The stars are coming out one by one,—slowly, tranquilly2, as though haste has got no part with them. The heavens are clothed in azure3. A single star, that sits apart from all the rest, is twinkling and gleaming in its blue nest, now throwing out a pale emerald ray, now a blood-red fire, and anon a touch of opal, faint and shadowy, yet more lovely in its vagueness than all the rest, until verily it resembles "a diamond in the sky."
Geoffrey coming to the farm somewhat early in the evening, Mona takes him round to the yard, where two dogs, hitherto unseen by Geoffrey, lie chained. They are two splendid bloodhounds, that, as she approaches, rise to their feet, and, lifting their massive heads, throw out into the night-air a deep hollow bay that bespeaks4 welcome.
"What lovely creatures!" says Geoffrey, who has a passion for animals: they seem to acknowledge him as a friend. As Mona looses them from their den5, they go to him, and, sniffing6 round him, at last open their great jaws7 into a satisfied yawn, and, raising themselves, rest their paws upon his breast and rub their faces contentedly8 against his.
"Now you are their friend forever," says Mona, in a pleased tone. "Once they do that, they mean to tell you they have adopted you. And they like very few people: so it is a compliment."
"I feel it keenly," says Rodney, caressing9 the handsome creatures as they crouch10 at his feet. "Where did you get them?"
"From Mr. Moore." A mischievous11 light comes into her face as she says this, and she laughs aloud. "But, I assure you, not as a love-token. He gave them to me when they were quite babies, and I reared them myself. Are they not lovely? I call them? 'Spice' and 'Allspice,' because one has a quicker temper than the other."
"The names are original, at all events," says Geoffrey,—"which is a great charm. One gets so tired of 'Rags and Tatters,' 'Beer and Skittles,' 'Cakes and Ale,' and so forth12, where pairs are in question, whether they be dogs or ponies13."
"Shall we set out now?" says Mona; and she calls "Mickey, Mickey," at the top of her strong young lungs.
The man who manages the farm generally—and is a plague and a blessing14 at the same time to his master—appears round a corner, and declares, respectfully, that he will be ready in a "jiffy" to accompany Miss Mona, if she will just give him time to "clane himself up a bit."
And in truth the "claning" occupies a very short period,—or else Mona and Geoffrey heed16 not the parting moments. For sometimes
"Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,
Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound."
"I'm ready now, miss, if you are," says Mickey from the background, with the utmost bonhommie, and in a tone that implies he is quite willing not to be ready, if it so pleases her, for another five minutes or so, or even, if necessary, to efface17 himself altogether. He is a stalwart young Hibernian, with rough hair and an honest face, and gray eyes, merry and cunning, and so many freckles18 that he looks like a turkey-egg.
"Oh, yes, I am quite ready," says Mona, starting somewhat guiltily. And then they pass out through the big yard-gate, with the two dogs at their heels, and their attendant squire19, who brings up the rear with a soft whistle that rings through the cool night-air and tells the listening stars that the "girl he loves is his dear," and his "own, his artless Nora Creana."
Geoffrey and Mona go up the road with the serenader behind them, and, turning aside, she guiding, mount a stile, and, striking across a field, make straight for the high hill that conceals20 the ocean from the farm. Over many fields they travel, until at length they reach the mountain's summit and gaze down upon the beauteous scene below.
The very air is still. There is no sound, no motion, save the coming and going of their own breath as it rises quickly from their hearts, filled full of passionate21 admiration22 for the loveliness before them.
From the high hill on which they stand, steep rocks descend23 until they touch the water's edge, which lies sleeping beneath them, lulled24 into slumber25 by the tranquil1 moon as she comes forth "from the slow opening curtains of the clouds."
Far down below lies the bay, calm and placid26. Not a ripple27, not a sigh comes to disturb its serenity28 or mar29 the perfect beauty of the silver pathway thrown so lightly upon it by the queen of heaven. It falls there so clear, so unbroken, that almost one might deem it possible to step upon it, and so walk onwards to the sky that melts into it on the far horizon.
The whole firmament30 is of a soft azure, flecked here and there with snowy clouds tipped with palest gray. A little cloud—the tenderest veil of mist—hangs between earth and sky.
"The moon is up; it is the dawn of night;
Stands by her side one bold, bright, steady star,
Star of her heart.
Mother of stars! the heavens look up to thee."
Mona is looking up to it now, with a rapt, pensive31 gaze, her great blue eyes gleaming beneath its light. She is sitting upon the side of the hill, with her hands clasped about her knees, a thoughtful expression on her lovely face. At each side of her, sitting bolt upright on their huge haunches, are the dogs, as though bent32 on guarding her against all evil.
Geoffrey, although in reality deeply impressed by the grandeur33 of all the surroundings, yet cannot keep his eyes from Mona's face, her pretty attitude, her two mighty34 defenders35. She reminds him in some wise of Una and the lion, though the idea is rather far-fetched; and he hardly dares speak to her, lest he shall break the spell that seems to lie upon her.
She herself destroys it presently.
"Do you like it?" she asks, gently, bringing her gaze back from the glowing heavens, to the earth, which is even more beautiful.
"The praise I heard of it, though great, was too faint," he answers her, with such extreme sincerity36 in his tone as touches and gladdens the heart of the little patriot37 at his feet. She smiles contentedly, and turns her eyes once more with lazy delight upon the sea, where each little point and rock is warmed with heavenly light. She nods softly to herself, but says nothing.
To her there is nothing strange or new, either in the hour or the place. Often does she come here in the moonlight with her faithful attendant and her two dogs, to sit and dream away a long sweet hour brimful of purest joy, whilst drinking in the plaintive38 charm that Nature as a rule flings over her choicest paintings.
To him, however, all is different; and the hour is fraught39 with a tremulous joy, and with a vague sweet longing40 that means love as yet untold41.
"This spot always brings to my mind the thoughts of other people," says Mona, softly. "I am very fond of poetry: are you?"
"Very," returns he, surprised. He has not thought of her as one versed42 in lore43 of any kind. "What poets do you prefer?"
"I have read so few," she says, wistfully, and with hesitation44. Then, shyly, "I have so few to read. I have a Longfellow, and a Shakspeare, and a Byron: that is all."
"Byron?"
"Yes. And after Shakspeare, I like him best, and then Longfellow. Why do you speak in that tone? Don't you like him?"
"I think I like no poet half so well. You mistake me," replies he, ashamed of his own surprise at her preference for his lordship beneath the calm purity of her eyes. "But—only—it seemed to me Longfellow would be more suited to you."
"Well, so I do love him. And just then it was of him I was thinking: when I looked up to the sky his words came back to me. You remember what he says about the moon rising 'over the pallid45 sea and the silvery mist of the meadows,' and how,—
'Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels,
That is so sweet, I think."
"I remember it; and I remember, too, who watched all that: do you?" he asks, his eyes fixed46 upon hers.
"Yes; Gabriel—poor Gabriel and Evangeline," returns she, too wrapped up in recollections of that sad and touching47 tale to take to heart his meaning:—
Sat the lovers, and whispered together.'
That is the part you mean, is it not? I know all that poem very nearly by heart."
He is a little disappointed by the calmness of her answer.
"Yes; it was of them I thought," he says, turning his head away,—"of the—lovers. I wonder if their evening was as lovely as ours?"
Mona makes no reply.
"Have you ever read Shelley?" asks he, presently, puzzled by the extreme serenity of her manner.
She shakes her head.
"Some of his ideas are lovely. You would like his poetry, I think."
"What does he say about the moon?" asks Mona, still with her knees in her embrace, and without lifting her eyes from the quiet waters down below.
"About the moon? Oh, many things. I was not thinking of the moon," with faint impatience49; "yet, as you ask me, I can remember one thing he says about it."
"Then tell it to me," says Mona.
So at her bidding he repeats the lines slowly, and in his best manner, which is very good:—
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles!
Which ever is transformed, yet still the same,
And warms, but not illumines."
He finishes; but, to his amazement53, and a good deal to his chagrin54, on looking at Mona he finds she is wreathed in smiles,—nay55, is in fact convulsed with silent laughter.
"What is amusing you?" asks he, a trifle stiffly.—To give way to recitation, and then find your listener in agonies of suppressed mirth, isn't exactly a situation one would hanker after.
"It was the last line," says Mona, in explanation, clearly ashamed of herself, yet unable wholly to subdue56 her merriment. "It reminded me so much of that speech about tea, that they always use at temperance meetings; they call it the beverage57 'that cheers but not inebriates58.' You said 'that warms but not illumines,' and it sounded exactly like it. Don't you see!"
He doesn't see.
"You aren't angry, are you?" says Mona, now really contrite59. "I couldn't help it, and it was like it, you know."
"Angry? no!" he says, recovering himself, as he notices the penitence60 on the face upraised to his.
"And do say it is like it," says Mona, entreatingly61.
"It is, the image of it," returns he, prepared to swear to anything she may propose And then he laughs too, which pleases her, as it proves he no longer bears in mind her evil deed; after which, feeling she still owes him something, she suddenly intimates to him that he may sit down on the grass close beside her. He seems to find no difficulty in swiftly following up this hint, and is soon seated as near to her as circumstances will allow.
But on this picture, the beauty of which is undeniable, Mickey (the barbarian) looks with disfavor.
"If he's goin' to squat62 there for the night,—an' I see ivery prospect63 of it," says Mickey to himself,—"what on airth's goin' to become of me?"
Now, Mickey's idea of "raal grand" scenery is the kitchen fire. Bays and rocks and moonlight, and such like comfortless stuff, would be designated by him as "all my eye an' Betty Martin." He would consider the bluest water that ever rolled a poor thing if compared to the water that boiled in the big kettle, and sadly inferior to such cold water as might contain a "dhrop of the crather." So no wonder he views with dismay Mr. Rodney's evident intention of spending another half hour or so on the top of Carrick dhuve.
Patience has its limits. Mickey's limit comes quickly When five more minutes have passed, and the two in his charge still make no sign, he coughs respectfully but very loudly behind his hand. He waits in anxious hope for the result of this telling man[oe]uvre, but not the faintest notice is taken of it. Both Mona and Geoffrey are deaf to the pathetic appeal sent straight from his bronchial tubes.
Mickey, as he grows desperate, grows bolder. He rises to speech.
"Av ye plaze, miss, will ye soon be comin'?"
"Very soon, Mickey," says Mona, without turning her head. But, though her words are satisfactory, her tone is not. There is a lazy ring in it that speaks of anything but immediate64 action. Mickey disbelieves in it.
"I didn't make up the mare65, miss, before comin' out wid ye," he says, mildly, telling this lie without a blush.
"But it is early yet, Mickey, isn't it?" says Mona.
"It is, miss; I know it, sir; but if the old man comes out an' finds the mare widout her bed, there'll be all the world to pay, an' he'll be screechin' mad."
"He won't go into the stable to-night," says Mona, comfortably.
"He might, miss. It's the very time you'd wish him aisy in his mind that he gets raal troublesome. An' I feel just as if he was in the stable this blessid minit lookin' at the poor baste67, an' swearin' he'll have the life uv me."
"And I feel just as if he had gone quietly to bed," says
Mona, pleasantly, turning away.
But Mickey is not to be outdone. "An' there's the pigs, miss," he begins again, presently.
"What's the matter with them?" says Mona, with some pardonable impatience.
"I didn't give them their supper yet, miss; an' it's very bad for the young ones to be left starvin'. It's on me mind, miss, so that I can't even enjoy me pipe, and it's fresh baccy I have an' all, an' it might as well be dust for what comfort I get from it. Them pigs is callin' for me now like Christians68: I can a'most hear them."
"No, sir; it isn't, sir. We're none of us hard of hearin' glory be to——. Miss Mona," coaxingly70, "sure, it's only a step to the house: wouldn't Misther Rodney see ye home now, just for wanst?"
"Why, yes, of course he can," says Mona, without the smallest hesitation. She says it quite naturally, and as though it was the most usual thing in the world for a young man to see a young woman home, through dewy fields and beneath "mellow71 moons," at half-past ten at night. It is now fully15 nine, and she cannot yet bear to turn her back upon the enchanting73 scene before her. Surely in another hour or so it will be time enough to think of home and all other such prosaic74 facts.
"Thin I may go, miss?" says Mickey.
"Oh, yes, you may go," says Mona. Geoffrey says nothing. He is looking at her with curiosity, in which deep love is mingled75. She is so utterly76 unlike all other women he has ever met, with their petty affectations and mock modesties77, their would-be hesitations78 and their final yieldings. She has no idea she is doing anything that all the world of women might not do, and can see no reason why she should distrust her friend just because he is a man.
Even as Geoffrey is looking at her, full of tender thought, one of the dogs, as though divining the fact that she is being left somewhat alone, lays its big head upon her shoulder, and looks at her with large loving eyes. Turning to him in response, she rubs her soft cheek slowly up and down against his. Geoffrey with all his heart envies the dog. How she seems to love it! how it seems to love her!
"Mickey, if you are going, I think you may as well take the dogs with you," says Mona: "they, too, will want their suppers. Go, Spice, when I desire you. Good-night, Allspice; dear darling,—see how he clings to me."
Finally the dogs are called off, and reluctantly accompany the jubilant Mickey down the hill.
"Perhaps you are tired of staying here," says Mona, with compunction, turning to Geoffrey, "and would like to go home? I suppose every one cannot love this spot as I do. Yes," rising, "I am selfish. Do come home."
"Tired!" says Geoffrey, hastily. "No, indeed. What could tire of anything so divine? If it is your wish, it is mine also, that we should stay here for a little while longer." Then, struck by the intense relief in her face, he goes on: "How you do enjoy the beauties of Nature! Do you know I have been studying you since you came here, and I could see how your whole soul was wrapped in the glory of the surrounding prospect? You had no thoughts left for other objects,—not even one for me. For the first time," softly, "I learned to be jealous of inanimate things."
"Yet I was not so wholly engrossed79 as you imagine," she says, seriously. "I thought of you many times. For one thing, I felt glad that you could see this place with my eyes. But I have been silent, I know; and—and——"
"How Rome and Spain would enchant72 you," he says watching her face intently, "and Switzerland, with its lakes and mountains!"
"Yes. But I shall never see them."
"Why not? You will go there, perhaps when you are married."
"No," with a little flickering80 smile, that has pain and sorrow in it; "for the simple reason that I shall never marry."
"But why?" persists he.
"Because"—the smile has died away now, and she is looking down upon him, as he lies stretched at her feet in the uncertain moonlight, with an expression sad but earnest,—"because, though I am only a farmer's niece, I cannot bear farmers, and, of course, other people would not care for me."
"That is absurd," says Rodney; "and your own words refute you. That man called Moore cared for you, and very great impertinence it was on his part."
"Why, you never even saw him," says Mona, opening her eyes.
"No; but I can fancy him, with his horrid81 bald head. Now, you know," holding up his hand to stop her as she is about to speak, "you know you said he hadn't a hair left on it."
"Well, he was different," says Mona, giving in ignominiously82. "I couldn't care for him either; but what I said is true all the same. Other people would not like me."
"Wouldn't they?" says Rodney, leaning on his elbow as the argument waxes warmer; "then all I can say is, I never met any 'other people.'"
"You have met only them, I suppose, as you belong to them."
"Do you mean to tell me that I don't care for you?" says Rodney, quickly.
Mona evades a reply.
"How cold it is!" she says, rising, with a little shiver. "Let us go home."
If she had been nurtured83 all her life in the fashionable world, she could scarcely have made a more correct speech. Geoffrey is puzzled, nay more, discomfited84. Just in this wise would a woman in his own set answer him, did she mean to repel85 his advances for the moment. He forgets that no tinge86 of worldliness lurks87 in Mona's nature, and feels a certain amount of chagrin that she should so reply to him.
"If you wish," he says, in a courteous88 tone, but one full of coldness; and so they commence their homeward journey.
"I am glad you have been pleased to-night," says Mona, shyly, abashed89 by his studied silence. "But," nervously90, "Killarney is even more beautiful. You must go there."
"Yes; I mean to,—before I return to England."
She starts perceptibly, which is balm to his heart.
"To England!" she repeats, with a most mournful attempt at unconcern, "Will—will that be soon?"
"Not very soon. But some time, of course, I must go."
"I suppose so," she says, in a voice from which all joy has flown. "And it is only natural; you will be happier there." She is looking straight before her. There is no quiver in her tone; her lips do not tremble; yet he can see how pale she has grown beneath the vivid moonlight.
"Is that what you think?" he says, earnestly. "Then for once you are wrong. I have never been—I shall hardly be again—happier than I have been in Ireland."
There is a pause. Mona says nothing, but taking out the flower that has lain upon her bosom91 all night, pulls it to pieces petal92 by petal. And this is unlike Mona, because flowers are dear to her as sunshine is to them.
At this moment they come to a high bank, and Geoffrey, having helped Mona to mount it, jumps down at the other side, and holds out his arms to assist her to descend. As she reaches the ground, and while his arms are still round her, she says, with a sudden effort, and without lifting her eyes, "There is very good snipe-shooting here at Christmas."
The little pathetic insinuation is as perfect as it is touching.
"Is there? Then I shall certainly return for it," says Geoffrey, who is too much of a gentleman to pretend to understand all her words seem to imply. "It is really no journey from this to England."
"I should think it a long journey," says Mona, shaking her head.
"Oh, no, you won't," says Rodney, absently. In truth, his mind is wandering to that last little speech of hers, and is trying to unravel93 it.
Mona looks at him. How oddly he has expressed himself! "You won't," he said, instead of "you wouldn't." Does he then deem it possible she will ever be able to cross to that land that calls him son? She sighs, and, looking down at her little lean sinewy94 hands, clasps and unclasps them nervously.
"Why need you go until after Christmas?" she says, in a tone so low that he can barely hear her.
"Mona! Do you want me to stay?" asks he, suddenly, taking her hands in his. "Tell me the truth."
"I do," returns she, tremulously.
"But why?—why? Is it because you love me? Oh, Mona! If it is that! At times I have thought so, and yet again I have feared you do not love me as—as I love you."
"You love me?" repeats she, faintly.
"With all my heart," says Rodney, fervently95. And, indeed, if this be so, she may well count herself in luck, because it is a very good and true heart of which he speaks.
"Don't say anything more," says the girl, almost passionately96, drawing back from him as though afraid of herself. "Do not. The more you say now, the worse it will be for me by and by, when I have to think. And—and—it is all quite impossible."
"But why, darling? Could you not be happy as my wife?"
"Your wife?" repeats she, in soft, lingering tones, and a little tender seraphic smile creeps into her eyes and lies lightly on her lips. "But I am not fit to be that, and——"
"Look here," says Geoffrey, with decision, "I will have no 'buts,' and I prefer taking my answer from your eyes than from your lips. They are kinder. You are going to marry me, you know, and that is all about it. I shall marry you, whether you like it or not, so you may as well give in with a good grace. And I'll take you to see Rome and all the places we have been talking about, and we shall have a real good old time. Why don't you look up and speak to me, Mona?"
"Because I have nothing to say," murmurs97 the girl, in a frozen tone,—"nothing." Then passionately, "I will not be selfish. I will not do this thing."
"Do you mean you will not marry me?" asks he, letting her go, and moving back a step or two, a frown upon his forehead. "I confess I do not understand you."
"Try, try to understand me," entreats98 she, desperately99, following him and laying her hand upon his arm. "It is only this. It would not make you happy,—not afterwards, when you could see the difference between me and the other women you have known. You are a gentleman; I am only a farmer's niece." She says this bravely, though it is agony to her proud nature to have to confess it.
"If that is all," says Geoffrey, with a light laugh, laying his hand over the small brown one that still rests upon his arm, "I think it need hardly separate us. You are, indeed, different from all the other women I have met in my life,—which makes me sorry for all the other women. You are dearer and sweeter in my eyes than any one I have ever known! Is not this enough? Mona, are you sure no other reason prevents your accepting me? Why do you hesitate?" He has grown a little pale in his turn, and is regarding her with intense and jealous earnestness. Why does she not answer him? Why does she keep her eyes—those honest telltales—so obstinately100 fixed upon the ground? Why does she show no smallest sign of yielding?
"Give me my answer," he says, sternly.
"I have given it," returns she, in a low tone,—so low that he has to bend to hear it. "Do not be angry with me, do not—I——"
"'Who excuses himself, accuses himself,'" quotes Geoffrey. "I want no reasons for your rejection101. It is enough that I know you do not care for me."
"Oh, no! it is not that! you must know it is not that," says Mona, in deep grief. "It is that I cannot marry you!"
"Will not, you mean!"
"Well, then, I will not," returns she, with a last effort at determination, and the most miserable102 face in the world.
"Oh, if you will not," says Mr. Rodney, wrathfully.
"I—will—not," says Mona, brokenly.
"Then I don't believe you!" breaks out Geoffrey, angrily. "I am positive you want to marry me; and just because of some wretched fad103 you have got into your head you are determined104 to make us both wretched."
"I have nothing in my head," says Mona, tearfully.
"I don't think you can have much, certainly," says Mr. Rodney, with the grossest rudeness, "when you can let a few ridiculous scruples105 interfere106 with both our happiness." Then, resentfully, "Do you hate me?"
No answer.
"Say so, if you do: it will be honester. If you don't," threateningly, "I shall of course think the contrary."
Still no answer.
She has turned away from him, grieved and frightened by his vehemence107, and, having plucked a leaf from the hedge near her, is trifling108 absently with it as it lies upon her little trembling palm.
It is a drooping109 blackberry-leaf from a bush near where she is standing110, that has turned from green into a warm and vivid crimson111. She examines it minutely, as though lost in wonder at its excessive beauty, for beautiful exceedingly it is, clothed in the rich cloak that Autumn's generosity112 has flung upon it; yet I think, she for once is blind to its charms.
"I think you had better come home," says Geoffrey, deeply angered with her. "You must not stay here catching113 cold."
A little soft woollen shawl of plain white has slipped from her throat and fallen to the ground, unheeded by her in her great distress114. Lifting it almost unwillingly115, he comes close to her, and places it round her once again. In so doing he discovers that tears are running down her cheeks.
"Why, Mona, what is this?" exclaims he, his manner changing on the instant from indignation and coldness to warmth and tenderness. "You are crying? My darling girl! There, lay your head on my shoulder, and let us forget we have ever quarrelled. It is our first dispute; let it be our last. And, after all," comfortably, "it is much better to have our quarrels before marriage than after."
This last insinuation, he flatters himself, is rather cleverly introduced.
"Oh, if I could be quite, quite sure you would never regret it!" says Mona, wistfully.
"I shall never regret anything, as long as I have you!" says Rodney. "Be assured of that."
"I am so glad you are poor," says Mona. "If you were rich or even well off, I should never consent,—never!"
"No, of course not," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly! "as a rule, girls nowadays can't endure men with money."
This is "sarkassum;" but Mona comprehends it not.
Presently, seeing she is again smiling and looking inexpressibly happy, for laughter comes readily to her lips, and tears, as a rule, make no long stay with her,—ashamed, perhaps, to disfigure the fair "windows of her soul," that are so "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,"—"So you will come to England with me, after all?" he says, quite gayly.
"I would go to the world's end with you," returns she, gently. "Ah! I think you knew that all along."
"Well, I didn't," says Rodney. "There were moments, indeed, when I believed in you; but five minutes ago, when you flung me over so decidedly, and refused to have anything to do with me, I lost faith in you, and began to think you a thorough-going coquette like all the rest. How I wronged you, my dear love! I should have known that under no circumstances could you be untruthful."
At his words, a glad light springs to life within her wonderful eyes. She is so pleased and proud that he should so speak of her.
"Do you know, Mona," says the young man, sorrowfully, "you are too good for me,—a fellow who has gone racketing all over the world for years. I'm not half worthy116 of you."
"Aren't you?" says Mona, in her tender fashion, that implies so kind a doubt. Raising one hand (the other is imprisoned), she draws his face down to her own. "I wouldn't have you altered in any way," she says; "not in the smallest matter. As you are, you are so dear to me you could not be dearer; and I love you now, and I shall always love you, with all my heart and soul."
"My sweet angel!" says her lover, pressing her to his heart. And when he says this he is not so far from the truth, for her tender simplicity117 and perfect faith and trust bring her very near to heaven!
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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bespeaks
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| v.预定( bespeak的第三人称单数 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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contentedly
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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11
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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14
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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15
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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16
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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17
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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18
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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19
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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20
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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21
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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22
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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23
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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24
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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25
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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26
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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27
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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28
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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29
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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30
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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31
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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32
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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33
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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34
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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35
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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36
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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37
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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38
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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39
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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40
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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41
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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42
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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43
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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44
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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45
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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46
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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47
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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48
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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49
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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50
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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51
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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52
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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53
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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54
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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55
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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56
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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57
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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58
inebriates
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| vt.使酒醉，灌醉（inebriate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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59
contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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60
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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61
entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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62
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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63
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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64
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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65
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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66
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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67
baste
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| v.殴打，公开责骂 | |
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68
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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69
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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70
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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71
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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72
enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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73
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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74
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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75
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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76
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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77
modesties
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| n.谦虚，谦逊( modesty的名词复数 ) | |
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78
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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79
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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80
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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81
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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82
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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83
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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84
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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85
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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86
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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87
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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88
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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89
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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90
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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91
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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92
petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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93
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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94
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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95
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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96
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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97
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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98
entreats
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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100
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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101
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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102
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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103
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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104
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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105
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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107
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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108
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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109
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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110
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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111
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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112
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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113
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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114
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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115
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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116
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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117
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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