Which Contains Something Very Unexpected.
MISS TEMPLE had run up stairs to take off her bonnet1; Ferdinand stood before the wood fire in the salon2. Its clear, fragrant3 flame was agreeable after the cloudy sky of their somewhat chill drive. He was musing4 over the charms of his Henrietta, and longing5 for her reappearance, when she entered; but her entrance filled him with alarm. She was pale, her lips nearly as white as her forehead. An expression of dread6 was impressed on her agitated7 countenance8. Ere he could speak she held forth9 her hand to his extended grasp. It was cold, it trembled.
‘Good God! you are ill!’ he exclaimed. ‘No!’ she faintly murmured, ‘not ill.’ And then she paused, as if stifled10, leaning down her head with eyes fixed11 upon the ground.
The conscience of Ferdinand pricked12 him. Had she heard———
But he was reassured13 by her accents of kindness. ‘Pardon me, dearest,’ she said; ‘I am agitated; I shall soon be better.’
He held her hand with firmness while she leant upon his shoulder. After a few minutes of harrowing silence, she said in a smothered14 voice, ‘Papa returns tomorrow.’
Ferdinand turned as pale as she; the blood fled to his heart, his frame trembled, his knees tottered15, his passive hand scarcely retained hers; he could not speak. All the possible results of this return flashed across his mind, and presented themselves in terrible array to his alarmed imagination. He could not meet Mr. Temple; that was out of the question. Some explanation must immediately and inevitably17 ensue, and that must precipitate18 the fatal discovery. The great object was to prevent any communication between Mr. Temple and Sir Ratcliffe before Ferdinand had broken his situation to his father. How he now wished he had not postponed19 his departure for Bath! Had he only quitted Armine when first convinced of the hard necessity, the harrowing future would now have been the past, the impending20 scenes, however dreadful, would have ensued; perhaps he might have been at Ducie at this moment, with a clear conscience and a frank purpose, and with no difficulties to overcome but those which must necessarily arise from Mr. Temple’s natural consideration for the welfare of his child. These, however difficult to combat, seemed light in comparison with the perplexities of his involved situation. Ferdinand bore Henrietta to a seat, and hung over her in agitated silence, which she ascribed only to his sympathy for her distress21, but which, in truth, was rather to be attributed to his own uncertain purpose, and to the confusion of an invention which he now ransacked22 for desperate expedients23.
While he was thus revolving24 in his mind the course which he must now pursue, he sat down on the ottoman on which her feet rested, and pressed her hand to his lips while he summoned to his aid all the resources of his imagination. It at length appeared to him that the only mode by which he could now gain time, and secure himself from dangerous explanations, was to involve Henrietta in a secret engagement. There was great difficulty, he was aware, in accomplishing this purpose. Miss Temple was devoted25 to her father; and though for a moment led away, by the omnipotent26 influence of an irresistible27 passion, to enter into a compact without the sanction of her parent, her present agitation28 too clearly indicated her keen sense that she had not conducted herself towards him in her accustomed spirit of unswerving and immaculate duty; that, if not absolutely indelicate, her behaviour must appear to him very inconsiderate, very rash, perhaps even unfeeling. Unfeeling! What, to that father, that fond and widowed father, of whom she was the only and cherished child! All his goodness, all his unceasing care, all his anxiety, his ready sympathy, his watchfulness29 for her amusement, her comfort, her happiness, his vigilance in her hours of sickness, his pride in her beauty, her accomplishments30, her affection, the smiles and tears of long, long years, all passed before her, till at last she released herself with a quick movement from the hold of Ferdinand, and, clasping her hands together, burst into a sigh so bitter, so profound, so full of anguish31, that Ferdinand started from his seat.
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‘Henrietta!’ he exclaimed, ‘my beloved Henrietta!’
‘Leave me,’ she replied, in a tone almost of sternness.
He rose and walked up and down the room, overpowered by contending emotions. The severity of her voice, that voice that hitherto had fallen upon his ear like the warble of a summer bird, filled him with consternation32. The idea of having offended her, of having seriously offended her, of being to her, to Henrietta, to Henrietta, that divinity to whom his idolatrous fancy clung with such rapturous devotion, in whose very smiles and accents it is no exaggeration to say he lived and had his being, the idea of being to her, even for a transient moment, an object of repugnance33, seemed something too terrible for thought, too intolerable for existence. All his troubles, all his cares, all his impending sorrows, vanished into thin air, compared with this unforeseen and sudden visitation. Oh! what was future evil, what was tomorrow, pregnant as it might be with misery34, compared with the quick agony of the instant? So long as she smiled, every difficulty appeared surmountable35; so long as he could listen to her accents of tenderness, there was no dispensation with which he could not struggle. Come what may, throned in the palace of her heart, he was a sovereign who might defy the world in arms; but, thrust from that great seat, he was a fugitive36 without a hope, an aim, a desire; dull, timid, exhausted37, broken-hearted!
And she had bid him leave her. Leave her! Henrietta Temple had bid him leave her! Did he live? Was this the same world in which a few hours back he breathed, and blessed his God for breathing? What had happened? What strange event, what miracle had occurred, to work this awful, this portentous38 change? Why, if she had known all, if she had suddenly shared that sharp and perpetual woe39 ever gnawing40 at his own secret heart, even amid his joys; if he had revealed to her, if anyone had betrayed to her his distressing41 secret, could she have said more? Why, it was to shun42 this, it was to spare himself this horrible catastrophe43, that he had involved himself in his agonising, his inextricable difficulties. Inextricable they must be now; for where, now, was the inspiration that before was to animate44 him to such great exploits? How could he struggle any longer with his fate? How could he now carve out a destiny? All that remained for him now was to die; and, in the madness of his sensations, death seemed to him the most desirable consummation.
The temper of a lover is exquisitely45 sensitive. Mortified46 and miserable47, at any other time Ferdinand, in a fit of harassed48 love, might have instantly quitted the presence of a mistress who had treated him with such unexpected and such undeserved harshness. But the thought of the morrow, the mournful conviction that this was the last opportunity for their undisturbed communion, the recollection that, at all events, their temporary separation was impending; all these considerations had checked his first impulse. Besides, it must not be concealed50 that more than once it occurred to him that it was utterly51 impossible to permit Henrietta to meet her father in her present mood. With her determined52 spirit and strong emotions, and her difficulty of concealing53 her feelings; smarting, too, under the consciousness of having parted with Ferdinand in anger, and of having treated him with injustice54; and, therefore, doubly anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all probability would instantly ensue; and Ferdinand recoiled55 at present from the consequences of any explanations.
Unhappy Ferdinand! It seemed to him that he had never known misery before. He wrung56 his hands in despair; his mind seemed to desert him. Suddenly he stopped; he looked at Henrietta; her face was still pale, her eyes fixed upon the decaying embers of the fire, her attitude unchanged. Either she was unconscious of his presence, or she did not choose to recognise it. What were her thoughts?
Still of her father? Perhaps she contrasted that fond and faithful friend of her existence, to whom she owed such an incalculable debt of gratitude57, with the acquaintance of the hour, to whom, in a moment of insanity58, she had pledged the love that could alone repay it. Perhaps, in the spirit of self-torment, she conjured59 up against this too successful stranger all the menacing spectres of suspicion, distrust, and deceit; recalled to her recollection the too just and too frequent tales of man’s impurity60 and ingratitude61; and tortured herself by her own apparition62, the merited victim of his harshness, his neglect, or his desertion. And when she had at the same time both shocked and alarmed her fancy by these distressful63 and degrading images, exhausted by these imaginary vexations, and eager for consolation64 in her dark despondency, she may have recurred65 to the yet innocent cause of her sorrow and apprehension66, and perhaps accused herself of cruelty and injustice for visiting on his head the mere67 consequences of her own fitful and morbid68 temper. She may have recalled his unvarying tenderness, his unceasing admiration69; she may have recollected70 those impassioned accents that thrilled her heart, those glances of rapturous affection that fixed her eye with fascination71. She may have conjured up that form over which of late she had mused72 in a trance of love, that form bright with so much beauty, beaming with so many graces, adorned73 with so much intelligence, and hallowed by every romantic association that could melt the heart or mould the spirit of woman; she may have conjured up this form, that was the god of her idolatry, and rushed again to the altar in an ecstasy74 of devotion.
The shades of evening were fast descending76, the curtains of the chamber77 were not closed, the blaze of the fire had died away. The flickering78 light fell upon the solemn countenance of Henrietta Temple, now buried in the shade, now transiently illumined by the fitful flame.
On a sudden he advanced, with a step too light even to be heard, knelt at her side, and, not venturing to touch her hand, pressed his lips to her arm, and with streaming eyes, and in a tone of plaintive79 tenderness, murmured, ‘What have I done?’
She turned, her eyes met his, a wild expression of fear, surprise, delight, played over hen countenance; then, bursting into tears, she threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face upon his breast.
He did not disturb this effusion of her suppressed emotions. His throbbing80 heart responded to her tumultuous soul. At length, when the strength of her passionate82 affections had somewhat decreased, when the convulsive sobs83 had subsided84 into gentle sighs, and ever and anon he felt the pressure of her sweet lips sealing her remorseful85 love and her charming repentance86 upon his bosom88, he dared to say, ‘Oh! my Henrietta, you did not doubt your Ferdinand?’
‘Dearest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too faultless, and I am very wicked.’
Taking her hand and covering it with kisses, he said in a distinct, but very low voice, ‘Now tell me, why were you unhappy?’
‘Papa,’ sighed Henrietta, ‘dearest papa, that the day should come when I should grieve to meet him!’
‘And why should my darling grieve?’ said Ferdinand.
‘I know not; I ask myself, what have I done? what have I to fear? It is no crime to love; it may be a misfortune; God knows that I have almost felt to-night that such it was. But no, I never will believe it can be either wrong or unhappy to love you.’
‘Bless you, for such sweet words,’ replied Ferdinand. ‘If my heart can make you happy, felicity shall be your lot.’
‘It is my lot. I am happy, quite happy, and grateful for my happiness.’
‘And your father-our father, let me call him [she pressed his hand when he said this]—he will be happy too?’
‘So I would hope.’
‘If the fulfilment of my duty can content him,’ continued Ferdinand, ‘Mr. Temple shall not repent87 his son-in-law.’
‘Oh! do not call him Mr. Temple; call him father. I love to hear you call him father.’
‘Then what alarms my child?’
‘I hardly know,’ said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. ‘I think—I think it is the suddenness of all this. He has gone, he comes again; he went, he returns; and all has happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It is a life to us; to him, I fear,’ and she hid her face, ‘it is only———a fortnight.’
‘We have seen more of each other, and known more of each other, in this fortnight, than we might have in an acquaintance which had continued a life.’
‘That’s true, that’s very true. We feel this, Ferdinand, because we know it. But papa will not feel like us: we cannot expect him to feel like us. He does not know my Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, though the dearest, kindest, fondest father that ever lived, though he has no thought but for my happiness and lives only for his daughter, papa naturally is not so young as we are. He is, too, what is called a man of the world. He has seen a great deal; he has formed his opinions of men and life. We cannot expect that he will change them in your, I mean in our favour. Men of the world are of the world, worldly. I do not think they are always right; I do not myself believe in their infallibility. There is no person more clever and more judicious89 than papa. No person is more considerate. But there are characters so rare, that men of the world do not admit them into their general calculations, and such is yours, Ferdinand.’
Here Ferdinand seemed plunged90 in thought, but he pressed her hand, though he said nothing.
‘He will think we have known each other too short a time,’ continued Miss Temple. ‘He will be mortified, perhaps alarmed, when I inform him I am no longer his.’
‘Then do not inform him,’ said Ferdinand.
She started.
‘Let me inform him,’ continued Ferdinand, giving another turn to his meaning, and watching her countenance with an unfaltering eye.
‘Dearest Ferdinand, always prepared to bear every burthen!’ exclaimed Miss Temple. ‘How generous and good you are! No, it would be better for me to speak first to my father. My soul, I will never have a secret from you, and you, I am sure, will never have one from your Henrietta. This is the truth; I do not repent the past, I glory in it; I am yours, and I am proud to be yours. Were the past to be again acted, I would not falter91. But I cannot conceal49 from myself that, so far as my father is concerned, I have not conducted myself towards him with frankness, with respect, or with kindness. There is no fault in loving you. Even were he to regret, he could not blame such an occurrence: but he will regret, he will blame, he has a right both to regret and blame, my doing more than love you—my engagement—without his advice, his sanction, his knowledge, or even his suspicion!’
‘You take too refined a view of our situation,’ replied Ferdinand. ‘Why should you not spare your father the pain of such a communication, if painful it would be? What has passed is between ourselves, and ought to be between ourselves. If I request his permission to offer you my hand, and he yields his consent, is not that ceremony enough?’
‘I have never concealed anything from papa,’ said Henrietta, ‘but I will be guided by you.’
‘Leave, then, all to me,’ said Ferdinand; ‘be guided but by the judgment92 of your own Ferdinand, my Henrietta, and believe me all will go right. I will break this intelligence to your father. So we will settle it?’ he continued enquiringly.
‘It shall be so.’
‘Then arises the question,’ said Ferdinand, ‘when it would be most advisable for me to make the communication. Now your father, Henrietta, who is a man of the world, will of course expect that, when I do make it, I shall be prepared to speak definitely to him upon all matters of business. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling93 with him. To go and request of a man like your father, a shrewd, experienced man of the world like Mr. Temple, permission to marry his daughter, without showing to him that I am prepared with the means of maintaining a family, is little short of madness. He would be offended with me, he would be prejudiced against me. I must, therefore, settle something first with Sir Ratcliffe.
Much, you know, unfortunately, I cannot offer your father; but still, sweet love, there must at least be an appearance of providence94 and management. We must not disgust your father with our union.’
‘Oh! how can he be disgusted?’
‘Dear one! This, then, is what I propose; that, as tomorrow we must comparatively be separated, I should take advantage of the next few days, and get to Bath, and bring affairs to some arrangement. Until my return I would advise you to say nothing to your father.’
‘How can I live under the same roof with him, under such circumstances?’ exclaimed Miss Temple; ‘how can I meet his eye, how can I speak to him with the consciousness of a secret engagement, with the recollection that, all the time he is lavishing95 his affection upon me, my heart is yearning96 for another, and that, while he is laying plans of future companionship, I am meditating97, perhaps, an eternal separation!’
‘Sweet Henrietta, listen to me one moment. Suppose I had quitted you last night for Bath, merely for this purpose, as indeed we had once thought of, and that your father had arrived at Ducie before I had returned to make my communication: would you style your silence, under such circumstances, a secret engagement? No, no, dear love; this is an abuse of terms. It would be a delicate consideration for a parent’s feelings.’
‘O Ferdinand! would we were united, and had no cares!’
‘You would not consider our projected union a secret engagement, if, after passing tomorrow with your father, you expected me on the next day to communicate to him our position. Is it any more a secret engagement because six or seven days are to elapse before this communication takes place, instead of one? My Henrietta is indeed fighting with shadows!’
‘Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you; but I feel unhappy when I think of this.’
‘Dearest Henrietta! feel only that you are loved. Think, darling, the day will come when we shall smile at all these cares. All will flow smoothly98 yet, and we shall all yet live at Armine, Mr. Temple and all.’
‘Papa likes you so much too, Ferdinand, I should be miserable if you offended him.’
‘Which I certainly should do if I were not to speak to Sir Ratcliffe first.’
‘Do you, indeed, think so?’
‘Indeed I am certain.’
‘But cannot you write to Sir Ratcliffe, Ferdinand? Must you really go? Must we, indeed, be separated? I cannot believe it; it is inconceivable; it is impossible; I cannot endure it.’
‘It is, indeed, terrible,’ said Ferdinand. ‘This consideration alone reconciles me to the necessity: I know my father well; his only answer to a communication of this kind would be an immediate16 summons to his side. Now, is it not better that this meeting should take place when we must necessarily be much less together than before, than at a later period, when we may, perhaps, be constant companions with the sanction of our parents?’
‘O Ferdinand! you reason, I only feel.’
Such an observation from one’s mistress is rather a reproach than a compliment. It was made, in the present instance, to a man whose principal characteristic was, perhaps, a too dangerous susceptibility; a man of profound and violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tender temper; capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting99 from the impulse of sentiment, and ready at all times to sacrifice every consideration to his heart. The prospect100 of separation from Henrietta, for however short a period, was absolute agony to him; he found difficulty in conceiving existence without the influence of her perpetual presence: their parting even for the night was felt by him as an onerous101 deprivation102. The only process, indeed, that could at present prepare and console him for the impending sorrow would have been the frank indulgence of the feelings which it called forth. Yet behold103 him, behold this unhappy victim of circumstances, forced to deceive, even for her happiness, the being whom he idolised; compelled, at this hour of anguish, to bridle104 his heart, lest he should lose for a fatal instant his command over his head; and, while he was himself conscious that not in the wide world, perhaps, existed a man who was sacrificing more for his mistress, obliged to endure, even from her lips, a remark which seemed to impute105 to him a deficiency of feeling. And yet it was too much; he covered his eyes with his hand, and said, in a low and broken voice, ‘Alas! my Henrietta, if you knew all, you would not say this!’
‘My Ferdinand,’ she exclaimed, touched by that tender and melancholy106 tone, ‘why, what is this? you weep! What have I said, what done? Dearest Ferdinand, do not do this.’ And she threw herself on her knees before him, and looked up into his face with scrutinising affection.
He bent107 down his head, and pressed his lips to her forehead. ‘O Henrietta!’ he exclaimed, ‘we have been so happy!’
‘And shall be so, my own. Doubt not my word, all will go right. I am so sorry, I am so miserable, that I made you unhappy to-night. I shall think of it when you are gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. It was so wicked, so very, very wicked; and he was so good.’
‘Gone! what a dreadful word! And shall we not be together tomorrow, Henrietta? Oh! what a morrow! Think of me, dearest. Do not let me for a moment escape from your memory.’
‘Tell me exactly your road; let me know exactly where you will be at every hour; write to me on the road; if it be only a line, only a little word; only his dear name; only Ferdinand!’
‘And how shall I write to you? Shall I direct to you here?’
Henrietta looked perplexed108. ‘Papa opens the bag every morning, and every morning you must write, or I shall die. Ferdinand, what is to be done’?’
‘I will direct to you at the post-office. You must send for your letters.’
‘I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will look so—so—so—clandestine.’
‘I will direct them to your maid. She must be our confidante.’
‘Ferdinand!’
”Tis only for a week.’
‘O Ferdinand! Love teaches us strange things.’
‘My darling, believe me, it is wise and well. Think how desolate109 we should be without constant correspondence. As for myself, I shall write to you every hour, and, unless I hear from you as often, I shall believe only in evil!’
‘Let it be as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. I pretend no longer to regulate my destiny. I am yours, Ferdinand. Be you responsible for all that affects my honour or my heart.’
‘A precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to me than all the glory of my ancestors.’
The clock sounded eleven. Miss Temple rose. ‘It is so late, and we in darkness here! What will they think? Ferdinand, sweetest, rouse the fire. I ring the bell. Lights will come, and then———’ Her voice faltered110.
‘And then———’ echoed Ferdinand. He took up his guitar, but he could not command his voice.
”Tis your guitar,’ said Henrietta; ‘I am happy that it is left behind.’
The servant entered with lights, drew the curtains, renewed the fire, arranged the room, and withdrew.
‘Little knows he our misery,’ said Henrietta. ‘It seemed strange, when I felt my own mind, that there could be anything so calm and mechanical in the world.’
Ferdinand was silent. He felt that the hour of departure had indeed arrived, yet he had not courage to move. Henrietta, too, did not speak. She reclined on the sofa, as it were, exhausted, and placed her handkerchief over her face. Ferdinand leant over the fire. He was nearly tempted111 to give up his project, confess all to his father by letter, and await his decision. Then he conjured up the dreadful scenes at Bath, and then he remembered that, at all events, tomorrow he must not appear at Ducie. ‘Henrietta!’ he at length said.
‘A minute, Ferdinand, yet a minute,’ she exclaimed in an excited tone; ‘do not speak, I am preparing myself.’
He remained in his leaning posture112; and in a few moments Miss Temple rose and said, ‘Now, Ferdinand, I am ready.’ He looked round. Her countenance was quite pale, but fixed and calm.
‘Let us embrace,’ she said, ‘but let us say nothing.’
He pressed her to his arms. She trembled. He imprinted113 a thousand kisses on her cold lips; she received them with no return. Then she said in a low voice, ‘Let me leave the room first;’ and, giving him one kiss upon his forehead, Henrietta Temple disappeared.
When Ferdinand with a sinking heart and a staggering step quitted Ducie, he found the night so dark that it was with extreme difficulty he traced, or rather groped, his way through the grove114. The absolute necessity of watching every step he took in some degree diverted his mind from his painful meditations115. The atmosphere of the wood was so close, that he congratulated himself when he had gained its skirts; but just as he was about to emerge upon the common, and was looking forward to the light of some cottage as his guide in this gloomy wilderness116, a flash of lightning that seemed to cut the sky in twain, and to descend75 like a flight of fiery117 steps from the highest heavens to the lowest earth, revealed to him for a moment the whole broad bosom of the common, and showed to him that nature to-night was as disordered and perturbed118 as his own heart. A clap of thunder, that might have been the herald119 of Doomsday, woke the cattle from their slumbers120. They began to moan and low to the rising wind, and cluster under the trees, that sent forth with their wailing121 branches sounds scarcely less dolorous122 and wild. Avoiding the woods, and striking into the most open part of the country, Ferdinand watched the progress of the tempest.
For the wind had now risen to such a height that the leaves and branches of the trees were carried about in vast whirls and eddies123, while the waters of the lake, where in serener124 hours Ferdinand was accustomed to bathe, were lifted out of their bed, and inundated125 the neighbouring settlements. Lights were now seen moving in the cottages, and then the forked lightning, pouring down at the same time from opposite quarters of the sky, exposed with an awful distinctness, and a fearful splendour, the wide-spreading scene of danger and devastation126.
Now descended127 the rain in such overwhelming torrents128, that it was as if a waterspout had burst, and Ferdinand gasped129 for breath beneath its oppressive power; while the blaze of the variegated130 lightning, the crash of the thunder, and the roar of the wind, all simultaneously131 in movement, indicated the fulness of the storm. Succeeded then that strange lull132 that occurs in the heart of a tempest, when the unruly and disordered elements pause, as it were, for breath, and seem to concentrate their energies for an increased and final explosion. It came at last; and the very earth seemed to rock in the passage of the hurricane.
Exposed to all the awful chances of the storm, one solitary133 being alone beheld134 them without terror. The mind of Ferdinand Armine grew calm, as nature became more disturbed. He moralised amid the whirlwind. He contrasted the present tumult81 and distraction135 with the sweet and beautiful serenity136 which the same scene had presented when, a short time back, he first beheld it. His love, too, had commenced in stillness and in sunshine; was it, also, to end in storm and in destruction?
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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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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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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30
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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31
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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32
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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34
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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35
surmountable
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| 可战胜的，可克服的 | |
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36
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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37
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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38
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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39
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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40
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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41
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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42
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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43
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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44
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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46
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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47
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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48
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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50
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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51
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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52
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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53
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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54
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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55
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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56
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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57
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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58
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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conjured
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| 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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60
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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61
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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62
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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63
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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64
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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65
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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67
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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68
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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69
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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70
recollected
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| 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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71
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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72
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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73
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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74
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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75
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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76
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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77
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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78
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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79
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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80
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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81
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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82
passionate
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| 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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83
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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84
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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85
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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86
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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87
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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88
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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89
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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90
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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91
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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92
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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93
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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94
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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95
lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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96
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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97
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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98
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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99
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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100
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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101
onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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102
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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103
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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104
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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105
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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106
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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107
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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108
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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109
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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110
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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111
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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112
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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113
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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114
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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115
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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116
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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117
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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118
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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120
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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121
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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122
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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123
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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124
serener
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的比较级形式 | |
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125
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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126
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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127
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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128
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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129
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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130
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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131
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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132
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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133
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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134
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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135
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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136
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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