And Mr. Stephen Guest had unaccountably taken to dining at Mr. Deane’s as often as possible, instead of avoiding that, as he used to do. At first he began his mornings with a resolution that he would not dine there, not even go in the evening, till Maggie was away. He had even devised a plan of starting off on a journey in this agreeable June weather; the headaches which he had constantly been alleging3 as a ground for stupidity and silence were a sufficient ostensible4 motive5. But the journey was not taken, and by the fourth morning no distinct resolution was formed about the evenings; they were only foreseen as times when Maggie would still be present for a little while — when one more touch, one more glance, might be snatched. For why not? There was nothing to conceal6 between them; they knew, they had confessed their love, and they had renounced7 each other; they were going to part. Honor and conscience were going to divide them; Maggie, with that appeal from her inmost soul, had decided8 it; but surely they might cast a lingering look at each other across the gulf9, before they turned away never to look again till that strange light had forever faded out of their eyes.
Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiescence10 and even torpor11 of manner, so contrasted with her usual fitful brightness and ardor12, that Lucy would have had to seek some other cause for such a change, if she had not been convinced that the position in which Maggie stood between Philip and her brother, and the prospect13 of her self-imposed wearisome banishment14, were quite enough to account for a large amount of depression. But under this torpor there was a fierce battle of emotions, such as Maggie in all her life of struggle had never known or foreboded; it seemed to her as if all the worst evil in her had lain in ambush15 till now, and had suddenly started up full-armed, with hideous16, overpowering strength! There were moments in which a cruel selfishness seemed to be getting possession of her; why should not Lucy, why should not Philip, suffer? She had had to suffer through many years of her life; and who had renounced anything for her? And when something like that fulness of existence — love, wealth, ease, refinement17, all that her nature craved18 — was brought within her reach, why was she to forego it, that another might have it — another, who perhaps needed it less? But amidst all this new passionate19 tumult20 there were the old voices making themselves heard with rising power, till, from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled21. Was that existence which tempted22 her the full existence she dreamed? Where, then, would be all the memories of early striving; all the deep pity for another’s pain, which had been nurtured23 in her through years of affection and hardship; all the divine presentiment24 of something higher than mere25 personal enjoyment26, which had made the sacredness of life? She might as well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, as hope to enjoy an existence in which she set out by maiming the faith and sympathy that were the best organs of her soul. And then, if pain were so hard to her, what was it to others? “Ah, God! preserve me from inflicting27 — give me strength to bear it.” How had she sunk into this struggle with a temptation that she would once have thought herself as secure from as from deliberate crime? When was that first hateful moment in which she had been conscious of a feeling that clashed with her truth, affection, and gratitude28, and had not shaken it from her with horror, as if it had been a loathsome29 thing? And yet, since this strange, sweet, subduing30 influence did not, should not, conquer her — since it was to remain simply her own suffering — her mind was meeting Stephen’s in that thought of his, that they might still snatch moments of mute confession31 before the parting came. For was not he suffering too? She saw it daily — saw it in the sickened look of fatigue32 with which, as soon as he was not compelled to exert himself, he relapsed into indifference33 toward everything but the possibility of watching her. Could she refuse sometimes to answer that beseeching34 look which she felt to be following her like a low murmur35 of love and pain? She refused it less and less, till at last the evening for them both was sometimes made of a moment’s mutual36 gaze; they thought of it till it came, and when it had come, they thought of nothing else.
One other thing Stephen seemed now and then to care for, and that was to sing; it was a way of speaking to Maggie. Perhaps he was not distinctly conscious that he was impelled37 to it by a secret longing38 — running counter to all his self-confessed resolves — to deepen the hold he had on her. Watch your own speech, and notice how it is guided by your less conscious purposes, and you will understand that contradiction in Stephen.
Philip Wakem was a less frequent visitor, but he came occasionally in the evening, and it happened that he was there when Lucy said, as they sat out on the lawn, near sunset —
“Now Maggie’s tale of visits to aunt Glegg is completed, I mean that we shall go out boating every day until she goes. She has not had half enough boating because of these tiresome39 visits, and she likes it better than anything. Don’t you, Maggie?”
“Better than any sort of locomotion40, I hope you mean,” said Philip, smiling at Maggie, who was lolling backward in a low garden-chair; “else she will be selling her soul to that ghostly boatman who haunts the Floss, only for the sake of being drifted in a boat forever.”
“Should you like to be her boatman?” said Lucy. “Because, if you would, you can come with us and take an oar41. If the Floss were but a quiet lake instead of a river, we should be independent of any gentleman, for Maggie can row splendidly. As it is, we are reduced to ask services of knights42 and squires43, who do not seem to offer them with great alacrity44.”
She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering up and down, and was just singing in pianissimo falsetto —
“The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine.”
He took no notice, but still kept aloof45; he had done so frequently during Philip’s recent visits.
“You don’t seem inclined for boating,” said Lucy, when he came to sit down by her on the bench. “Doesn’t rowing suit you now?”
“Oh, I hate a large party in a boat,” he said, almost irritably46. “I’ll come when you have no one else.”
Lucy colored, fearing that Philip would be hurt; it was quite a new thing for Stephen to speak in that way; but he had certainly not been well of late. Philip colored too, but less from a feeling of personal offence than from a vague suspicion that Stephen’s moodiness47 had some relation to Maggie, who had started up from her chair as he spoke48, and had walked toward the hedge of laurels49 to look at the descending50 sunlight on the river.
“As Miss Deane didn’t know she was excluding others by inviting51 me,” said Philip, “I am bound to resign.”
“No, indeed, you shall not,” said Lucy, much vexed52. “I particularly wish for your company to-morrow. The tide will suit at half-past ten; it will be a delicious time for a couple of hours to row to Luckreth and walk back, before the sun gets too hot. And how can you object to four people in a boat?” she added, looking at Stephen.
“I don’t object to the people, but the number,” said Stephen, who had recovered himself, and was rather ashamed of his rudeness. “If I voted for a fourth at all, of course it would be you, Phil. But we won’t divide the pleasure of escorting the ladies; we’ll take it alternately. I’ll go the next day.”
This incident had the effect of drawing Philip’s attention with freshened solicitude53 toward Stephen and Maggie; but when they re-entered the house, music was proposed, and Mrs. Tulliver and Mr. Deane being occupied with cribbage, Maggie sat apart near the table where the books and work were placed, doing nothing, however, but listening abstractedly to the music. Stephen presently turned to a duet which he insisted that Lucy and Philip should sing; he had often done the same thing before; but this evening Philip thought he divined some double intention in every word and look of Stephen’s, and watched him keenly, angry with himself all the while for this clinging suspicion. For had not Maggie virtually denied any ground for his doubts on her side? And she was truth itself; it was impossible not to believe her word and glance when they had last spoken together in the garden. Stephen might be strongly fascinated by her (what was more natural?), but Philip felt himself rather base for intruding54 on what must be his friend’s painful secret. Still he watched. Stephen, moving away from the piano, sauntered slowly toward the table near which Maggie sat, and turned over the newspapers, apparently55 in mere idleness. Then he seated himself with his back to the piano, dragging a newspaper under his elbow, and thrusting his hand through his hair, as if he had been attracted by some bit of local news in the “Laceham Courier.” He was in reality looking at Maggie who had not taken the slightest notice of his approach. She had always additional strength of resistance when Philip was present, just as we can restrain our speech better in a spot that we feel to be hallowed. But at last she heard the word “dearest” uttered in the softest tone of pained entreaty57, like that of a patient who asks for something that ought to have been given without asking. She had never heard that word since the moments in the lane at Basset, when it had come from Stephen again and again, almost as involuntarily as if it had been an inarticulate cry. Philip could hear no word, but he had moved to the opposite side of the piano, and could see Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes an instant toward Stephen’s face, but immediately look apprehensively58 toward himself. It was not evident to her that Philip had observed her; but a pang59 of shame, under the sense of this concealment60, made her move from her chair and walk to her mother’s side to watch the game at cribbage.
Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt mingled61 with wretched certainty. It was impossible for him now to resist the conviction that there was some mutual consciousness between Stephen and Maggie; and for half the night his irritable62, susceptible63 nerves were pressed upon almost to frenzy64 by that one wretched fact; he could attempt no explanation that would reconcile it with her words and actions. When, at last, the need for belief in Maggie rose to its habitual65 predominance, he was not long in imagining the truth — she was struggling, she was banishing66 herself; this was the clue to all he had seen since his return. But athwart that belief there came other possibilities that would not be driven out of sight. His imagination wrought67 out the whole story; Stephen was madly in love with her; he must have told her so; she had rejected him, and was hurrying away. But would he give her up, knowing — Philip felt the fact with heart-crushing despair — that she was made half helpless by her feeling toward him?
When the morning came, Philip was too ill to think of keeping his engagement to go in the boat. In his present agitation68 he could decide on nothing; he could only alternate between contradictory69 intentions. First, he thought he must have an interview with Maggie, and entreat56 her to confide70 in him; then, again, he distrusted his own interference. Had he not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along? She had uttered words long ago in her young ignorance; it was enough to make her hate him that these should be continually present with her as a bond. And had he any right to ask her for a revelation of feelings which she had evidently intended to withhold71 from him? He would not trust himself to see her, till he had assured himself that he could act from pure anxiety for her, and not from egoistic irritation72. He wrote a brief note to Stephen, and sent it early by the servant, saying that he was not well enough to fulfil his engagement to Miss Deane. Would Stephen take his excuse, and fill his place?
Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her quite content with Stephen’s refusal to go in the boat. She discovered that her father was to drive to Lindum this morning at ten; Lindum was the very place she wanted to go to, to make purchases — important purchases, which must by no means be put off to another opportunity; and aunt Tulliver must go too, because she was concerned in some of the purchases.
“You will have your row in the boat just the same, you know,” she said to Maggie when they went out of the breakfast-room and upstairs together; “Philip will be here it half-past ten, and it is a delicious morning. Now don’t say a word against it, you dear dolorous73 thing. What is the use of my being a fairy godmother, if you set your face against all the wonders I work for you? Don’t think of awful cousin Tom; you may disobey him a little.”
Maggie did not persist in objecting. She was almost glad of the plan, for perhaps it would bring her some strength and calmness to be alone with Philip again; it was like revisiting the scene of a quieter life, in which the very struggles were repose75, compared with the daily tumult of the present. She prepared herself for the boat and at half-past ten sat waiting in the drawing-room.
The ring of the door-bell was punctual, and she was thinking with half-sad, affectionate pleasure of the surprise Philip would have in finding that he was to be with her alone, when she distinguished76 a firm, rapid step across the hall, that was certainly not Philip’s; the door opened, and Stephen Guest entered.
In the first moment they were both too much agitated77 to speak; for Stephen had learned from the servant that the others were gone out. Maggie had started up and sat down again, with her heart beating violently; and Stephen, throwing down his cap and gloves, came and sat by her in silence. She thought Philip would be coming soon; and with great effort — for she trembled visibly — she rose to go to a distant chair.
“He is not coming,” said Stephen, in a low tone. “I am going in the boat.”
“Oh, we can’t go,” said Maggie, sinking into her chair again. “Lucy did not expect — she would be hurt. Why is not Philip come?”
“He is not well; he asked me to come instead.”
“Lucy is gone to Lindum,” said Maggie, taking off her bonnet78 with hurried, trembling fingers. “We must not go.”
“Very well,” said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he rested his arm on the back of his chair. “Then we’ll stay here.”
He was looking into her deep, deep eyes, far off and mysterious at the starlit blackness, and yet very near, and timidly loving. Maggie sat perfectly79 still — perhaps for moments, perhaps for minutes — until the helpless trembling had ceased, and there was a warm glow on her check.
“The man is waiting; he has taken the cushions,” she said. “Will you go and tell him?”
“What shall I tell him?” said Stephen, almost in a whisper. He was looking at the lips now.
Maggie made no answer.
“Let us go,” Stephen murmured entreatingly80, rising, and taking her hand to raise her too. “We shall not be long together.”
And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down the garden among the roses, being helped with firm, tender care into the boat, having the cushion and cloak arranged for her feet, and her parasol opened for her (which she had forgotten), all by this stronger presence that seemed to bear her along without any act of her own will, like the added self which comes with the sudden exalting81 influence of a strong tonic82, and she felt nothing else. Memory was excluded.
They glided83 rapidly along, Stephen rowing, helped by the backward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses; on between the silent sunny fields and pastures, which seemed filled with a natural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The breath of the young, unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic85 dip of the oars86, the fragmentary song of a passing bird heard now and then, as if it were only the overflowing87 of brimful gladness, the sweet solitude88 of a twofold consciousness that was mingled into one by that grave, untiring gaze which need not be averted89 — what else could there be in their minds for the first hour? Some low, subdued90, languid exclamation91 of love came from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing idly, half automatically; otherwise they spoke no word; for what could words have been but an inlet to thought? and thought did not belong to that enchanted92 haze93 in which they were enveloped94 — it belonged to the past and the future that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimly conscious of the banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with no recognition on the villages; she knew there were several to be passed before they reached Luckreth, where they always stopped and left the boat. At all times she was so liable to fits of absence, that she was likely enough to let her waymarks pass unnoticed.
But at last Stephen, who had been rowing more and more idly, ceased to row, laid down the oars, folded his arms, and looked down on the water as if watching the pace at which the boat glided without his help. This sudden change roused Maggie. She looked at the far-stretching fields, at the banks close by, and felt that they were entirely95 strange to her. A terrible alarm took possession of her.
“Oh, have we passed Luckreth, where we were to stop?” she exclaimed, looking back to see if the place were out of sight. No village was to be seen. She turned around again, with a look of distressed97 questioning at Stephen.
He went on watching the water, and said, in a strange, dreamy, absent tone, “Yes, a long way.”
“Oh, what shall I do?” cried Maggie, in an agony. “We shall not get home for hours, and Lucy? O God, help me!”
She clasped her hands and broke into a sob74, like a frightened child; she thought of nothing but of meeting Lucy, and seeing her look of pained surprise and doubt, perhaps of just upbraiding98.
Stephen moved and sat near her, and gently drew down the clasped hands.
“Maggie,” he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, “let us never go home again, till no one can part us — till we are married.”
The unusual tone, the startling words, arrested Maggie’s sob, and she sat quite still, wondering; as if Stephen might have seen some possibilities that would alter everything, and annul99 the wretched facts.
“See, Maggie, how everything has come without our seeking — in spite of all our efforts. We never thought of being alone together again; it has all been done by others. See how the tide is carrying us out, away from all those unnatural100 bonds that we have been trying to make faster round us, and trying in vain. It will carry us on to Torby, and we can land there, and get some carriage, and hurry on to York and then to Scotland — and never pause a moment till we are bound to each other, so that only death can part us. It is the only right thing, dearest; it is the only way of escaping from this wretched entanglement101. Everything has concurred102 to point it out to us. We have contrived103 nothing, we have thought of nothing ourselves.”
Stephen spoke with deep, earnest pleading. Maggie listened, passing from her startled wonderment to the yearning104 after that belief that the tide was doing it all, that she might glide84 along with the swift, silent stream, and not struggle any more. But across that stealing influence came the terrible shadow of past thoughts; and the sudden horror lest now, at last, the moment of fatal intoxication105 was close upon her, called up feelings of angry resistance toward Stephen.
“Let me go!” she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an indignant look at him, and trying to get her hands free. “You have wanted to deprive me of any choice. You knew we were come too far; you have dared to take advantage of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly to bring me into such a position.”
Stung by this reproach, he released her hands, moved back to his former place, and folded his arms, in a sort of desperation at the difficulty Maggie’s words had made present to him. If she would not consent to go on, he must curse himself for the embarrassment106 he had led her into. But the reproach was the unendurable thing; the one thing worse than parting with her was, that she should feel he had acted unworthily toward her. At last he said, in a tone of suppressed rage —
“I didn’t notice that we had passed Luckreth till we had got to the next village; and then it came into my mind that we would go on. I can’t justify107 it; I ought to have told you. It is enough to make you hate me, since you don’t love me well enough to make everything else indifferent to you, as I do you. Shall I stop the boat and try to get you out here? I’ll tell Lucy that I was mad, and that you hate me; and you shall be clear of me forever. No one can blame you, because I have behaved unpardonably to you.”
Maggie was paralyzed; it was easier to resist Stephen’s pleading than this picture he had called up of himself suffering while she was vindicated108; easier even to turn away from his look of tenderness than from this look of angry misery109, that seemed to place her in selfish isolation110 from him. He had called up a state of feeling in which the reasons which had acted on her conscience seemed to be transmitted into mere self-regard. The indignant fire in her eyes was quenched111, and she began to look at him with timid distress96. She had reproached him for being hurried into irrevocable trespass112 — she, who had been so weak herself.
“As if I shouldn’t feel what happened to you — just the same,” she said, with reproach of another kind — the reproach of love, asking for more trust. This yielding to the idea of Stephen’s suffering was more fatal than the other yielding, because it was less distinguishable from that sense of others’ claims which was the moral basis of her resistance.
He felt all the relenting in her look and tone; it was heaven opening again. He moved to her side, and took her hand, leaning his elbow on the back of the boat, and saying nothing. He dreaded113 to utter another word, he dreaded to make another movement, that might provoke another reproach or denial from her. Life hung on her consent; everything else was hopeless, confused, sickening misery. They glided along in this way, both resting in that silence as in a haven114, both dreading115 lest their feelings should be divided again — till they became aware that the clouds had gathered, and that the slightest perceptible freshening of the breeze was growing and growing, so that the whole character of the day was altered.
“You will be chill, Maggie, in this thin dress. Let me raise the cloak over your shoulders. Get up an instant, dearest.”
Maggie obeyed; there was an unspeakable charm in being told what to do, and having everything decided for her. She sat down again covered with the cloak, and Stephen took to his oars again, making haste; for they must try to get to Torby as fast as they could. Maggie was hardly conscious of having said or done anything decisive. All yielding is attended with a less vivid consciousness than resistance; it is the partial sleep of thought; it is the submergence of our own personality by another. Every influence tended to lull116 her into acquiescence117. That dreamy gliding118 in the boat which had lasted for four hours, and had brought some weariness and exhaustion119; the recoil120 of her fatigued121 sensations from the impracticable difficulty of getting out of the boat at this unknown distance from home, and walking for long miles — all helped to bring her into more complete subjection to that strong, mysterious charm which made a last parting from Stephen seem the death of all joy, and made the thought of wounding him like the first touch of the torturing iron before which resolution shrank. And then there was the present happiness of being with him, which was enough to absorb all her languid energy.
Presently Stephen observed a vessel122 coming after them. Several vessels123, among them the steamer to Mudport, had passed them with the early tide, but for the last hour they had seen none. He looked more and more eagerly at this vessel, as if a new thought had come into his mind along with it, and then he looked at Maggie hesitatingly.
“Maggie, dearest,” he said at last, “if this vessel should be going to Mudport, or to any convenient place on the coast northward124, it would be our best plan to get them to take us on board. You are fatigued, and it may soon rain; it may be a wretched business, getting to Torby in this boat. It’s only a trading vessel, but I dare say you can be made tolerably comfortable. We’ll take the cushions out of the boat. It is really our best plan. They’ll be glad enough to take us. I’ve got plenty of money about me. I can pay them well.”
Maggie’s heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this new proposition; but she was silent — one course seemed as difficult as another.
Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel going to Mudport, the English mate informed him, and, if this wind held, would be there in less than two days.
“We had got out too far with our boat,” said Stephen. “I was trying to make for Torby. But I’m afraid of the weather; and this lady — my wife — will be exhausted125 with fatigue and hunger. Take us on board — will you? — and haul up the boat. I’ll pay you well.”
Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was t aken on board, making an interesting object of contemplation to admiring Dutchmen. The mate feared the lady would have a poor time of it on board, for they had no accommodation for such entirely unlooked-for passengers — no private cabin larger than an old-fashioned church-pew. But at least they had Dutch cleanliness, which makes all other inconveniences tolerable; and the boat cushions were spread into a couch for Maggie on the poop with all alacrity. But to pace up and down the deck leaning on Stephen — being upheld by his strength — was the first change that she needed; then came food, and then quiet reclining on the cushions, with the sense that no new resolution could be taken that day. Everything must wait till to-morrow. Stephen sat beside her with her hand in his; they could only speak to each other in low tones; only look at each other now and then, for it would take a long while to dull the curiosity of the five men on board, and reduce these handsome young strangers to that minor126 degree of interest which belongs, in a sailor’s regard, to all objects nearer than the horizon. But Stephen was triumphantly127 happy. Every other thought or care was thrown into unmarked perspective by the certainty that Maggie must be his. The leap had been taken now; he had been tortured by scruples128, he had fought fiercely with overmastering inclination129, he had hesitated; but repentance130 was impossible. He murmured forth131 in fragmentary sentences his happiness, his adoration132, his tenderness, his belief that their life together must be heaven, that her presence with him would give rapture133 to every common day; that to satisfy her lightest wish was dearer to him than all other bliss134; that everything was easy for her sake, except to part with her; and now they never would part; he would belong to her forever, and all that was his was hers — had no value for him except as it was hers. Such things, uttered in low, broken tones by the one voice that has first stirred the fibre of young passion, have only a feeble effect — on experienced minds at a distance from them. To poor Maggie they were very near; they were like nectar held close to thirsty lips; there was, there must be, then, a life for mortals here below which was not hard and chill — in which affection would no longer be self-sacrifice. Stephen’s passionate words made the vision of such a life more fully135 present to her than it had ever been before; and the vision for the time excluded all realities — all except the returning sun-gleams which broke out on the waters as the evening approached, and mingled with the visionary sunlight of promised happiness; all except the hand that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke to her, and the eyes that looked at her with grave, unspeakable love.
There was to be no rain, after all; the clouds rolled off to the horizon again, making the great purple rampart and long purple isles136 of that wondrous137 land which reveals itself to us when the sun goes down — the land that the evening star watches over. Maggie was to sleep all night on the poop; it was better than going below; and she was covered with the warmest wrappings the ship could furnish. It was still early, when the fatigues138 of the day brought on a drowsy139 longing for perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint, dying flush in the west, where the one golden lamp was getting brighter and brighter. Then she looked up at Stephen, who was still seated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his arm against the vessel’s side. Behind all the delicious visions of these last hours, which had flowed over her like a soft stream, and made her entirely passive, there was the dim consciousness that the condition was a transient one, and that the morrow must bring back the old life of struggle; that there were thoughts which would presently avenge140 themselves for this oblivion. But now nothing was distinct to her; she was being lulled141 to sleep with that soft stream still flowing over her, with those delicious visions melting and fading like the wondrous aerial land of the west.
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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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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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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21
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
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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23
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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24
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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25
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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26
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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27
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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28
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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29
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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30
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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31
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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32
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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33
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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34
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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35
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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36
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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37
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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39
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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40
locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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41
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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42
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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43
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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44
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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45
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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46
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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47
moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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48
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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49
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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50
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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51
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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52
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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53
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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54
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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55
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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56
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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57
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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58
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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59
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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60
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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61
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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62
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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63
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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64
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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65
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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66
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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67
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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68
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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69
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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70
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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71
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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72
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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73
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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74
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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75
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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76
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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77
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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78
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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79
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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80
entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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81
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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82
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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83
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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84
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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85
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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86
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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88
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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89
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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90
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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91
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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92
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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93
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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94
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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96
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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97
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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98
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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99
annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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100
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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101
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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102
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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103
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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104
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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105
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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106
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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107
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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108
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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109
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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110
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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111
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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112
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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113
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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114
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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115
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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116
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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117
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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118
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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119
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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120
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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121
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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122
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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123
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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124
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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125
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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126
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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127
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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128
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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129
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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130
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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131
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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132
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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133
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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134
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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135
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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136
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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137
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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138
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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139
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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140
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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141
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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