But the careless and the fearful were alike sleeping in their beds now. There was hope that the rain would abate7 by the morrow; threatenings of a worse kind, from sudden thaws8 after falls of snow, had often passed off, in the experience of the younger ones; and at the very worst, the banks would be sure to break lower down the river when the tide came in with violence, and so the waters would be carried off, without causing more than temporary inconvenience, and losses that would be felt only by the poorer sort, whom charity would relieve.
All were in their beds now, for it was past midnight; all except some solitary9 watchers such as Maggie. She was seated in her little parlor10 toward the river, with one candle, that left everything dim in the room except a letter which lay before her on the table. That letter, which had come to her to-day, was one of the causes that had kept her up far on into the night, unconscious how the hours were going, careless of seeking rest, with no image of rest coming across her mind, except of that far, far off rest from which there would be no more waking for her into this struggling earthly life.
Two days before Maggie received that letter, she had been to the Rectory for the last time. The heavy rain would have prevented her from going since; but there was another reason. Dr. Kenn, at first enlightened only by a few hints as to the new turn which gossip and slander12 had taken in relation to Maggie, had recently been made more fully13 aware of it by an earnest remonstrance14 from one of his male parishioners against the indiscretion of persisting in the attempt to overcome the prevalent feeling in the parish by a course of resistance. Dr. Kenn, having a conscience void of offence in the matter, was still inclined to persevere15 — was still averse16 to give way before a public sentiment that was odious17 and contemptible18; but he was finally wrought19 upon by the consideration of the peculiar20 responsibility attached to his office, of avoiding the appearance of evil — an “appearance” that is always dependent on the average quality of surrounding minds. Where these minds are low and gross, the area of that “appearance” is proportionately widened. Perhaps he was in danger of acting21 from obstinacy22; perhaps it was his duty to succumb23. Conscientious24 people are apt to see their duty in that which is the most painful course; and to recede25 was always painful to Dr. Kenn. He made up his mind that he must advise Maggie to go away from St. Ogg’s for a time; and he performed that difficult task with as much delicacy26 as he could, only stating in vague terms that he found his attempt to countenance27 her stay was a source of discord28 between himself and his parishioners, that was likely to obstruct29 his usefulness as a clergyman. He begged her to allow him to write to a clerical friend of his, who might possibly take her into his own family as governess; and, if not, would probably know of some other available position for a young woman in whose welfare Dr. Kenn felt a strong interest.
Poor Maggie listened with a trembling lip; she could say nothing but a faint “Thank you, I shall be grateful”; and she walked back to her lodgings31, through the driving rain, with a new sense of desolation. She must be a lonely wanderer; she must go out among fresh faces, that would look at her wonderingly, because the days did not seem joyful32 to her; she must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouse herself to receive new impressions; and she was so unspeakably, sickeningly weary! There was no home, no help for the erring33; even those who pitied were constrained34 to hardness. But ought she to complain? Ought she to shrink in this way from the long penance35 of life, which was all the possibility she had of lightening the load to some other sufferers, and so changing that passionate36 error into a new force of unselfish human love? All the next day she sat in her lonely room, with a window darkened by the cloud and the driving rain, thinking of that future, and wrestling for patience; for what repose37 could poor Maggie ever win except by wrestling?
And on the third day — this day of which she had just sat out the close — the letter had come which was lying on the table before her.
The letter was from Stephen. He was come back from Holland; he was at Mudport again, unknown to any of his friends, and had written to her from that place, enclosing the letter to a person whom he trusted in St. Ogg’s. From beginning to end it was a passionate cry of reproach; an appeal against her useless sacrifice of him, of herself, against that perverted38 notion of right which led her to crush all his hopes, for the sake of a mere39 idea, and not any substantial good — his hopes, whom she loved, and who loved her with that single overpowering passion, that worship, which a man never gives to a woman more than once in his life.
“They have written to me that you are to marry Kenn. As if I should believe that! Perhaps they have told you some such fables40 about me. Perhaps they tell you I’ve been ‘travelling.’ My body has been dragged about somewhere; but I have never travelled from the hideous41 place where you left me; where I started up from the stupor42 of helpless rage to find you gone.
“Maggie! whose pain can have been like mine? Whose injury is like mine? Who besides me has met that long look of love that has burnt itself into my soul, so that no other image can come there? Maggie, call me back to you! Call me back to life and goodness! I am banished43 from both now. I have no motives44; I am indifferent to everything. Two months have only deepened the certainty that I can never care for life without you. Write me one word; say ‘Come!’ In two days I should be with you. Maggie, have you forgotten what it was to be together — to be within reach of a look, to be within hearing of each other’s voice?”
When Maggie first read this letter she felt as if her real temptation had only just begun. At the entrance of the chill dark cavern45, we turn with unworn courage from the warm light; but how, when we have trodden far in the damp darkness, and have begun to be faint and weary; how, if there is a sudden opening above us, and we are invited back again to the life-nourishing day? The leap of natural longing46 from under the pressure of pain is so strong, that all less immediate47 motives are likely to be forgotten — till the pain has been escaped from.
For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had been in vain. For hours every other thought that she strove to summon was thrust aside by the image of Stephen waiting for the single word that would bring him to her. She did not read the letter: she heard him uttering it, and the voice shook her with its old strange power. All the day before she had been filled with the vision of a lonely future through which she must carry the burthen of regret, upheld only by clinging faith. And here, close within her reach, urging itself upon her even as a claim, was another future, in which hard endurance and effort were to be exchanged for easy, delicious leaning on another’s loving strength! And yet that promise of joy in the place of sadness did not make the dire48 force of the temptation to Maggie.
It was Stephen’s tone of misery, it was the doubt in the justice of her own resolve, that made the balance tremble, and made her once start from her seat to reach the pen and paper, and write “Come!”
But close upon that decisive act, her mind recoiled49; and the sense of contradiction with her past self in her moments of strength and clearness came upon her like a pang50 of conscious degradation51. No, she must wait; she must pray; the light that had forsaken52 her would come again; she should feel again what she had felt when she had fled away, under an inspiration strong enough to conquer agony — to conquer love; she should feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, when Philip’s letter had stirred all the fibres that bound her to the calmer past.
She sat quite still, far on into the night, with no impulse to change her attitude, without active force enough even for the mental act of prayer; only waiting for the light that would surely come again. It came with the memories that no passion could long quench53; the long past came back to her, and with it the fountains of self-renouncing pity and affection, of faithfulness and resolve. The words that were marked by the quiet hand in the little old book that she had long ago learned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found a vent11 for themselves in a low murmur54 that was quite lost in the loud driving of the rain against the window and the loud moan and roar of the wind. “I have received the Cross, I have received it from Thy hand; I will bear it, and bear it till death, as Thou hast laid it upon me.”
But soon other words rose that could find no utterance56 but in a sob57 — “Forgive me, Stephen! It will pass away. You will come back to her.”
She took up the letter, held it to the candle, and let it burn slowly on the hearth58. To-morrow she would write to him the last word of parting.
“I will bear it, and bear it till death. But how long it will be before death comes! I am so young, so healthy. How shall I have patience and strength? Am I to struggle and fall and repent59 again? Has life other trials as hard for me still?”
With that cry of self-despair, Maggie fell on her knees against the table, and buried her sorrow-stricken face. Her soul went out to the Unseen Pity that would be with her to the end. Surely there was something being taught her by this experience of great need; and she must be learning a secret of human tenderness and long-suffering, that the less erring could hardly know? “O God, if my life is to be long, let me live to bless and comfort ——”
At that moment Maggie felt a startling sensation of sudden cold about her knees and feet; it was water flowing under her. She started up; the stream was flowing under the door that led into the passage. She was not bewildered for an instant; she knew it was the flood!
The tumult60 of emotion she had been enduring for the last twelve hours seemed to have left a great calm in her; without screaming, she hurried with the candle upstairs to Bob Jakin’s bedroom. The door was ajar; she went in and shook him by the shoulder.
“Bob, the flood is come! it is in the house; let us see if we can make the boats safe.”
She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up her baby, burst into screams; and then she hurried down again to see if the waters were rising fast. There was a step down into the room at the door leading from the staircase; she saw that the water was already on a level with the step. While she was looking, something came with a tremendous crash against the window, and sent the leaded panes61 and the old wooden framework inward in shivers, the water pouring in after it.
“It is the boat!” cried Maggie. “Bob, come down to get the boats!”
And without a moment’s shudder62 of fear, she plunged63 through the water, which was rising fast to her knees, and by the glimmering64 light of the candle she had left on the stairs, she mounted on to the window-sill, and crept into the boat, which was left with the prow65 lodging30 and protruding66 through the window. Bob was not long after her, hurrying without shoes or stockings, but with the lanthorn in his hand.
“Why, they’re both here — both the boats,” said Bob, as he got into the one where Maggie was. “It’s wonderful this fastening isn’t broke too, as well as the mooring67.”
In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening it, and mastering an oar55, Bob was not struck with the danger Maggie incurred68. We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are companions in their danger, and Bob’s mind was absorbed in possible expedients69 for the safety of the helpless indoors. The fact that Maggie had been up, had waked him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vague impression of her as one who would help to protect, not need to be protected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had pushed off, so as to release the boat from the overhanging window-frame.
“The water’s rising so fast,” said Bob, “I doubt it’ll be in at the chambers70 before long — th’ house is so low. I’ve more mind to get Prissy and the child and the mother into the boat, if I could, and trusten to the water — for th’ old house is none so safe. And if I let go the boat — but you,” he exclaimed, suddenly lifting the light of his lanthorn on Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar in her hand and her black hair streaming.
Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current swept along the line of the houses, and drove both the boats out on to the wide water, with a force that carried them far past the meeting current of the river.
In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of nothing, but that she had suddenly passed away from that life which she had been dreading72; it was the transition of death, without its agony — and she was alone in the darkness with God.
The whole thing had been so rapid, so dreamlike, that the threads of ordinary association were broken; she sank down on the seat clutching the oar mechanically, and for a long while had no distinct conception of her position. The first thing that waked her to fuller consciousness was the cessation of the rain, and a perception that the darkness was divided by the faintest light, which parted the overhanging gloom from the immeasurable watery73 level below. She was driven out upon the flood — that awful visitation of God which her father used to talk of; which had made the nightmare of her childish dreams. And with that thought there rushed in the vision of the old home, and Tom, and her mother — they had all listened together.
“O God, where am I? Which is the way home?” she cried out, in the dim loneliness.
What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had once nearly destroyed it. They might be in danger, in distress74 — her mother and her brother, alone there, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul was strained now on that thought; and she saw the long-loved faces looking for help into the darkness, and finding none.
She was floating in smooth water now — perhaps far on the overflooded fields. There was no sense of present danger to check the outgoing of her mind to the old home; and she strained her eyes against the curtain of gloom that she might seize the first sight of her whereabout — that she might catch some faint suggestion of the spot toward which all her anxieties tended.
Oh, how welcome, the widening of that dismal75 watery level, the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament76, the slowly defining blackness of objects above the glassy dark! Yes, she must be out on the fields; those were the tops of hedgerow trees. Which way did the river lie? Looking behind her, she saw the lines of black trees; looking before her, there were none; then the river lay before her. She seized an oar and began to paddle the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope; the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in action; and she could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a mound77 where they had taken refuge. Onward78 she paddled and rowed by turns in the growing twilight79; her wet clothes clung round her, and her streaming hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardly conscious of any bodily sensations — except a sensation of strength, inspired by mighty80 emotion. Along with the sense of danger and possible rescue for those long-remembered beings at the old home, there was an undefined sense of reconcilement with her brother; what quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist81 in the presence of a great calamity82, when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive83 mortal needs? Vaguely84 Maggie felt this, in the strong resurgent love toward her brother that swept away all the later impressions of hard, cruel offence and misunderstanding, and left only the deep, underlying85, unshakable memories of early union.
But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and near to her Maggie could discern the current of the river. The dark mass must be — yes, it was — St. Ogg’s. Ah, now she knew which way to look for the first glimpse of the well-known trees — the gray willows86, the now yellowing chestnuts87 — and above them the old roof! But there was no color, no shape yet; all was faint and dim. More and more strongly the energies seemed to come and put themselves forth88, as if her life were a stored-up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for any future.
She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she would never be able to pass the Ripple89 and approach the house; this was the thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with more and more vividness the state of things round the old home. But then she might be carried very far down, and be unable to guide her boat out of the current again. For the first time distinct ideas of danger began to press upon her; but there was no choice of courses, no room for hesitation90, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she went now without effort; more and more clearly in the lessening91 distance and the growing light she began to discern the objects that she knew must be the well-known trees and roofs; nay92, she was not far off a rushing, muddy current that must be the strangely altered Ripple.
Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon. What were those masses?
For the first time Maggie’s heart began to beat in an agony of dread71. She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being floated along, more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash. But the horror was transient; it passed away before the oncoming warehouses93 of St. Ogg’s. She had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then; now, she must use all her skill and power to manage the boat and get it if possible out of the current. She could see now that the bridge was broken down; she could see the masts of a stranded94 vessel95 far out over the watery field. But no boats were to be seen moving on the river — such as had been laid hands on were employed in the flooded streets.
With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again to paddle; but the now ebbing96 tide added to the swiftness of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear shouts from the windows overlooking the river, as if the people there were calling to her. It was not till she had passed on nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat clear of the current. Then with one yearning97 look toward her uncle Deane’s house that lay farther down the river, she took to both her oars98 and rowed with all her might across the watery fields, back toward the Mill. Color was beginning to awake now, and as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could discern the tints99 of the trees, could see the old Scotch100 firs far to the right, and the home chestnuts — oh, how deep they lay in the water — deeper than the trees on this side the hill! And the roof of the Mill — where was it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Ripple — what had they meant? But it was not the house — the house stood firm; drowned up to the first story, but still firm — or was it broken in at the end toward the Mill?
With panting joy that she was there at last — joy that overcame all distress — Maggie neared the front of the house. At first she heard no sound; she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level with the upstairs window. She called out in a loud, piercing voice —
“Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here is Maggie!”
Soon, from the window of the attic101 in the central gable, she heard Tom’s voice —
“Who is it? Have you brought a boat?”
“It is I, Tom — Maggie. Where is mother?”
“She is not here; she went to Garum the day before yesterday. I’ll come down to the lower window.”
“Alone, Maggie?” said Tom, in a voice of deep astonishment102, as he opened the middle window, on a level with the boat.
“Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you. Get in quickly. Is there no one else?”
“No,” said Tom, stepping into the boat; “I fear the man is drowned; he was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part of the Mill fell with the crash of trees and stones against it; I’ve shouted again and again, and there has been no answer. Give me the oars, Maggie.”
It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the wide water — he face to face with Maggie — that the full meaning of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with so overpowering a force — it was such a new revelation to his spirit, of the depths in life that had lain beyond his vision, which he had fancied so keen and clear — that he was unable to ask a question. They sat mutely gazing at each other — Maggie with eyes of intense life looking out from a weary, beaten face; Tom pale, with a certain awe103 and humiliation104. Thought was busy though the lips were silent; and though he could ask no question, he guessed a story of almost miraculous105, divinely protected effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes, and the lips found a word they could utter — the old childish “Magsie!”
Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of that mysterious, wondrous106 happiness that is one with pain.
As soon as she could speak, she said, “We will go to Lucy, Tom; we’ll go and see if she is safe, and then we can help the rest.”
Tom rowed with untired vigor107, and with a different speed from poor Maggie’s. The boat was soon in the current of the river again, and soon they would be at Tofton.
“Park House stands high up out of the flood,” said Maggie. “Perhaps they have got Lucy there.”
Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried toward them by the river. Some wooden machinery108 had just given way on one of the wharves109, and huge fragments were being floated along. The sun was rising now, and the wide area of watery desolation was spread out in dreadful clearness around them; in dreadful clearness floated onward the hurrying, threatening masses. A large company in a boat that was working its way along under the Tofton houses observed their danger, and shouted, “Get out of the current!”
But that could not be done at once; and Tom, looking before him, saw death rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the stream.
“It is coming, Maggie!” Tom said, in a deep, hoarse110 voice, loosing the oars, and clasping her.
The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water, and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.
But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck111 on the golden water.
The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down in an embrace never to be parted; living through again in one supreme112 moment the days when they had clasped their little hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together.
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1
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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thaws
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| n.（足以解冻的）暖和天气( thaw的名词复数 )；（敌对国家之间）关系缓和v.（气候）解冻( thaw的第三人称单数 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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30
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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38
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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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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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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43
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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45
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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46
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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47
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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48
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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49
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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50
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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51
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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52
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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53
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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54
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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55
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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56
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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57
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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58
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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59
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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60
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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61
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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62
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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63
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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65
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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67
mooring
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| n.停泊处；系泊用具，系船具；下锚v.停泊，系泊（船只）(moor的现在分词) | |
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68
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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71
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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72
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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73
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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74
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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77
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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80
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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81
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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82
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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83
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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84
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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85
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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86
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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87
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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89
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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90
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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91
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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92
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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93
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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94
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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95
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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96
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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98
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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99
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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100
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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101
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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102
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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103
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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104
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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105
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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106
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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107
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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108
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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109
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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110
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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111
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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112
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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