But the man of regular life and rational mind never despairs. He loses his property — it is a blow — he staggers a moment; then, his energies, roused by the smart, are at work to seek a remedy; activity soon mitigates15 regret. Sickness affects him; he takes patience — endures what he cannot cure. Acute pain racks him; his writhing16 limbs know not where to find rest; he leans on Hope’s anchors. Death takes from him what he loves; roots up, and tears violently away the stem round which his affections were twined — a dark, dismal17 time, a frightful18 wrench19 — but some morning Religion looks into his desolate20 house with sunrise, and says, that in another world, another life, he shall meet his kindred again. She speaks of that world as a place unsullied by sin — of that life, as an era unembittered by suffering; she mightily21 strengthens her consolation22 by connecting with it two ideas — which mortals cannot comprehend, but on which they love to repose23 — Eternity24, Immortality25; and the mind of the mourner, being filled with an image, faint yet glorious, of heavenly hills all light and peace — of a spirit resting there in bliss26 — of a day when his spirit shall also alight there, free and disembodied — of a reunion perfected by love, purified from fear — he takes courage — goes out to encounter the necessities and discharge the duties of life; and, though sadness may never lift her burden from his mind, Hope will enable him to support it.
Well — and what suggested all this? and what is the inference to be drawn27 therefrom? What suggested it, is the circumstance of my best pupil — my treasure — being snatched from my hands, and put away out of my reach; the inference to be drawn from it is — that, being a steady, reasonable man, I did not allow the resentment28, disappointment, and grief, engendered29 in my mind by this evil chance, to grow there to any monstrous30 size; nor did I allow them to monopolize31 the whole space of my heart; I pent them, on the contrary, in one strait and secret nook. In the daytime, too, when I was about my duties, I put them on the silent system; and it was only after I had closed the door of my chamber32 at night that I somewhat relaxed my severity towards these morose33 nurslings, and allowed vent34 to their language of murmurs35; then, in revenge, they sat on my pillow, haunted my bed, and kept me awake with their long, midnight cry.
A week passed. I had said nothing more to Mdlle. Reuter. I had been calm in my demeanour to her, though stony36 cold and hard. When I looked at her, it was with the glance fitting to be bestowed37 on one who I knew had consulted jealousy38 as an adviser39, and employed treachery as an instrument — the glance of quiet disdain40 and rooted distrust. On Saturday evening, ere I left the house, I stept into the salle-a-manger, where she was sitting alone, and, placing myself before her, I asked, with the same tranquil41 tone and manner that I should have used had I put the question for the first time —
“Mademoiselle, will you have the goodness to give me the address of Frances Evans Henri?”
A little surprised, but not disconcerted, she smilingly disclaimed42 any knowledge of that address, adding, “Monsieur has perhaps forgotten that I explained all about that circumstance before — a week ago?”
“Mademoiselle,” I continued, “you would greatly oblige me by directing me to that young person’s abode43.”
She seemed somewhat puzzled; and, at last, looking up with an admirably counterfeited44 air of naivete, she demanded, “Does Monsieur think I am telling an untruth?”
Still avoiding to give her a direct answer, I said, “It is not then your intention, mademoiselle, to oblige me in this particular?”
“But, monsieur, how can I tell you what I do not know?”
“Very well; I understand you perfectly45, mademoiselle, and now I have only two or three words to say. This is the last week in July; in another month the vacation will commence I have the goodness to avail yourself of the leisure it will afford you to look out for another English master — at the close of August, I shall be under the necessity of resigning my post in your establishment.”
I did not wait for her comments on this announcement, but bowed and immediately withdrew.
That same evening, soon after dinner, a servant brought me a small packet; it was directed in a hand I knew, but had not hoped so soon to see again; being in my own apartment and alone, there was nothing to prevent my immediately opening it; it contained four five-franc pieces, and a note in English.
“Monsieur,
“I came to Mdlle. Reuter’s house yesterday, at the time when I knew you would be just about finishing your lesson, and I asked if I might go into the schoolroom and speak to you. Mdlle. Reuter came out and said you were already gone; it had not yet struck four, so I thought she must be mistaken, but concluded it would be vain to call another day on the same errand. In one sense a note will do as well — it will wrap up the 20 francs, the price of the lessons I have received from you; and if it will not fully46 express the thanks I owe you in addition — if it will not bid you good-bye as I could wish to have done — if it will not tell you, as I long to do, how sorry I am that I shall probably never see you more — why, spoken words would hardly be more adequate to the task. Had I seen you, I should probably have stammered48 out something feeble and unsatisfactory — something belying49 my feelings rather than explaining them; so it is perhaps as well that I was denied admission to your presence. You often remarked, monsieur, that my devoirs dwelt a great deal on fortitude50 in bearing grief — you said I introduced that theme too often: I find indeed that it is much easier to write about a severe duty than to perform it, for I am oppressed when I see and feel to what a reverse fate has condemned51 me; you were kind to me, monsieur — very kind; I am afflicted52 — I am heart-broken to be quite separated from you; soon I shall have no friend on earth. But it is useless troubling you with my distresses53. What claim have I on your sympathy? None; I will then say no more.
“Farewell, Monsieur.
“F. E. Henri.”
I put up the note in my pocket-book. I slipped the five-franc pieces into my purse — then I took a turn through my narrow chamber.
“Mdlle. Reuter talked about her poverty,” said I, “and she is poor; yet she pays her debts and more. I have not yet given her a quarter’s lessons, and she has sent me a quarter’s due. I wonder of what she deprived herself to scrape together the twenty francs — I wonder what sort of a place she has to live in, and what sort of a woman her aunt is, and whether she is likely to get employment to supply the place she has lost. No doubt she will have to trudge54 about long enough from school to school, to inquire here, and apply there — be rejected in this place, disappointed in that. Many an evening she’ll go to her bed tired and unsuccessful. And the directress would not let her in to bid me good-bye? I might not have the chance of standing56 with her for a few minutes at a window in the schoolroom and exchanging some half-dozen of sentences — getting to know where she lived — putting matters in train for having all things arranged to my mind? No address on the note”— I continued, drawing it again from the pocket-book and examining it on each side of the two leaves: “women are women, that is certain, and always do business like women; men mechanically put a date and address to their communications. And these five-franc pieces?”—(I hauled them forth57 from my purse)—“if she had offered me them herself instead of tying them up with a thread of green silk in a kind of Lilliputian packet, I could have thrust them back into her little hand, and shut up the small, taper58 fingers over them — so — and compelled her shame, her pride, her shyness, all to yield to a little bit of determined59 Will — now where is she? How can I get at her?”
Opening my chamber door I walked down into the kitchen.
“Who brought the packet?” I asked of the servant who had delivered it to me.
“Un petit commissionaire, monsieur.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Rien.”
And I wended my way up the back-stairs, wondrously60 the wiser for my inquiries61.
“No matter,” said I to myself, as I again closed the door. “No matter — I’ll seek her through Brussels.”
And I did. I sought her day by day whenever I had a moment’s leisure, for four weeks; I sought her on Sundays all day long; I sought her on the Boulevards, in the Allee Verte, in the Park; I sought her in Ste. Gudule and St. Jacques; I sought her in the two Protestant chapels62; I attended these latter at the German, French, and English services, not doubting that I should meet her at one of them. All my researches were absolutely fruitless; my security on the last point was proved by the event to be equally groundless with my other calculations. I stood at the door of each chapel63 after the service, and waited till every individual had come out, scrutinizing64 every gown draping a slender form, peering under every bonnet65 covering a young head. In vain; I saw girlish figures pass me, drawing their black scarfs over their sloping shoulders, but none of them had the exact turn and air of Mdlle. Henri’s; I saw pale and thoughtful faces “encadrees” in bands of brown hair, but I never found her forehead, her eyes, her eyebrows66. All the features of all the faces I met seemed frittered away, because my eye failed to recognize the peculiarities68 it was bent69 upon; an ample space of brow and a large, dark, and serious eye, with a fine but decided70 line of eyebrow67 traced above.
“She has probably left Brussels — perhaps is gone to England, as she said she would,” muttered I inwardly, as on the afternoon of the fourth Sunday, I turned from the door of the chapel-royal which the door-keeper had just closed and locked, and followed in the wake of the last of the congregation, now dispersed71 and dispersing72 over the square. I had soon outwalked the couples of English gentlemen and ladies. (Gracious goodness! why don’t they dress better? My eye is yet filled with visions of the high-flounced, slovenly73, and tumbled dresses in costly74 silk and satin, of the large unbecoming collars in expensive lace; of the ill-cut coats and strangely fashioned pantaloons which every Sunday, at the English service, filled the choirs75 of the chapel-royal, and after it, issuing forth into the square, came into disadvantageous contrast with freshly and trimly attired76 foreign figures, hastening to attend salut at the church of Coburg.) I had passed these pairs of Britons, and the groups of pretty British children, and the British footmen and waiting-maids; I had crossed the Place Royale, and got into the Rue77 Royale, thence I had diverged78 into the Rue de Louvain — an old and quiet street. I remember that, feeling a little hungry, and not desiring to go back and take my share of the “gouter,” now on the refectory-table at Pelet’s — to wit, pistolets and water — I stepped into a baker’s and refreshed myself on a couc(?)— it is a Flemish word, I don’t know how to spell it — A corinthe-anglice, a currant bun — and a cup of coffee; and then I strolled on towards the Porte de Louvain. Very soon I was out of the city, and slowly mounting the hill, which ascends79 from the gate, I took my time; for the afternoon, though cloudy, was very sultry, and not a breeze stirred to refresh the atmosphere. No inhabitant of Brussels need wander far to search for solitude80; let him but move half a league from his own city and he will find her brooding still and blank over the wide fields, so drear though so fertile, spread out treeless and trackless round the capital of Brabant. Having gained the summit of the hill, and having stood and looked long over the cultured but lifeless campaign, I felt a wish to quit the high road, which I had hitherto followed, and get in among those tilled grounds — fertile as the beds of a Brobdignagian kitchen-garden — spreading far and wide even to the boundaries of the horizon, where, from a dusk green, distance changed them to a sullen81 blue, and confused their tints82 with those of the livid and thunderous-looking sky. Accordingly I turned up a by-path to the right; I had not followed it far ere it brought me, as I expected, into the fields, amidst which, just before me, stretched a long and lofty white wall enclosing, as it seemed from the foliage83 showing above, some thickly planted nursery of yew84 and cypress85, for of that species were the branches resting on the pale parapets, and crowding gloomily about a massive cross, planted doubtless on a central eminence86 and extending its arms, which seemed of black marble, over the summits of those sinister87 trees. I approached, wondering to what house this well-protected garden appertained; I turned the angle of the wall, thinking to see some stately residence; I was close upon great iron gates; there was a hut serving for a lodge88 near, but I had no occasion to apply for the key — the gates were open; I pushed one leaf back — rain had rusted89 its hinges, for it groaned90 dolefully as they revolved91. Thick planting embowered the entrance. Passing up the avenue, I saw objects on each hand which, in their own mute language. of inscription92 and sign, explained clearly to what abode I had made my way. This was the house appointed for all living; crosses, monuments, and garlands of everlastings93 announced, “The Protestant Cemetery94, outside the gate of Louvain.”
The place was large enough to afford half an hour’s strolling without the monotony of treading continually the same path; and, for those who love to peruse95 the annals of graveyards97, here was variety of inscription enough to occupy the attention for double or treble that space of time. Hither people of many kindreds, tongues, and nations, had brought their dead for interment; and here, on pages of stone, of marble, and of brass98, were written names, dates, last tributes of pomp or love, in English, in French, in German, and Latin. Here the Englishman had erected99 a marble monument over the remains100 of his Mary Smith or Jane Brown, and inscribed101 it only with her name. There the French widower102 had shaded the grave: of his Elmire or Celestine with a brilliant thicket103 of roses, amidst which a little tablet rising, bore an equally bright testimony104 to her countless105 virtues106. Every nation, tribe, and kindred, mourned after its own fashion; and how soundless was the mourning of all! My own tread, though slow and upon smooth-rolled paths, seemed to startle, because it formed the sole break to a silence otherwise total. Not only the winds, but the very fitful, wandering airs, were that afternoon, as by common consent, all fallen asleep in their various quarters; the north was hushed, the south silent, the east sobbed107 not, nor did the west whisper. The clouds in heaven were condensed and dull, but apparently108 quite motionless. Under the trees of this cemetery nestled a warm breathless gloom, out of which the cypresses109 stood up straight and mute, above which the willows110 hung low and still; where the flowers, as languid as fair, waited listless for night dew or thunder-shower; where the tombs, and those they hid, lay impassible to sun or shadow, to rain or drought.
Importuned111 by the sound of my own footsteps, I turned off upon the turf, and slowly advanced to a grove112 of yews113; I saw something stir among the stems; I thought it might be a broken branch swinging, my short-sighted vision had caught no form, only a sense of motion; but the dusky shade passed on, appearing and disappearing at the openings in the avenue. I soon discerned it was a living thing, and a human thing; and, drawing nearer, I perceived it was a woman, pacing slowly to and fro, and evidently deeming herself alone as I had deemed myself alone, and meditating114 as I had been meditating. Ere long she returned to a seat which I fancy she had but just quitted, or I should have caught sight of her before. It was in a nook, screened by a clump115 of trees; there was the white wall before her, and a little stone set up against the wall, and, at the foot of the stone, was an allotment of turf freshly turned up, a new-made grave. I put on my spectacles, and passed softly close behind her; glancing at the inscription on the stone, I read,” Julienne Henri, died at Brussels, aged116 sixty. August 10th, 18 —.” Having perused117 the inscription, I looked down at the form sitting bent and thoughtful just under my eyes, unconscious of the vicinity of any living thing; it was a slim, youthful figure in mourning apparel of the plainest black stuff, with a little simple, black crape bonnet; I felt, as well as saw, who it was; and, moving neither hand nor foot, I stood some moments enjoying the security of conviction. I had sought her for a month, and had never discovered one of her traces — never met a hope, or seized a chance of encountering her anywhere. I had been forced to loosen my grasp on expectation; and, but an hour ago, had sunk slackly under the discouraging thought that the current of life, and the impulse of destiny, had swept her for ever from my reach; and, behold118, while bending suddenly earthward beneath the pressure of despondency — while following with my eyes the track of sorrow on the turf of a graveyard96 — here was my lost jewel dropped on the tear-fed herbage, nestling in the messy and mouldy roots of yew-trees.
Frances sat very quiet, her elbow on her knee, and her head on her hand. I knew she could retain a thinking attitude a long time without change; at last, a tear fell; she had been looking at the name on the stone before her, and her heart had no doubt endured one of those constrictions with which the desolate living, regretting the dead, are, at times, so sorely oppressed. Many tears rolled down, which she wiped away, again and again, with her handkerchief; some distressed119 sobs120 escaped her, and then, the paroxysm over, she sat quiet as before. I put my hand gently on her shoulder; no need further to prepare her, for she was neither hysterical121 nor liable to fainting-fits; a sudden push, indeed, might have startled her, but the contact of my quiet touch merely woke attention as I wished; and, though she turned quickly, yet so lightning-swift is thought — in some minds especially — I believe the wonder of what — the consciousness of who it was that thus stole unawares on her solitude, had passed through her brain, and flashed into her heart, even before she had effected that hasty movement; at least, Amazement122 had hardly opened her eyes and raised them to mine, ere Recognition informed their irids with most speaking brightness. Nervous surprise had hardly discomposed her features ere a sentiment of most vivid joy shone clear and warm on her whole countenance123. I had hardly time to observe that she was wasted and pale, ere called to feel a responsive inward pleasure by the sense of most full and exquisite124 pleasure glowing in the animated125 flush, and shining in the expansive light, now diffused126 over my pupil’s face. It was the summer sun flashing out after the heavy summer shower; and what fertilizes127 more rapidly than that beam, burning almost like fire in its ardour?
I hate boldness — that boldness which is of the brassy brow and insensate nerves; but I love the courage of the strong heart, the fervour of the generous blood; I loved with passion the light of Frances Evans’ clear hazel eye when it did not fear to look straight into mine; I loved the tones with which she uttered the words —
“Mon maitre! mon maitre!”
I loved the movement with which she confided128 her hand to my hand; I loved her as she stood there, penniless and parentless; for a sensualist charmless, for me a treasure — my best object of sympathy on earth, thinking such thoughts as I thought, feeling such feelings as I felt; my ideal of the shrine129 in which to seal my stores of love; personification of discretion130 and forethought, of diligence and perseverance131, of self-denial and self-control — those guardians132, those trusty keepers of the gift I longed to confer on her — the gift of all my affections; model of truth and honour, of independence and conscientiousness133 — those refiners and sustainers of an honest life; silent possessor of a well of tenderness, of a flame, as genial134 as still, as pure as quenchless135, of natural feeling, natural passion — those sources of refreshment136 and comfort to the sanctuary137 of home. I knew how quietly and how deeply the well bubbled in her heart; I knew how the more dangerous flame burned safely under the eye of reason; I had seen when the fire shot up a moment high and vivid, when the accelerated heat troubled life’s current in its channels; I had seen reason reduce the rebel, and humble138 its blaze to embers. I had confidence in Frances Evans; I had respect for her, and as I drew her arm through mine, and led her out of the cemetery, I felt I had another sentiment, as strong as confidence, as firm as respect, more fervid139 than either — that of love.
“Well, my pupil,” said I, as the ominous140 sounding gate swung to behind us —“Well, I have found you again: a month’s search has seemed long, and I little thought to have discovered my lost sheep straying amongst graves.”
Never had I addressed her but as “ Mademoiselle” before, and to speak thus was to take up a tone new to both her and me. Her answer suprised me that this language ruffled141 none of her feelings, woke no discord142 in her heart:-
“Mon maitre,” she said, “have you troubled yourself to seek me? I little imagined you would think much of my absence, but I grieved bitterly to be taken away from you. I was sorry for that circumstance when heavier troubles ought to have made me forget it.”
“Your aunt is dead?”
“Yes, a fortnight since, and she died full of regret, which I could not chase from her mind; she kept repeating, even during the last night of her existence, ‘Frances, you will be so lonely when I am gone, so friendless:’ she wished too that she could have been buried in Switzerland, and it was I who persuaded her in her old age to leave the banks of Lake Leman, and to come, only as it seems to die, in this flat region of Flanders. Willingly would I have observed her last wish, and taken her remains back to our own country, but that was impossible; I was forced to lay her here.”
“She was ill but a short time, I presume?”
“But three weeks. When she began to sink I asked Mdlle. Reuter’s leave to stay with her and wait on her; I readily got leave.”
“Do you return to the pensionnat!” I demanded hastily.
“Monsieur, when I had been at home a week Mdlle. Reuter called one evening, just after I had got my aunt to bed; she went into her room to speak to her, and was extremely civil and affable, as she always is; afterwards she came and sat with me a long time, and just as she rose to go away, she said: “Mademoiselle, I shall not soon cease to regret your departure from my establishment, though indeed it is true that you have taught your class of pupils so well that they are all quite accomplished143 in the little works you manage so skilfully144, and have not the slightest need of further instruction; my second teacher must in future supply your place, with regard to the younger pupils, as well as she can, though she is indeed an inferior artiste to you, and doubtless it will be your part now to assume a higher position in your calling; I am sure you will everywhere find schools and families willing to profit by your talents.’ And then she paid me my last quarter’s salary. I asked, as mademoiselle would no doubt think, very bluntly, if she designed to discharge me from the establishment. She smiled at my inelegance of speech, and answered that ‘our connection as employer and employed was certainly dissolved, but that she hoped still to retain the pleasure of my acquaintance; she should always be happy to see me as a friend;’ and then she said something about the excellent condition of the streets, and the long continuance of fine weather, and went away quite cheerful.”
I laughed inwardly; all this was so like the directress — so like what I had expected and guessed of her conduct; and then the exposure and proof of her lie, unconsciously afforded by Frances:—“She had frequently applied146 for Mdlle. Henri’s address,” forsooth; “Mdlle. Henri had always evaded147 giving it,” &c., &c., and here I found her a visitor at the very house of whose locality she had professed148 absolute ignorance!
Any comments I might have intended to make on my pupil’s communication, were checked by the plashing of large rain-drops on our faces and on the path, and by the muttering of a distant but coming storm. The warning obvious in stagnant149 air and leaden sky had already induced me to take the road leading back to Brussels, and now I hastened my own steps and those of my companion, and, as our way lay downhill, we got on rapidly. There was an interval150 after the fall of the first broad drops before heavy rain came on; in the meantime we had passed through the Porte de Louvain, and were again in the city.
“Where do you live?” I asked; “I will see you safe home,”
“Rue Notre Dame151 aux Neiges,” answered Frances.
It was not far from the Rue de Louvain, and we stood on the doorsteps of the house we sought ere the clouds, severing152 with loud peal153 and shattered cataract154 of lightning, emptied their livid folds in a torrent155, heavy, prone156, and broad.
“Come in! come in!” said Frances, as, after putting her into the house, I paused ere I followed: the word decided me; I stepped across the threshold, shut the door on the rushing, flashing, whitening storm, and followed her upstairs to her apartments. Neither she nor I were wet; a projection157 over the door had warded158 off the straight-descending159 flood; none but the first, large drops had touched our garments; one minute more and we should not have had a dry thread on us.
Stepping over a little mat of green wool, I found myself in a small room with a painted floor and a square of green carpet in the middle; the articles of furniture were few, but all bright and exquisitely160 clean; order reigned161 through its narrow limits — such order as it soothed162 my punctilious163 soul to behold. And I had hesitated to enter the abode, because I apprehended164 after all that Mdlle. Reuter’s hint about its extreme poverty might be too well-founded, and I feared to embarrass the lace-mender by entering her lodgings165 unawares! Poor the place might be; poor truly it was; but its neatness was better than elegance145, and had but a bright little fire shone on that clean hearth166, I should have deemed it more attractive than a palace. No fire was there, however, and no fuel laid ready to light; the lace-mender was unable to allow herself that indulgence, especially now when, deprived by death of her sole relative, she had only her own unaided exertions167 to rely on. Frances went into an inner room to take off her bonnet, and she came out a model of frugal169 neatness, with her well-fitting black stuff dress, so accurately170 defining her elegant bust171 and taper waist, with her spotless white collar turned back from a fair and shapely neck, with her plenteous brown hair arranged in smooth bands on her temples, and in a large Grecian plait behind: ornaments172 she had none — neither brooch, ring, nor ribbon; she did well enough without them — perfection of fit, proportion of form, grace of carriage, agreeably supplied their place. Her eye, as she re-entered the small sitting-room173, instantly sought mine, which was just then lingering on the hearth; I knew she read at once the sort of inward ruth and pitying pain which the chill vacancy174 of that hearth stirred in my soul: quick to penetrate175, quick to determine, and quicker to put in practice, she had in a moment tied a holland apron176 round her waist; then she disappeared, and reappeared with a basket; it had a cover; she opened it, and produced wood and coal; deftly178 and compactly she arranged them in the grate.
“It is her whole stock, and she will exhaust it out of hospitality,” thought I.
“What are you going to do?” I asked: “not surely to light a fire this hot evening? I shall be smothered179.”
“Indeed, monsieur, I feel it very chilly180 since the rain began; besides, I must boil the water for my tea, for I take tea on Sundays; you will be obliged to try and bear the heat.”
She had struck a light; the wood was already in a blaze; and truly, when contrasted with the darkness, the wild tumult181 of the tempest without, that peaceful glow which began to beam on the now animated hearth, seemed very cheering. A low, purring sound, from some quarter, announced that another being, besides myself, was pleased with the change; a black cat, roused by the light from its sleep on a little cushioned foot-stool, came and rubbed its head against Frances’ gown as she knelt; she caressed182 it, saying it had been a favourite with her “pauvre tante Julienne.”
The fire being lit, the hearth swept, and a small kettle of a very antique pattern, such as I thought I remembered to have seen in old farmhouses183 in England, placed over the now ruddy flame, Frances’ hands were washed, and her apron removed in an instant then she opened a cupboard, and took out a tea-tray, on which she had soon arranged a china tea-equipage, whose pattern, shape, and size, denoted a remote antiquity184; a little, old-fashioned silver spoon was deposited in each saucer; and a pair of silver tongs185, equally old-fashioned, were laid on the sugar-basin; from the cupboard, too, was produced a tidy silver cream-ewer2, not larger then an egg-shell. While making these preparations, she chanced to look up, and, reading curiosity in my eyes, she smiled and asked —
“Is this like England, monsieur?”
“Like the England of a hundred years ago,” I replied.
“Is it truly? Well, everything on this tray is at least a hundred years old: these cups, these spoons, this ewer, are all heirlooms; my great-grandmother left them to my grandmother, she to my mother, and my mother brought them with her from England to Switzerland, and left them to me; and, ever since I was a little girl, I have thought I should like to carry them back to England, whence they came.”
She put some pistolets on the table; she made the tea, as foreigners do make tea — i.e., at the rate of a teaspoonful186 to half-a-dozen cups; she placed me a chair, and, as I took it, she asked, with a sort of exaltation —
“Will it make you think yourself at home for a moment?”
“If I had a home in England, I believe it would recall it,” I answered; and, in truth, there was a sort of illusion in seeing the fair-complexioned English-looking girl presiding at the English meal, and speaking in the English language.
“You have then no home?” was her remark.
“None, nor ever have had. If ever I possess a home, it must be of my own making, and the task is yet to begin.” And, as I spoke47, a pang187, new to me, shot across my heart: it was a pang of mortification188 at the humility189 of my position, and the inadequacy190 of my means; while with that pang was born a strong desire to do more, earn more, be more, possess more; and in the increased possessions, my roused and eager spirit panted to include the home I had never had, the wife I inwardly vowed191 to win.
Frances’ tea was little better than hot water, sugar, and milk; and her pistolets, with which she could not offer me butter, were sweet to my palate as manna.
The repast over, and the treasured plate and porcelain192 being washed and put by, the bright table rubbed still brighter, “le chat de ma tante Julienne” also being fed with provisions brought forth on a plate for its special use, a few stray cinders193, and a scattering194 of ashes too, being swept from the hearth, Frances at last sat down; and then, as she took a chair opposite to me, she betrayed, for the first time, a little embarrassment195; and no wonder, for indeed I had unconsciously watched her rather too closely, followed all her steps and all her movements a little too perseveringly196 with my eyes, for she mesmerized197 me by the grace and alertness of her action — by the deft177, cleanly, and even decorative198 effect resulting from each touch of her slight and fine fingers; and when, at last, she subsided199 to stillness, the intelligence of her face seemed beauty to me, and I dwelt on it accordingly. Her colour, however, rising, rather than settling with repose, and her eyes remaining downcast, though I kept waiting for the lids to be raised that I might drink a ray of the light I loved — a light where fire dissolved in softness, where affection tempered penetration200, where, just now at least, pleasure played with thought — this expectation not being gratified, I began at last to suspect that I had probably myself to blame for the disappointment; I must cease gazing, and begin talking, if I wished to break the spell under which she now sat motionless; so recollecting201 the composing effect which an authoritative202 tone and manner had ever been wont203 to produce on her, I said —
“Get one of your English books, mademoiselle, for the rain yet falls heavily, and will probably detain me half an hour longer.
Released, and set at ease, up she rose, got her book, and accepted at once the chair I placed for her at my side. She had selected “Paradise Lost” from her shelf of classics, thinking, I suppose, the religious character of the book best adapted it to Sunday; I told her to begin at the beginning, and while she read Milton’s invocation to that heavenly muse204, who on the “secret top of Oreb or Sinai” had taught the Hebrew shepherd how in the womb of chaos205, the conception of a world had originated and ripened206, I enjoyed, undisturbed, the treble pleasure of having her near me, hearing the sound of her voice — a sound sweet and satisfying in my ear — and looking, by intervals207, at her face: of this last privilege, I chiefly availed myself when I found fault with an intonation208, a pause, or an emphasis; as long as I dogmatized, I might also gaze, without exciting too warm a flush.
“Enough,” said I, when she had gone through some half dozen pages (a work of time with her, for she read slowly and paused often to ask and receive information)—“enough; and now the rain is ceasing, and I must soon go.” For indeed, at that moment, looking towards the window, I saw it all blue; the thunder-clouds were broken and scattered209, and the setting August sun sent a gleam like the reflection of rubies210 through the lattice. I got up; I drew on my gloves.
“You have not yet found another situation to supply the place of that from which you were dismissed by Mdlle. Reuter?”
“No, monsieur; I have made inquiries everywhere, but they all ask me for references; and to speak truth, I do not like to apply to the directress, because I consider she acted neither justly nor honourably211 towards me; she used underhand means to set my pupils against me, and thereby212 render me unhappy while I held my place in her establishment, and she eventually deprived me of it by a masked and hypocritical manoeuvre213, pretending that she was acting214 for my good, but really snatching from me my chief means of subsistence, at a crisis when not only my own life, but that of another, depended on my exertions: of her I will never more ask a favour.”
“How, then, do you propose to get on? How do you live now?”
“I have still my lace-mending trade; with care it will keep me from starvation, and I doubt not by dint215 of exertion168 to get better employment yet; it is only a fortnight since I began to try; my courage or hopes are by no means worn out yet.”
“And if you get what you wish, what then? what are? your ultimate views?”
“To save enough to cross the Channel: I always look to England as my Canaan.”
“Well, well — ere long I shall pay you another visit; good evening now,” and I left her rather abruptly216; I had much ado to resist a strong inward impulse, urging me to take a warmer, more expressive217 leave: what so natural as to fold her for a moment in a close embrace, to imprint218 one kiss on her cheek or forehead? I was not unreasonable219 — that was all I wanted; satisfied in that point, I could go away content; and Reason denied me even this; she ordered me to turn my eyes from her face, and my steps from her apartment — to quit her as dryly and coldly as I would have quitted old Madame Pelet. I obeyed, but I swore rancorously to be avenged220 one day. “I’ll earn a right to do as I please in this matter, or I’ll die in the contest. I have one object before me now — to get that Genevese girl for my wife; and my wife she shall be — that is, provided she has as much, or half as much regard for her master as he has for her. And would she be so docile221, so smiling, so happy under my instructions if she had not? would she sit at my side when I dictate222 or correct, with such a still, contented223, halcyon224 mien225?” for I had ever remarked, that however sad or harassed226 her countenance might be when I entered a room, yet after I had been near her, spoken to her a few words, given her some directions, uttered perhaps some reproofs227, she would, all at once, nestle into a nook of happiness, and look up serene228 and revived. The reproofs suited her best of all: while I scolded she would chip away with her pen-knife at a pencil or a pen; fidgetting a little, pouting229 a little, defending herself by monosyllables, and when I deprived her of the pen or pencil, fearing it would be all cut away, and when I interdicted230 even the monosyllabic defence, for the purpose of working up the subdued231 excitement a little higher, she would at last raise her eyes and give me a certain glance, sweetened with gaiety, and pointed55 with defiance232, which, to speak truth, thrilled me as nothing had ever done, and made me, in a fashion (though happily she did not know it), her subject, if not her slave. After such little scenes her spirits would maintain their flow, often for some hours, and, as I remarked before, her health therefrom took a sustenance233 and vigour234 which, previously235 to the event of her aunt’s death and her dismissal, had almost recreated her whole frame.
It has taken me several minutes to write these last sentences; but I had thought all their purport236 during the brief interval of descending the stairs from Frances’ room. Just as I was opening the outer door, I remembered the twenty francs which I had not restored; I paused: impossible to carry them away with me; difficult to force them back on their original owner; I had now seen her in her own humble abode, witnessed the dignity of her poverty, the pride of order, the fastidious care of conservatism, obvious in the arrangement and economy of her little home; I was sure she would not suffer herself to be excused paying her debts; I was certain the favour of indemnity237 would be accepted from no hand, perhaps least of all from mine: yet these four five-franc pieces were a burden to my self-respect, and I must get rid of them. An expedient238 — a clumsy one no doubt, but the best I could devise-suggested itself to me. I darted239 up the stairs, knocked, re-entered the room as if in haste:—
“Mademoiselle, I have forgotten one of my gloves; I must have left it here.”
She instantly rose to seek it; as she turned her back, I— being now at the hearth — noiselessly lifted a little vase, one of a set of china ornaments, as old-fashioned as the tea-cups — slipped the money under it, then saying —“Oh here is my glove! I had dropped it within the fender; good evening, mademoiselle,” I made my second exit.
Brief as my impromptu240 return had been, it had afforded me time to pick up a heart-ache; I remarked that Frances had already removed the red embers of her cheerful little fire from the grate: forced to calculate every item, to save in every detail, she had instantly on my departure retrenched241 a luxury too expensive to be enjoyed alone.
“I am glad it is not yet winter,” thought I; “but in two months more come the winds and rains of November; would to God that before then I could earn the right, and the power, to shovel242 coals into that grate ad libitum!”
Already the pavement was drying; a balmy and fresh breeze stirred the air, purified by lightning; I felt the West behind me, where spread a sky like opal; azure243 immingled with crimson244: the enlarged sun, glorious in Tyrian tints, dipped his brim already; stepping, as I was, eastward245, I faced a vast bank of clouds, but also I had before me the arch of an evening rainbow; a perfect rainbow — high, wide, vivid. I looked long; my eye drank in the scene, and I suppose my brain must have absorbed it; for that night, after lying awake in pleasant fever a long time, watching the silent sheet-lightning, which still played among the retreating clouds, and flashed silvery over the stars, I at last fell asleep; and then in a dream were reproduced the setting sun, the bank of clouds, the mighty246 rainbow. I stood, methought, on a terrace; I leaned over a parapeted wall; there was space below me, depth I could not fathom247, but hearing an endless dash of waves, I believed it to be the sea; sea spread to the horizon; sea of changeful green and intense blue: all was soft in the distance; all vapour-veiled. A spark of gold glistened248 on the line between water and air, floated up, approached, enlarged, changed; the object hung midway between heaven and earth, under the arch of the rainbow; the soft but dusk clouds diffused behind. It hovered249 as on wings; pearly, fleecy, gleaming air streamed like raiment round it; light, tinted250 with carnation251, coloured what seemed face and limbs; A large star shone with still lustre252 on an angel’s forehead; an upraised arm and hand, glancing like a ray, pointed to the bow overhead, and a voice in my heart whispered —
“Hope smiles on Effort!”
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1
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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2
ewer
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| n.大口水罐 | |
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3
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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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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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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9
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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10
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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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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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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13
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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14
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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15
mitigates
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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16
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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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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18
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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19
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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20
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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21
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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24
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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25
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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26
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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27
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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28
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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29
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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31
monopolize
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| v.垄断，独占，专营 | |
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32
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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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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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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36
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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37
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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39
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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40
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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41
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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42
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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44
counterfeited
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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45
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
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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48
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
belying
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| v.掩饰，与…不符，使…失望；掩饰( belie的现在分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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50
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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51
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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54
trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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55
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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56
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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57
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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59
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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60
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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61
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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62
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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63
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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64
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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65
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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66
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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67
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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68
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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69
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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70
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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71
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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72
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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73
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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74
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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75
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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76
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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78
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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79
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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81
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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82
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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83
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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84
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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85
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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86
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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87
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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88
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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89
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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91
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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92
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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93
everlastings
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| 永久，无穷（everlasting的复数形式） | |
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94
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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95
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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96
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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97
graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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98
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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99
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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100
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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101
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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102
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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103
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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104
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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105
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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106
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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107
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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108
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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109
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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110
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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111
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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112
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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113
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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114
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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115
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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116
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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117
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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118
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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119
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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120
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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121
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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122
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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123
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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124
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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125
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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126
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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127
fertilizes
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| n.施肥( fertilize的名词复数 )v.施肥( fertilize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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129
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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130
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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131
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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132
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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133
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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134
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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135
quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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136
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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137
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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138
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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139
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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140
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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141
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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142
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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143
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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144
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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145
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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146
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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147
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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148
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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149
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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150
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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151
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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152
severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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153
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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154
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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155
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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156
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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157
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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158
warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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159
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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160
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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161
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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162
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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163
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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164
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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165
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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166
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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167
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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168
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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169
frugal
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|
| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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170
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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171
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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172
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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173
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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174
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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175
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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176
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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177
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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178
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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179
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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180
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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181
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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182
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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184
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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185
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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186
teaspoonful
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| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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187
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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188
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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189
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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190
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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191
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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192
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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193
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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194
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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195
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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196
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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197
mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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199
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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200
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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201
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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202
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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203
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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204
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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205
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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206
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
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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208
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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209
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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210
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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211
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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212
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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213
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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214
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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215
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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222
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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reproofs
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| n.责备，责难，指责( reproof的名词复数 ) | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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230
interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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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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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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233
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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234
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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235
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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indemnity
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| n.赔偿，赔款，补偿金 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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retrenched
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| v.紧缩开支( retrench的过去式和过去分词 )；削减（费用）；节省 | |
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242
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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249
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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250
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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251
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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