duty. Besides, Mrs. Staunton was beautiful and wilful109, and enjoyed but delicate health; so that it was difficult for a man of affection, humanity, and a quiet disposition110, to struggle with her on the point of her over-indulgence to an only child. Indeed, what Mr. Staunton did do towards counteracting111 the baneful112 effects of his wife’s system, only tended to render it more pernicious; for every restraint imposed on the boy in his father’s presence, was compensated113 by treble license114 during his absence. So that George Staunton acquired, even in childhood, the habit of regarding his father as a rigid115 censor116, from whose severity he was desirous of emancipating117 himself as soon and absolutely as possible.
When he was about ten years old, and when his mind had received all the seeds of those evil weeds which afterwards grew apace, his mother died, and his father, half heart-broken, returned to England. To sum up her imprudence and unjustifiable indulgence, she had contrived118 to place a considerable part of her fortune at her son’s exclusive control or disposal, in consequence of which management, George Staunton had not been long in England till he learned his independence, and how to abuse it. His father had endeavoured to rectify119 the defects of his education by placing him in a well-regulated seminary. But although he showed some capacity for learning, his riotous120 conduct soon became intolerable to his teachers. He found means (too easily afforded to all youths who have certain expectations) of procuring121 such a command of money as enabled him to anticipate in boyhood the frolics and follies122 of a more mature age, and, with these accomplishments123, he was returned on his father’s hands as a profligate124 boy, whose example might ruin a hundred.
The elder Mr. Staunton, whose mind, since his wife’s death, had been tinged125 with a melancholy, which certainly his son’s conduct did not tend to dispel126, had taken orders, and was inducted by his brother Sir William Staunton into the family living of Willingham. The revenue was a matter of consequence to him, for he derived127 little advantage from the estate of his late wife; and his own fortune was that of a younger brother.
He took his son to reside with him at the rectory, but he soon found that his disorders128 rendered him an intolerable inmate129. And as the young men of his own rank would not endure the purse-proud insolence130 of the Creole, he fell into that taste for low society, which is worse than “pressing to death, whipping, or hanging.” His father sent him abroad, but he only returned wilder and more desperate than before. It is true, this unhappy youth was not without his good qualities. He had lively wit, good temper, reckless generosity131, and manners, which, while he was under restraint, might pass well in society. But all these availed him nothing. He was so well acquainted with the turf, the gaming-table, the cock-pit, and every worse rendezvous of folly132 and dissipation, that his mother’s fortune was spent before he was twenty-one, and he was soon in debt and in distress133. His early history may be concluded in the words of our British Juvenal, when describing a similar character:—
Headstrong, determined in his own career,
He thought reproof134 unjust, and truth severe.
The soul’s disease was to its crisis come,
He first abused, and then abjured135, his home;
And when he chose a vagabond to be,
He made his shame his glory, “I’ll be free!”
[Crabbe’s Borough136, Letter xii.]
“And yet ’tis pity on Measter George, too,” continued the honest boor137, “for he has an open hand, and winna let a poor body want an he has it.”
The virtue of profuse138 generosity, by which, indeed, they themselves are most directly advantaged, is readily admitted by the vulgar as a cloak for many sins.
At Stamford our heroine was deposited in safety by her communicative guide. She obtained a place in the coach, which, although termed a light one, and accommodated with no fewer than six horses, only reached London on the afternoon of the second day. The recommendation of the elder Mr. Staunton procured139 Jeanie a civil reception at the inn where the carriage stopped, and, by the aid of Mrs. Bickerton’s correspondent, she found out her friend and relative Mrs. Glass, by whom she was kindly140 received and hospitably141 entertained.
收听单词发音 |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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reverence
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| 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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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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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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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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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25
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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26
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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27
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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28
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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29
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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30
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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31
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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32
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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33
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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34
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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35
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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36
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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37
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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38
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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39
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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40
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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41
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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42
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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43
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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44
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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45
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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46
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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47
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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48
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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49
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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50
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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51
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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52
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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53
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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54
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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55
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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56
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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57
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
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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59
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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60
lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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61
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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62
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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63
dispenses
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| v.分配，分与；分配( dispense的第三人称单数 )；施与；配（药） | |
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64
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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65
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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66
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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67
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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68
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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69
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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70
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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71
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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72
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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73
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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75
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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76
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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77
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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79
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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80
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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81
condign
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| adj.应得的，相当的 | |
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82
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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83
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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84
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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85
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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86
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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87
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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88
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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89
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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90
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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91
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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92
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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93
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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94
promulgate
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| v.宣布；传播；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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95
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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96
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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97
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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98
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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99
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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100
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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101
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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102
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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103
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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104
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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105
recapitulate
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| v.节述要旨，择要说明 | |
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106
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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107
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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108
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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109
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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110
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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111
counteracting
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的现在分词 ) | |
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112
baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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113
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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114
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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115
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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116
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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117
emancipating
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| v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的现在分词 ) | |
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118
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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119
rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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120
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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121
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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122
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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123
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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124
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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125
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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127
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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128
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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129
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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130
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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131
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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132
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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133
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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134
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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135
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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136
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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137
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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138
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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139
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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140
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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141
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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