In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!
BEATTIE
Emily, mean while, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of Valancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she could entrust1 on her errand to the steward2, informed her, that the messenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be at the cottage, Theresa being too lame3 to attend her.
In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a melancholy4 foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey autumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partially5 obscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among the beech6 woods, strewed7 her path with some of their last yellow leaves. These, circling in the blast and foretelling8 the death of the year, gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed to announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than once so strong a presentiment9, that she was on the point of returning home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she anticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded them, as to be able to proceed.
While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour, that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the wind, now disappearing among tempestuous10 clouds, and then emerging, for a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and vicissitudes11 of her late life seemed pourtrayed in these fleeting12 images;— thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for the last year, with but short intervals13 of peace, if peace that could be called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those, who had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large fortune, now, when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived that she was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herself of weakness and ingratitude14 in thus suffering a sense of the various blessings16 she possessed17 to be overcome by that of a single misfortune, had this misfortune affected18 herself alone; but, when she had wept for Valancourt even as living, tears of compassion19 had mingled20 with those of regret, and while she lamented21 a human being degraded to vice22, and consequently to misery23, reason and humanity claimed these tears, and fortitude24 had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love; in the present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt25, but the apprehension26 of his death (of a death also, to which she herself, however innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental) that oppressed her. This fear increased, as the means of certainty concerning it approached; and, when she came within view of Theresa’s cottage, she was so much disordered, and her resolution failed her so entirely27, that, unable to proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her path; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned28 sullenly29 among the lofty branches above, seemed to her melancholy imagination to bear the sounds of distant lamentation30, and, in the pauses of the gust31, she still fancied she heard the feeble and far- off notes of distress32. Attention convinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increasing gloom, which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warned her to depart, and, with faltering33 steps, she again moved toward the cottage. Through the casement34 appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed Emily approaching, was already at the door to receive her.
‘It is a cold evening, madam,’ said she, ‘storms are coming on, and I thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth35.’
Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a countenance36 so full of woe37, that Theresa instantly comprehended the occasion of it, but she remained silent. ‘Ah!’ said Emily, at length, ‘it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, your silence, and that look, sufficiently38 explain it;— he is dead!’
‘Alas39! my dear young lady,’ replied Theresa, while tears filled her eyes, ‘this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share as well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven pleases.’
‘He is dead, then!’— interrupted Emily —‘Valancourt is dead!’
‘A-well-a-day! I fear he is,’ replied Theresa.
‘You fear!’ said Emily, ‘do you only fear?’
‘Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, or any of the Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and the Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him, since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago, but he has neither come, or written, and they fear some accident has befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death! I am old, and might have died without being missed, but he’— Emily was faint, and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which she spoke40, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to Emily’s lips, continued, ‘My dear young mistress, do not take it so to heart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope the best!’
‘O no! I cannot hope,’ said Emily, ‘I am acquainted with circumstances, that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat41, the particulars of what you know.’
‘Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!’
‘O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,’ said Emily, ‘tell me all, I conjure42 you!’
‘Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richard says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what he gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard it from my lord’s gentleman.’
‘What did he hear?’ said Emily.
‘Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half of it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should have heard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all the other servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for that he was such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if he had been their own brother — and now, to think what was become of him! For he used to be so courteous43 to them all, and, if any of them had been in fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to forgive them. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M. Valancourt was the first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not a great way off, could have afforded that much better than he. And then, said Gabriel, he was so gentle to every body, and, for all he had such a noble look with him, he never would command, and call about him, as some of your quality people do, and we never minded him the less for that. Nay44, says Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have run to obey him at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what to do at full length; aye, and were more afraid of displeasing45 him, too, than of them, that used rough words to us.’
Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise, bestowed46 on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat, attentive47 to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. ‘My Lord,’ continued Theresa, ‘frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the more, because, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately. Gabriel says he had it from my Lord’s valet, that M. Valancourt had COMPORTED48 himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of money, more a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better than M. Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M. Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel, refused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer; and, when old Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking-stick to take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thing we hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was a joyful49 day when he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very cool upon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he went away again into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never seen him.’
Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed50 upon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired51 what further Theresa had heard. ‘Yet why should I ask?’ she added; ‘what you have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone — forever gone! and I— I have murdered thee!’ These words, and the countenance of despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, that the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected her senses. ‘My dear young lady, be composed,’ said she, ‘and do not say such frightful52 words. You murder M. Valancourt,— dear heart!’ Emily replied only by a heavy sigh.
‘Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,’ said Theresa, ‘do not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy; it frightens me to see you.’ Emily was still silent, and did not appear to hear any thing that was said to her. ‘Besides, mademoiselle,’ continued Theresa, ‘M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what we know.’
At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what had been said. ‘Aye, my dear lady,’ said Theresa, mistaking the meaning of this considerate air, ‘M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.’
On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but, instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten her distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room, with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and shuddered53.
Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a warmer situation, and then drew forth54 from a cupboard a flask55 of wine. ‘It is a stormy night, madam,’ said she, ‘and blows cold — do come nearer the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks56 that M. Valancourt sent me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of him, and what kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, you are not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. I will send you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimes remember me your friend. Yes — those were his very words — me your friend!’ Emily still paced the room, without seeming to hear what Theresa said, who continued speaking. ‘And I have remembered him, often enough, poor young gentleman!— for he gave me this roof for a shelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessed master, if ever saint was!’
Theresa’s voice faltered57; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.
While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute58, was heard mingling59 with the blast, the sweetness of which affected Emily’s spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender tones, as they swelled60 along the wind, till they were lost again in the ruder gust, came with a plaintiveness61, that touched her heart, and she melted into tears.
‘Aye,’ said Theresa, drying her eyes, ‘there is Richard, our neighbour’s son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweet music now.’ Emily continued to weep, without replying. ‘He often plays of an evening,’ added Theresa, ‘and, sometimes, the young folks dance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so; and pray take a glass of this wine,’ continued she, pouring some into a glass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.
‘Taste it for M. Valancourt’s sake,’ said Theresa, as Emily lifted the glass to her lips, ‘for he gave it me, you know, madam.’ Emily’s hand trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. ‘For whose sake!— who gave the wine?’ said she in a faltering voice. ‘M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the last flask I have left.’
Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa, disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her hand, entreated62 she might be left alone, and wept the more.
A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying her mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her, requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting63, that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while Theresa opened the door.
A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily’s attention. She listened, turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and immediately a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered — Valancourt!
Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinking into it again, became insensible to all around her.
A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire; and, hastening to her assistance,— he perceived, that he was supporting Emily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever, and on beholding64 her pale and lifeless in his arms — may, perhaps, be imagined, though they could neither be then expressed, or now described, any more than Emily’s sensations, when, at length, she unclosed her eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, with which he regarded her, was instantly changed to an expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she was reviving. But he could only exclaim, ‘Emily!’ as he silently watched her recovery, while she averted65 her eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in these the first moments, which succeeded to the pangs66 his supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which had formerly67 claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt such as he had appeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions of only tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few short moments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening the illusive68 image, that possessed it, she again beheld69 Valancourt, degraded — Valancourt unworthy of the esteem70 and tenderness she had once bestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she turned from him to conceal71 her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and agitated72, remained silent.
A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked him for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As she was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened73 as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for compassion, a few moments attention. Emily’s heart, perhaps, pleaded as powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with the clamorous74 entreaties75 of Theresa, that she would not venture home alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the pelting76 storm compelled her to obey their requests.
Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, with increasing agitation77, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, to speak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder upon seeing him.
‘Dear heart! sir,’ said she, ‘I never was so surprised and overjoyed in my life. We were in great tribulation78 before you came, for we thought you was dead, and were talking, and lamenting79 about you, just when you knocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break her heart —’
Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could speak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa’s imprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, ‘O my Emily! am I then still dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought — a tear? O heavens! you weep — you weep now!’
‘Theresa, sir,’ said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer her tears, ‘has reason to remember you with gratitude15, and she was concerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank you for the kindness you have shewn her, and to say, that, since I am now upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you.’’
‘Emily,’ said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, ‘is it thus you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand — thus you meet him, who has loved you — suffered for you?— Yet what do I say? Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter. I have no longer any claim upon your remembrance — I have forfeited80 every pretension81 to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that I once possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them, is my severest affliction. Affliction — do I call it!— that is a term of mildness.’
‘Dear heart!’ said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, ‘talk of once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now, better than she does any body in the whole world, though she pretends to deny it.’
‘This is insupportable!’ said Emily; ‘Theresa, you know not what you say. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity82, you will spare me from the continuance of this distress.’
‘I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it,’ replied Valancourt, in whose bosom83 pride now contended with tenderness; ‘and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few moments attention — yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased to esteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more, without exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed very wretched!’ added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened84 from solemnity into grief.
‘What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!’ said Theresa. ‘No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were poor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness, and not caring about one another, when I know there are not such a kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!’
Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, ‘I must be gone,’ said she, ‘the storm is over.’
‘Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!’ said Valancourt, summoning all his resolution, ‘I will no longer distress you by my presence. Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can, sometimes, pity one, who, in losing you — has lost all hope of peace! May you be happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest wish would have you!’
His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed, while, with a look of ineffable85 tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her for an instant, and then quitted the cottage.
‘Dear heart! dear heart!’ cried Theresa, following him to the door, ‘why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn him out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you was crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do change their mind in a minute, as one may say!’
Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in sorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyes fixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.
‘M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,’ said Theresa; ‘he looks so thin to what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his arm in a sling86.’
Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this last circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had received the shot of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction her pity for him returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave the cottage, during the storm.
Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having censured87 Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and strictly88 charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him, withdrew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate89.
Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village, whither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa’s cottage, on the way from Tholouse to the chateau90 of the Count de Duvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily at Chateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for a considerable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a place, that contained the object most dear to his heart. There were times, indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily, and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride, however, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long endure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so far triumphed over passion, that he relinquished91 this desperate design, and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among the scenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way to Gascony, he stopped at Tholouse, where he remained when Emily arrived, concealing92, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he had formerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring93, with vain regret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she had so unexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to his memory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the arguments he had employed to dissuade94 her from the journey, and the tenderness of their last farewel. In such melancholy recollections he had been indulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace, the evening after her arrival at Tholouse. His emotions, on thus seeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the first promptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and abruptly95 quitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted his mind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace96 of his sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the paths which he believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, to watch round the habitation where she reposed97. It was in one of these mournful wanderings, that he had received by the fire of the gardener, who mistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained him at Tholouse till very lately, under the hands of a surgeon. There, regardless of himself and careless of his friends, whose late unkindness had urged him to believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without informing them of his situation; and now, being sufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he had taken La Vallee in his way to Estuviere, the Count’s residence, partly for the purpose of hearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that of enquiring98 into the situation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason to suppose, had been deprived of her stipend99, small as it was, and which enquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.
This unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness of her love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the acuteness of the despair, that had attended their former separation, and which no effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to subdue100. Her image, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, as powerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and banished101 from his heart every emotion, except those of love and despair.
Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa’s cottage, that he might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had so lately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, was quickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wild and phrensied look, and, at another, the dark melancholy, that overhung him.
After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to relate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he had about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that her mistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of value from his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to present it to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she would preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon it, remember the unhappy giver.
Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy, than from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply, Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door, calling upon his name and entreating102 him to return; but she received no answer, and saw him no more.
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entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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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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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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foretelling
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的现在分词 ) | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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lamented
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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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misery
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fortitude
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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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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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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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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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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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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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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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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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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flasks
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| n.瓶，长颈瓶， 烧瓶( flask的名词复数 ) | |
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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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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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plaintiveness
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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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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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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82
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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83
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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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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85
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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86
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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96
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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101
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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