She realized his want of sympathy and humanity, his elaborate attitude of standing4 aside from the problems of life in favour of a closer contemplation of those of Nature. It was Nature he loved, and Nature only, with his full heart. The human interest was a purely5 secondary consideration with him. Not “in many mortal forms” did he seek “the shadow of that idol6.” He was Alastor and she was the Lady. She must remember that. Alastor could doubtless have done quite well without the Lady. She represented the ever-restless Spirit of Humanity which Alastor had come into the wilderness7 to avoid. And, for his sake, for the sake of her valued privileges, she must learn to keep it in abeyance8 and suppress it as far as she could. She must love Nature too. It was difficult, for though, in her quality of romanticist, she had always talked a good deal about it. Nature, to her, was merely a background for people, just as flowers were an adornment10 for her bodice or her parlour.{120}
But the very conditions of her tenure11 here demanded that she should accommodate herself to the mood of her companion. Since, by happy chance, she was admitted to be an inmate12 with him of the terrestrial Paradise of which he was the tutelary13 God, she must contrive14, as animals do, to adapt herself to her new habitat. She thought of herself as a tremulous, storm-tossed soul, newly entered into bliss15, and afraid to compromise her precarious16 happiness by any assumption of right or too marked a signalizing of her presence there.
With this end in view, she began to cultivate a capacity for silence, an art of self-effacement, a spirit-like vagueness of outline. Her wish was to dissimulate17 her personality as far as was possible, and merely to form, as it were, part of the silent, unobtrusive world of Nature that he loved. It was a stiff novitiate to a complete education.
Her plan was successful, on the whole. The painter began to take her as a matter of course, to treat her as if she had always been there, as a busy man might treat a sister, or a college companion, without ceremony, but with much protective kindness and camaraderie18. She was sure that the notion of her being in any way compromised by her stay with him in this lonely inn never so much as entered his mind. It was not that he was ignorant of conventions; he was simply too preoccupied19 to think of them.
But, indeed, the new brightness of her eyes, bred of her happiness, the lovely, natural colour in her{121} cheeks, the conscious curve of her red lips, inevitably20 suggested the world’s cry for a chaperon. She had been an interesting woman when she came to Rokeby; she was now almost a beautiful one. The little hollows in her cheeks had filled up; her figure had improved; she was like a blue serge wood nymph darting21 about the broken pathways and shelving banks of this embowered painter’s paradise.
She knew, with a woman’s intuition, that he was not entirely22 blind to her beauty. His eye rested on her with the same searching and affectionate gaze with which it might linger on a “beautiful bit,” as the technical phrase runs; and the light in her eyes and the changes in her expression, as the varying moods flitted over her face, were to him as the cloud shadows chasing each other over Barningham Moor23, or the sunlight glinting in the brown pools of the Greta where it was deepest. It was something, but not enough. A woman does not care to be looked at as if she were a landscape by the man whom she passionately24 loves. She longed to draw from him some personal expression of admiration26; but, beyond an occasional “Well done!” upon the performance of some unusually agile27 feat28 of climbing, she was always disappointed.
Others noticed the improvement in her looks and health and told her of it.
“On my word, Miss,” remarked the landlady29 of the “Heather Bell” to her, one afternoon, when she was “learning her,” by a course of practical demon{122}stration, to make the cake of the country, “ye’re fair credit to the ‘Heather Bell!’ Ye look twice the woman ye did when ye first comed here, not near so peaked and piny like! I’ll be bound the gentleman thinks so, too! Eh, we shall see what we shall see!”
“What shall we see, Mrs. Watson?” asked Mrs. Elles, complaisantly, leaning her elbows on the floury table. She was always most susceptible30 to any kind of compliment, and to do her justice, she had no idea of the woman’s meaning.
“You and he will be setting up together, one of these fine days! Eh, I see what I see! I’m none blind, honey.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Watson!”
“Nae nonsense at all! He tak’s a good deal o’ notish on ye, I consider. I was just a-saying sae to oor Jane Anne later than yesterday. Sorrow befaa’ my tongue—she’s fair upset aboot it, I can tell ye!”
“Jane Anne! Upset?”
“Ay, sure, who but Jane Anne Cawthorne? She’s got a bit fancy for Mr. Rivers hersel’, ye mun knaw. She sends a’ the ither lads away on his account, he that’s never thinkin’ of her! I whiles say to her, ‘Hout, lass, he’ll never tak’ that much notice on ye, beyond lending ye some beuk ye’s a deal better without.’ I don’t hold wi’ readin’, mysel’, he knaw. But the fond lass shakes her head and says nowt, and throws away the bonny flowers ye put in his glass, and sets some on her own pickin’ there.”
“Yes, I have noticed that,” said Mrs. Elles sharply.{123}
“And I’ll wager31 he’s niver so much as gien her a chuck on the chin, for all she’s walk barefoot to Barney Cassel and back for him. Eh, it’s you that’s got him. Mistress Popham was axing me, only the other day, when ye was going to get the vicar to call ye?”
“Call us! What’s that?”
“Ask ye; call the banns in church. Eh, that’ll be a grand day for us all. Noo, there’s a bonny cake,” she ended, clapping it on to the “girdle,” “and you and he can have it cold to your teas.”
“Did you ever lend or give Jane Anne books?” she asked Rivers, at dinner, that night.
“I ordered her a set of George Eliot’s novels once,” he said, “and all Scott’s. She’s clever enough to get something out of them. I see that from what she says to me about them. She is quite a superior girl.”
“I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me. And novels—that she only half understands—put things into her head that are better out of it. Now, suppose this girl, Jane Anne, were to write to my people and betray me,” she said, with a slightly simulated expression of apprehension32.
“Why should she betray you?” he said, showing by his slight accent on the betray that he thought it somewhat too forcible. “She would have no object.”
“Oh no!” said Mrs. Elles. “I am not a criminal. And besides, there is no one for her to betray me to. I owe nobody any allegiance. I am perfectly33 independent. There is not a soul in the world who cares what becomes of me!{124}”
She sighed appropriately as she uttered this fiction, but if she had expected Mr. Rivers to openly commiserate34 her, she was disappointed. It was by no means the first time. Alastor always refused to take any interest in the fortunes of the Lady before she came to him.
She wondered if he even took in the idea of the lonely and friendless condition. Did he really swallow the legend of herself that she had been at such pains to concoct35 and serve up to him when she first came?
The lies she had told him, in the light of the new morality that her intercourse36 with his blameless rectitude had flashed upon her, began to weigh heavily upon her regenerate37 soul. He was so straight, so sincere, so guileless, so simple, she might tell him what she chose and he would credit her story as that of one holding the same rigid38 code of honour as himself. She was beginning to realize, as she had never realized before, what that code of honour—what every gentleman’s code of honour—was.
It was not so much that it was wrong to lie, but it was a mark of ill-breeding, and her cheeks burned at the recollection of the imposition she had practised—was still practising—on this gentleman.
He had asked her no questions, and she had told him lies!
The only little point of comfort which she could wrest39 for herself from circumstances was the possibility that he had not chosen to burden his mind—full{125} of tree and cloud forms, and such artistic40 lumber—with her story as she had related it to him. Was it likely that a man, with his strange and disconcerting capacity for the ignoring of details and all the minor41 facts of life, should have permitted anything so human and unimportant to make an impression on his mind? No, it had probably glided42 off him, while every mutation43 of the sunset they had watched together yesterday was indelibly fixed44 in his memory. Of what consequence were she and her trifling45 affairs in comparison? So she thought and hoped, in the new humility46 which her love for him had engendered47 in her.
Still, in spite of these halcyon48 days, it was impossible that she could entirely shut out the thought of the future. Things could not stay as they were. The stack of canvas umbrella covers, and packing cases, piled out of the way in all the four corners of the sitting-room49, reminded the poor young woman only too painfully of the dies ir?, dies illa—when the autumn tints50, beloved of amateurs, would begin to show and bear their indubitable message. The leaves would turn brown and fall, and the lover of Nature would pack up his colour box, and strap51 his easels together, and look out a train in Bradshaw, and order the trap over-night to take him to the station at Barnard Castle.
What should she say then? What should she do? He was everything to her, and she was nothing to him. She was the wife of Mortimer Elles, and her home was in Newcastle!{126}
But it was borne in upon her that, come what might, she could never go back to Mortimer. The mere9 contemplation of a renewed term of life with him was terrible and impossible to her, now that she had known the greatest good, the highest development of which human nature was capable, in the person of this man in whose intimacy she was living.
There were times when she could not bear her own thoughts, when she would jump up and leave the room where Rivers sat composedly working, and, hatless and cloakless, run out into the moonlit road and even into the Park itself. The painter, in his absorption, would never even look up or seem to hear the panting breaths that betrayed her emotion.
Bitterly did she con2 this and other signs of his indifference52, as she wandered deviously53 about the glades54 and alleys55 of the great demesne56, now under the staring moonlight, now where the over-arching trees shut it hopelessly out and made walking a mere matter of outstretched hands and groping steps. Even the darksome yew57 grove58—the haunt of the Lady of Mortham—had no terrors for her now. Love casts out fear; a woman in her state of mind has no horror of the supernatural.
One night, the most beautiful moonlight night of the whole year, she wandered far into the Park and along to the banks of the Greta, where it runs under the shadow of the cliffs crowned with fir trees, and the desolate59 tower of Mortham stands out against the sky behind them. She scrambled60 down the bank,{127} on the hither side, to one of the little stretches of pebbly61 shore that line the stream here and there and stood wistfully gazing into its flow, her hands crossed at the back of her neck, a white lady, “mystic, wonderful.”
The further shore lay all in mysterious shadow, but at her feet was a sheet of rippling62 silver, with dark oily rocks, like islands or sleeping seals, breaking through its course here and there. She saw, in imagination, a drowned woman lying there in mid-stream, face upwards63, caught among the snags and snares64 that clogged65 the shallows, and irradiated by the same moon rays that turned the brown water white.
“Look there!” she said, wildly, turning sharply round to Rivers, who was standing behind her. “Look! I see myself there!”
She was so wrought66 up that she felt and showed no surprise at his presence. It was so picturesquely67 natural that she should be standing there in the moonlight, on the bank of the most romantic river in the whole world, with the only man she had ever loved. Time and chance had combined to bring about this hour. Rivers had never thought of following her before.
But he completely ignored her morbid68 speech. She was hurt, though, indeed, it was what she might have expected. She said no more, but stood looking tragically70 down into the flood.
“By Jove, but it is fine!” the artist presently murmured to himself, in tones of deep conviction.{128}
Nature—mere non-sentient, abstract Nature again—and a woman, eager, passionate25 and romantic, standing by him!
“Oh, I can remember it!” he replied, simply. “But I am very glad I came out. How did you happen to know there was a moon, and that she would be shining over this reach of the river?”
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I just came out—I don’t know why—I suppose, because I was restless.”
She sighed, and fingered her sash, and sighed again.
“How did you know where I had gone? I have been”—reproachfully—“an hour away, and you never even looked up when I left the room!”
“I missed you, though,” he said. “I feel things, sometimes, when I am very busy, without seeing them.”
“Perhaps, then, it occurred to you that I might have got into mischief,” she went on lightly. “You didn’t know that I come here nearly every night?”
“Why not?”
“And yet this is the first time you have followed me!” she said, regretfully. “Yes, I come here, night after night, and I look down into this pool, and I imagine myself lying in it with my face turned up to the moon, drowned and dead, and at an end of all my troubles, and you hearing of it, and being a little—a very little—sorry for me!”
“But you are surely not thinking of committing{129} suicide, are you?” he asked her, quite calmly, “for, really, no one would have the slightest excuse for falling in off this miniature beach?”
“One can drown oneself in a teacup, if one has a mind. But I think I will go up the bank, now, and put myself out of the reach of temptation.”
“Do you want to go indoors? If not, let us walk a little way to the Junction72, if you don’t mind? I want to see the Greta meet the Tees under this strong moonlight. It must be magnificent. It is a shame to stay in the house when the moon is out like this. Browning speaks of her ‘unhandsome thrift73 of silver.’ There’s plenty of her now, isn’t there? Glorious! It is a night of nights!”
Mrs. Elles agreed with him—but from a different point of view.
“Are you frightened?” he asked her, as they left the river bank and began gropingly to follow a track between two darknesses of tangled74 brushwood.
“Not with you!” she said, manfully; and he did not offer his arm.
She walked along, a little in front of him, in the narrow path they had chosen, a short cut to the place where the two rivers meet. She was wearing her thin, clinging white gown, and, without the unromantic adjuncts of hat, parasol, or gloves, she looked as ghostly, as unreal, as far removed from the commonplace, as even she herself could have wished.{130}
They reached the Junction, just outside the Park confines, where the brown moorland flood of the Greta, hasty, capricious, passionate, like herself, merged75 into the broad, calm flood of the Tees—flowing quietly, in its great volume and depth, over its granite-bouldered bed under Wycliffe. Rivers, for some reason or other, took off his hat, stood—his hair looking quite white in the moonshine—silent, his artist soul, presumably, stirred to the very depths by the mysterious harmonies of tone and magnificent lines of composition which the sight afforded him.
“How well that comes!” he murmured, passionately, while the woman beside him stood breathless, affected76, too, by the vision, but in her own way; weaving her fanciful, personal allegories of him, and her, and the two rivers, and longing77 for some signs in him of the more human enthusiasm that she could have shared.
She shivered, but not from cold. “We must go back!” he said, in response to her unspoken complaint.
They turned and walked up the glen—the moon had gone behind a cloud, and the Greta lay dull and sullen79 under the hanging terraces of trees. But in the yew grove was darkness unspeakable.
“Oh, I can’t see you,” she murmured, involuntarily; “I shall lose you!”
He silently held out his hand to her, and she took it.
When they came out into the Broad Walk where it{131} was lighter80, she dutifully made a little movement to withdraw her hand—a very slight movement—but he did not accept it.
He had forgotten! Was there another man in the world who could thus hold and retain a woman’s hand without knowing it?
In all her life, such pure, unalloyed happiness had not been hers, as they walked up to the gates of the Park together. It was just ten o’clock.
In the hall of the inn, he lit her candle, as usual, and gave it to her. She held it just under her chin, and it lighted up her face, blanched81 and spiritualized by the emotions she had gone through. He looked at her, for once, very closely.
“You look, to-night,” he said, in the dreamy voice he only used sometimes, “like the Spirit of the Greta that peered through the window at me the other night. I told you about it at the time, did I not? It was a strange hallucination! Quite white and pale, and its eyes fixed meaningly on me. The lines of the face, as I remember it now, were curiously82 like yours, or is it that you have identified yourself with that spirit in my thoughts? I have never got it quite out of my head, do you know!”
“Why should you try?” was all that Ph?be Elles could find to say. A mist seemed to have come over her eyes, and she bade him “good-night,” and stumbled helplessly over her gown as she went upstairs.
She lay awake all night. She cried quietly to her{132}self. This was what she had wanted. This was life. She was very happy and yet most miserable83.
Did this man care for her? Yes? No? A little? There was no knowing. His ways were not as the ways of other men—at least, not the men she had known—and the ordinary canons of flirtation, as she knew them, had no correspondence with his conduct towards her.
She thought he liked her; she knew she loved him; that was what it all came to.
She was an honourable84 woman, with a newly super-added canon of honour, and she did not dream of being false to her husband. If Rivers loved her as she loved him, she ought to go away. That was her clear duty to herself, to him and to Mortimer.
Mortimer would take her back—of that she had not the slightest doubt. There was no reason why he should ever hear of this, her vagary85, among the green shades of Brignal. She might take the train back to Newcastle, refuse to give any further account of herself than that she had been away for a holiday or any reason for that holiday except the usual “nerves” of society, and resume her end of the matrimonial chain without let or hindrance86.
But since she was uncertain as to Rivers’ feelings with regard to her, hardly that, indeed, since he gave her, literally87, no reason to suppose that he looked upon her in any other light than the light of a friend, might she not—oh, might she not!—take the benefit of the doubt and stay there till he went away, and be{133} as happy as she could for as long as she could? She felt that she must not quarrel with Rivers’ reserve, since it gave her the title to his company. She decided88 not to do so.
She was beginning to find him less obscure, for she had learned to seek for the expression of him in his art: the art by which he chose to reveal himself to those who had the will and the skill to read. Where other men spoke78 or wrote, he painted. She had only to look at the beautifully stained bits of paper that issued from his hand, to watch the wonderful combinations of colour—subtle, passionate, striking, tender—that were evolved by this man of few words, to see that he was no stranger to the whole gamut89 of human emotions, full of delightful90, undisciplined moods, and mutabilities, and pleasant perversions91 of character. There were strength and force in certain abrupt92 combinations that stirred like the sound of a trumpet93; there were tenderness and the fancifulness that women love in certain harmonies that moved almost to tears. She read sentiment and sweetness in the delicacy94 of his sunsets, and character and passion in the gloom of deep cloud-shadows, and sullen mist-wreaths lurking95 in clefts96 and hollows of the hills, and mystery in the tangled undergrowth whose complication and variety he rendered so well.
There was one drawing of his that she specially97 cared for, and whose progress she surveyed as she might that of a beloved child of his brain and hers. “Oh, Brignal Banks are wild and fair!” says the lady{134} in Scott’s ballad98, and here they were, caught and immortalized forever on one piece of Whatman’s paper, three feet by two. There was hardly any sky in it. The leafy, heavily-berried coverts99 hung tossing from the cliff, streaming down to the water’s edge, that lay, in brown pools, deep and immutable100, like a true man’s heart, at its base. In the immediate101 foreground was the broken mass of stones that formed the bed of the wayward river that had so many moods, both of grave and gay. There the painter sat, on one of these stones, with the water parted and rippling all round him, in the most precarious of positions, his drawing propped102 on his knee, uncomfortably, his feet nearly in the stream. The burning sun shone straight down on his head, for there was no foothold for his umbrella in the spot which he had chosen. He never spared himself, or complained of the terrible constriction103 of the chest, which the constrained104 attitude of stooping necessarily engendered. Perhaps he did not notice it in the excitement of his work. She sat under his umbrella, on the bank, and watched him.
Morning after morning she sat there, as it were in a bay of opalescent105 colours; the horizon of her landscape bounded by the pink cliffs and overhanging belts of trees, the foreground quivering with refraction, and golden with the flowering ragwort. She was drunk, but not blind with light, and lulled106 continually by the hum of the bees at their task and the self-satisfied purl of the stream at her feet, she sat{135} peacefully noting and enjoying the dreamy transitions of a painter’s day.
To herself, she seemed to be fast becoming a “green thought in a green shade”—the fanciful title of Rivers’ picture, adopted from his favourite poet, Marvel—her favourite, too, now. Rivers was for ever associated in her mind with green, the colour of hope; she had banished107 grey—the colour of despair and Newcastle—from her mind, as it certainly existed not in the landscape before her eyes. Newcastle, under its smoky pall108, and Rokeby, in its gorgeous vestiture of many colours, could not surely form a part of the same hemisphere. And the extraordinary thing was, that she had run away to find adventure, and had found peace! She had thought she had need of a world full of men, and now the society of one summed up all interest, all excitement, all hope, all that she had ever dreamed. She had longed for the fuller life of cities; now a lonely grove by the side of the river sufficed her.
Her eyes—she never read, or cared to read—were continually fixed on the stooping figure, in its neutral garb109 of brown, perched so precariously110 on a rock in mid-stream. In front of his post was the dell of Brignal, where the river wound round abruptly111, and seemed to issue from a darksome hollow, formed by the meeting trees on either bank. Suddenly, her eyes grew eager and then startled—she fancied all was not right. Something was different. The hollow was filled up. A brown wall of water was gathering112 from{136} that hollow, was advancing, rushing, with a dull, murmurous113 roar as of distant thunder, straight down between the two banks towards the painter.
She sprang to her feet.
Rivers had told her of the Bore of the Greta—she knew how, after a very slight rainfall such as they had had, the river was used to come down without warning. This was it! And his life was in danger! She screamed frantically114 to the artist, whose head had for an unconscionable time been bent115 over his drawing. She screamed as loudly as she could, but her voice came thinly and hoarsely116, so he did not hear her.
Then she began to leap from rock to rock to go to him, when she saw him suddenly spring to his feet, take in the whole situation at a glance, and, his drawing held high in the air in one hand, begin to make for the shore.
Then he caught sight of Ph?be Elles, and his course deviated117. She had not got very far from the bank, but she was in danger, and he was coming to her. The flood was very nearly on them both. Even in her agony, she noticed his slight pause of hesitation118 before he tossed the drawing he held recklessly on to the bank without looking after it, and the next moment his protecting arm was round her, and the flood swept partially119 over them. His other arm was round the bough120 of a tree that hung over the stream near where she was standing when he reached her. They were both overthrown121 by the rush of water, which passed over them, and then seemed to subside122 somewhat. She fainted, for the first time in her life.
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1
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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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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5
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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tutelary
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| adj.保护的；守护的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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dissimulate
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| v.掩饰，隐藏 | |
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camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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31
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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32
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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33
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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34
commiserate
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| v.怜悯，同情 | |
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35
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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36
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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37
regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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38
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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39
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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40
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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41
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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42
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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43
mutation
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| n.变化，变异，转变 | |
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44
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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45
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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46
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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47
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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48
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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49
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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50
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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51
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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52
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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53
deviously
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| 弯曲地，绕道地 | |
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54
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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55
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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56
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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57
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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58
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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59
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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60
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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61
pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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62
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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63
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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64
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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66
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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67
picturesquely
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68
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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69
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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70
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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71
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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72
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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73
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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74
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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75
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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76
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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77
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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78
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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79
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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80
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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81
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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82
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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83
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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84
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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85
vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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86
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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87
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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88
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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89
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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90
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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91
perversions
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| n.歪曲( perversion的名词复数 )；变坏；变态心理 | |
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92
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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93
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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94
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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95
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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96
clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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97
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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98
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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99
coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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100
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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101
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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102
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
constriction
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| 压缩； 紧压的感觉； 束紧； 压缩物 | |
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104
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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105
opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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106
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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107
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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109
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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110
precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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111
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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112
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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113
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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114
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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115
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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116
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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117
deviated
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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119
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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120
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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121
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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122
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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