And to Chudleigh Wilmot, though a sensible and thoughtful man, the change was no less serviceable. The set character of his daily duties, the absorbing nature of his studies, the devotion to his profession, which had narrowed his ideas and cramped22 his aspirations23, once cast off and put aside, his mind became almost childishly impressionable by the new ideas which dawned upon it, the new scenes which opened upon his view. In his wonder at and admiration24 of the various beauties of nature and art which came before him there was something akin25 to the feeling which his acquaintance with Madeleine Kilsyth had first awakened26 within him. As then, he began to feel now that for the first time he lived; that his life hitherto had been a great prosaic27 mistake; that he had worshipped false gods, and only just arrived at the truth. To be sure, he had now the additional feeling of a lost love and an unappeasable remorse; but the sting even of these was tempered and modified by his enjoyment28 of the loveliness of nature by which he was surrounded.
His time was his own; and to kill it pleasantly was his greatest object. He crossed from Dover to Ostend, and lingered some days on the Belgian seaboard. Thence he pursued his way by the easiest stages through the flat low-lying country, so rich in cathedrals and pictures, in Gothic architecture and sweet-toned carillons, in portly burghers and shovel-hatted priests and plump female peasants. To Bruges, to Ghent, and Antwerp; to Brussels, and thence, through the lovely country that lies round Verviers and Liège, to Cologne and the Rhine, Chudleigh Wilmot journeyed, stopping sometimes for days wherever he felt inclined, and almost insensibly acquiring bodily and mental strength.
There is a favourite story of the practical hardheaded school of philosophers, showing how that one of their number, when overwhelmed with grief at the loss of his only son, managed to master his extreme agony, and to derive30 very great consolation31 from the study of mathematics--a branch of science with which he had not previously32 been familiar. It probably required a peculiar33 temperament34 to accept of and benefit by so peculiar a remedy; but undoubtedly35 great grief, arising from whatsoever36 source, is susceptible37 of being alleviated38 by mental employment. And thus, though Chudleigh Wilmot bore about with him the great sorrow of his life; though the sweet sad face of Madeleine Kilsyth was constantly before him; and though the dread suspicion regarding the manner of his wife's death haunted him perpetually, as time passed over his head, and as his mind, naturally clever, opened and expanded under the new training it was unconsciously receiving, he found the bitterness of the memory of his short love-dream fading into a settled fond regret, and the horror which he had undergone at the discovery of the seal-ring becoming less and less poignant39.
Not that the nature of his love far Madeleine had changed in the least. He saw her sweet face in the blue eyes and fair hair of big blonde Madonnas in altar-pieces in Flemish cathedrals; he imagined her as the never-failing heroine of such works of poetry and fiction as now, for the first time for many years, he found leisure and inclination40 to read. He would sit for hours, his eyes fixed41 on some lovely landscape before him, but his thoughts busy with the events of the past few months--those few months into which all the important circumstances of his life were gathered. One by one he would pass in review the details of his meetings, interviews, and conversations with Madeleine, from the period of his visit to Kilsyth to his last sad parting from her in Brook-street. And then he would go critically into an examination of his own conduct; he was calm enough to do that now; and he had the satisfaction of thinking that he had pursued the only course open to him as a gentleman and a man of honour. He had fled from the sweetest, the purest, the most unconscious temptation; and by his flight he hoped he was expiating42 the wrong which he had ignorantly committed by his neglect of his late wife. That must be the keynote of his future conduct--expiation. So far as the love of women or the praise of men was concerned, his future must be a blank. He had made his mind up to that, and would go through with it. Of the former he had very little, but very sweet experience--just one short glimpse of what might have been, and then back again into the dull dreary43 life; and of the latter--well, he had prized it and cherished it at one time, had laboured to obtain and deserve it; but it was little enough to him now.
Among the old Rhenish towns, at that time of year almost free of English, save such as from economical motives44 were there resident, Wilmot lingered lovingly, and spent many happy weeks. To the ordinary tourist, eager for his next meal of castles and crags, the town means simply the hotel where he feeds and rests for the night, while its inhabitants are represented by the landlord and the waiters, whose exactions hold no pleasant place in his memory. But those who stay among them will find the Rhenish burghers kindly45, cheery, and hospitable46, with a vein47 of romance and an enthusiastic love for their great river strangely mixed up with their national stolidity48 and business-like habits. Desiring to avoid even such few of his countrymen as were dotted about the enormous salons49 of the hotels, and yet; to a certain extent, fearing solitude50, Wilmot eagerly availed himself of all the chances offered him for mixing with native society, and was equally at home in the merchant's parlour, the artist's atelier, or the student's kneipe. Pleasant old Vaterland! how many of us have kindly memories of thee and of thy pleasures, perhaps more innocent, and certainly cheaper, than those of other countries,--memories of thy beer combats, and thy romantic sons, our confrères, and thy young women, with such abundance of hair and such large feet!
At length, when more than three months had glided51 away, Wilmot determined52 upon starting at once for Berlin. He had lazed away his time pleasantly enough, far more pleasantly than he had imagined would ever have been practicable, and he had laid the ghosts of his regret and his remorse more effectually than at one time he had hoped. They came to him, these spectres, yet, as spectres should come, in the dead night-season, or at that worst of all times, when the night is dead and the day is not yet born, when, if it be our curse to lie awake, all disagreeable thoughts and fancies claim us for their own. The bill which we "backed" for the friend whose solvency53 and whose friendship have both become equally doubtful within the last few weeks; the face of her we love, with its last-seen expression of jealousy54, anger, and doubt; the pile of neatly-cut but undeniably blank half-sheets of paper which is some day to be covered with our great work--that great work which we have thought of so long, but which we are as far as ever from commencing: all these charming items present themselves to our dreary gaze at that unholy four-o'clock waking, and chase slumber55 from our fevered eyelids56. Chudleigh Wilmot's ghosts came too, but less, far less frequently than at first; and he was in hopes that in process of time they would gradually forsake57 him altogether, and leave him to that calm unemotional existence which was henceforth to be his.
Meantime he began to hunger for news of home and home's doings. For the first few weeks of his absence he had regularly abstained58 even from reading the newspapers, and up to the then time he had sent no address to his servants, choosing to remain in absolute ignorance of all that was passing in London. This was in contradiction to his original intention, but, on carefully thinking it over, he decided59 that it would be better that he should know nothing. He apprehended60 no immediate61 danger to Madeleine, and he knew that she could not be better than under old Sir Saville Rowe's friendly care. He knew that there was no human probability of anything more decisive leaking out of the circumstances of his wife's death. For any other matter he had no concern. His position in London society, his practice, what people said about him, were now all things of the past, which troubled him not; and hitherto he had looked on his complete isolation62 from his former world as a great ingredient in his composure and his better being. But as his mind became less anxious and his health more vigorous, he began to hunger for news of what was going on in that world from which he had exiled himself; and he hurried off to Berlin, anxious to secure some pied-à-terre which he could make at least a temporary home; and he had no sooner arrived at the H?tel de Russie than he wrote at once to Sir Saville, begging for fall and particular accounts of Madeleine Kilsyth's illness, and to his awn servant, desiring that all letters which had been accumulating in Charles-street should be forwarded to him directly.
Knowing that several days must elapse before his much-longed-for news could arrive, Wilmot amused himself as best he might To the man who has been accustomed to dwell in capitals, and who has been spending some months in provincial63 towns, there is a something exhilarating in returning to any place where the business and pleasure of life are at their focus, even though it be in so tranquil64 a city as Berlin. The resident in capitals has a keen appreciation65 of many of those inexplicable66 nothingnesses which never are to be found elsewhere; the best provincial town is to him but a bad imitation, a poor parody67 on his own loved home; and in the same way, though the chief city of another country may be far beneath that to which he is accustomed, nay68, even in grandeur69 and architectural magnificence may not be comparable to some of the provincial towns of his native land, he at once falls into its ways, and is infinitely70 more at home in it, because those ways and customs remind him of what he has left behind. Amidst the bustle71 and the excitement--mild though it was--of Berlin, Wilmot's desire for perpetual wandering began to ebb72. A man who has nearly reached forty years of age in a fixed and settled routine of life makes a bad Bedouin; and when the sting which first started him--be it of disappointment, remorse, or ennui73, and the last worst of all--loses its venom74, he will probably be glad enough to join the first caravan75 of jovial76 travellers which he may come across, so long as they are bound for the nearest habitable and inhabitable city. Chudleigh Wilmot knew that a return to England and his former life was, under existing circumstances, impossible; he felt that he could not take up his residence in Paris, where he would be constantly meeting old English Mends, to whom he could give no valid77 reason for his self-imposed exile; but at Berlin it would be different. Very few English people, at least English people of his acquaintance, came to the Prussian capital; and to those whose path he might happen to cross he might, for the present at all events, plead his studies in a peculiar branch of his profession in which the German doctors had long been unrivalled; while as for the future--the future might take care of itself!
Wandering Unter den7 Linden, pausing in mute admiration before the Brandenburger Thor, or the numerous statues with which the patriotism78 of the inhabitants and the sublime79 skill of the sculptor80 Rauch has decorated the city, loitering in the Kunst Kammer of the palace, spending hour after hour in the museum, reviving old recollections, tinged81 now with such mournfulness as accrues82 to anything which has been put by for ever, in visiting the great anatomical collection, dropping into the opera or the theatre, and walking out to Charlottenburg or other of the pleasant villages on the Spree, Chudleigh Wilmot found life easier to him in Berlin than it had been for many previous months. There, for the first time since he left England, he availed himself of the fame which his talent had created for him, and found himself heartily83 welcome among the leading scientific men of the city, to all of whom he was well known by repute. To them, inquiring the cause of his visit, he gave the prepared answer, that he had come in person to study their mode of procedure, which had so impressed him in their books; end this did not tend to make his welcome less warm. So that, all things taken into consideration, Wilmot had almost made up his mind to remain in Berlin, at least for several months. He could attend the medical schools--it would afford him amusement; and if in the future he ever resumed the practice of his profession, it could do him no harm; his life, such as it was, were as well passed in Berlin as anywhere else; and meanwhile time would be fleeting84 on, and the gulf85 between him and Madeleine Kilsyth, would be gradually widening. It must widen! No matter to what width it now attained86, he could never hope to span it again.
One day, on his return to his hotel after a long ramble87, the waiter who was specially88 devoted89 to his service received him with a pleasant grin, and told him that a "post packet" of an enormous size awaited him. The parcel which Wilmot found on his table was certainly large enough to have created astonishment90 in the mind of anyone, more especially a German waiter, accustomed only to the small square thin letters of his nation. There was but one huge packet; no letter from Sir Saville Rowe, nor from Mr. Foljambe, to whom Wilmot had also written specially. Wilmot opened the envelope with an amount of nervousness which was altogether foreign to his nature; his hand trembled unaccountably; and he had to clear his eyes before he could set to work to glance over the addresses of the score of letters which it contained. He ran them over hurriedly; nothing from Sir Saville Rowe, nothing from Mr. Foljambe, no line--but he had expected none from any of the Kilsyths. He threw aside unopened a letter in Whittaker's bold hand, a dozen others whose superscriptions were familiar to him, and paused before one, the mere91 sight of which gave him an inexplicable thrill. It was a long, broad, blue-papered envelope, addressed in a formal legal hand to him at his house in Charles-street, and marked "Immediate." There are few men but in their time have had an uneasy sensation caused by the perusal92 of their own name in that never-varying copying-clerk's caligraphy, with its thin upstrokes and thick downstrokes, its carefully crossed t's and infallibly dotted i's. Few but know the "further proceedings93" which, unless a settlement be made on or before Wednesday next, the writers are "desired to inform" us, they will be "compelled to take." But Chudleigh Wilmot was among those few. During the whole of his career he had never owed a shilling which he could not have paid on demand, and his experience of law in any way had been nil94. And yet the sight of this grim document had an extraordinarily95 terrifying effect upon him. He turned it backwards96 and forwards, took it up and laid it down several times, before he could persuade himself to break its seal, a great splodge of red wax impressed with the letters "L. & L." deeply cut. At length he broke it open. An enclosure fell from it to the ground; but not heeding97 that, Wilmot held up the letter to the fast-fading light, and read as follows:
"Lincoln's-Inn.
"Sir,--In accordance with instructions received from the late Mr. Foljambe of Portland-place--"
The late Mr. Foljambe! He must be dreaming! He rubbed his eyes, walked a little nearer to the window, and reperused the letter. No; there the sentence stood.
"In accordance with instructions received from the late Mr. Foljambe of Portland-place, we forward to you the enclosed letter. As it appeared that in consequence of your absence from England you could not be immediately communicated with, and in pursuance of the instructions more recently verbally communicated to us by our late client in the event of such a contingency98 arising, we have taken upon ourselves to make the necessary arrangements for the funeral, as laid down in a memorandum99 written by the deceased; and the interment will take place to-morrow morning at Kensal-green Cemetery100. We trust you will approve of our proceedings in this matter, and that you will make it convenient to return to London as soon as possible after the receipt of this letter, as there are pressing matters awaiting your directions.
"Your obedient servants,
"LAMBERT & LEE.
"Dr. Wilmot."
The late Mr. Foljambe! His kind old friend, then, was dead! Again and again he read the letter before he realised to himself the information conveyed in that one sentence: the late Mr. Foljambe--pressing matters awaiting his directions. Wilmot could not make out what it meant. That Mr. Foljambe was dead he understood perfectly101; but why the death should be thus officially communicated to him, why the old gentleman's lawyers should express a hope that he would approve of their proceedings, and a desire that he should at once return to London, was to him perfectly inexplicable, unless--but the idea which arose in his mind was too preposterous102, and he dismissed it at once.
In the course of his reflections his eyes fell upon the enclosure which had fallen from the letter to the ground. He picked it up, and at a glance saw that it was a note addressed to him in his friend's well-known clear handwriting--clearer indeed and firmer than it had been of late. He opened it at once; and on opening it the first thing which struck him was, that it was dated more than twelve months previously. It ran thus:
"Portland-place.
"My DEAR CHUDLEIGH,--A smart young gentleman, with mock-diamond studs in his rather dirty shirt, and a large signet-ring on his very dirty hand, has just been witnessing my signature to the last important document which I shall ever sign--my will--and has borne that document away with him in triumph, and a hansom cab, which his masters will duly charge to my account. I shall send this letter humbly103 by the penny post, to be put aside with that great parchment, and to be delivered to you after my death. In all human probability you will be by my bedside when that event occurs, but I may not have either the opportunity or the strength to say to you what I should wish you to know from myself; so I write it here. My dear boy, Chudleigh--boy to me, son of my old friend--when I told your father I would look after your future, I made up my mind to do exactly what I have done by my signature ten minutes ago. I knew I should never marry, and I determined that all my fortune should go to you. By the document (the young man in the jewelry104 would call it a document)--by the document just executed, you inherit everything I have in the world, and are only asked to pay some legacies105 to a few old servants. Take it, my dear Chudleigh, and enjoy it. That you will make a good use of it, I am sure. I leave you entirely106 free and unfettered as to its disposal, and I have only two suggestions to make--mind, they are suggestions, and not requirements. In the first place, I should be glad if you would keep on and live in my house in Portland-place--it has been a pleasant home to me for many years; and I do not think my ghost would rest easily if, on a revisit to the glimpses of the moon, he should find the old place peopled with strangers. It has never known a lady's care--at least during my tenure--but under Mrs. Wilmot's doubtless good taste, and the aptitude107 which all women have for making the best of things, I feel assured that the rooms will present a sufficiently108 brave appearance. The other request is, that you should retire from the active practice of your profession. There! I intended to arrive at this horrible announcement after a long round of set phrases and subtle argument; but I have come upon it at once. I do not want you, my dear Chudleigh, entirely to renounce109 those studies or the exercise of that talent in which I know you take the greatest delight; on the contrary, my idea in this suggestion is, that your brains and experience should be even more valuable to your fellow-creatures than they are BOW. I want you to be what the young men of the present day call a 'swell110' in your line. I don't want you to refuse to give the benefit of your experience in consultation111; what I wish is to think that you will be free--be your own master--and no longer be at the beck and call of everyone; and if any lady has the finger-ache, or M. le Nouveau Riche has overeaten himself, and sends for you, that you will be in a position to say you are engaged, and cannot come.
"If some of our friends could see this letter, they would laugh, and say that old Foljambe was selfish and eccentric to the last; he has had the advantage of this man's abilities throughout his own illnesses, and now he leaves him his money on condition that he sha'n't cure anyone else! But you know me too well, my dear Chudleigh, to impute112 anything of this kind to me. The fact is, I think you're doing too much, working too hard, giving up too much time and labour and life to your profession. You cannot carry on at the pace you've been going; and believe an old fellow who has enjoyed every hour of his existence, life has something better than the renom gained from attending crabbed113 valetudinarians. What that something is, my dear boy, is for you now to find out. I have done my possible towards realising it for you.
"And now, God bless you, my dear Chudleigh! I have no other request to make. To any other man I should have said, 'Don't let the tombstone-men outside the cemetery persuade you into any elaborate inscription114 in commemoration of my virtues115.' 'Here lies John Foljambe, aged29 72,' is all I require. But I know your good sense too well to suspect you of any such iniquity116. Again, God bless you!
"Your affectionate old friend,
"JOHN FOLJAMBE."
Tears stood in Wilmot's eyes as he laid aside the old gentleman's characteristic epistle. He took it up again after a pause and looked at the date. Twelve months ago! What a change in his life during that twelve months! Two allusions117 in the letter had made him wince118 deeply--the mention of his wife, the suggestion that undoubtedly he would be at the deathbed of his benefactor119. Twelve months ago! He did not know the Kilsyths then, was unaware120 of their very existence. If he had never made that acquaintance; if he had never seen Madeleine Kilsyth, might, not Mabel have been alive now? might he not--Whittaker was a fool in such matters--might he not have been able once more to carry his old friend successfully through the attack to which he now had succumbed121? Were they all right--his dead wife, Henrietta Prendergast, the still small voice that spoke122 to him in the dead watches of the night? Had that memorable123 visit had such a baleful effect on his career? was it from his introduction to Madeleine Kilsyth that he was to date all his troubles?
His introduction to Madeleine Kilsyth! Ah, under what a new aspect she now appeared! Chudleigh Wilmot knew the London world sufficiently to be aware of the very different reception which he would get from it now, how inconvenient124 matters would be forgotten or hushed over, and how the heir of the rich and eccentric Mr. Foljambe would begin life anew; the doctrine125 of metempsychosis having been thoroughly126 carried out, and the body of the physician from which the new soul had sprung having been conveyed into the outer darkness of forgetfulness. True, some might remember how Mr. Wilmot, when he was in practice--so honourable127 of him to maintain himself by his talents, you know, and really considerable talents, and all that kind of thing--and before he succeeded to his present large fortune, had attended Miss Kilsyth up at their place in the Highlands, and brought her through a dangerous illness, don't you know, and that made the affair positively128 romantic, you see!--Bah! To Ronald Kilsyth himself the proposition would be sufficiently acceptable now. The Captain had stood out, intelligibly129 enough, fearing the misunderstanding of the world; but all that misunderstanding would be set aside when the world saw that an eligible130 suitor had proposed for one of its marriageable girls, more especially when the eligible couple kept a good house and a liberal table, and entertained as befitted their position in society.
Wilmot had pondered over this new position with a curled lip; but his feelings softened131 marvellously, and his heart bounded within him, as his thoughts turned towards Madeleine herself. Ah, if he had only rightly interpreted that dropped glance, that heightened colour, that confused yet trusting manner in the interview in the drawing-room! Ah, if he had but read aright the secret of that childish trusting heart! Madeleine, his love, his life, his wife! Madeleine, with all the advantages of her own birth, the wealth which had now accrued132 to him, and the respect which his position had gained for him!--could anything be better? He had seen how men in society were courted, and flattered and made much of for their wealth alone,--dolts, coarse, ignorant, brainless, mannerless savages133; and he--now he could rival them in wealth, and excel them--ah, how far excel them!--in all other desirable qualities!
Madeleine his own, his wife! The dark cloud which had settled down upon him for so long a time rolled away like a mist and vanished from his sight. Once more his pulse bounded freely within him; once more he looked with keen clear eyes upon life, and owned the sweet aptitude of being. He laughed aloud and scornfully as he remembered how recently he had pictured to himself as pleasant, as endurable, a future which was now naught134 but the merest vegetation. To live abroad! Yes, but not solitary135 and self-contained; not pottering on in a miserable136 German town, droning through existence in the company of a few old savans! Life abroad with Madeleine for a few months in the year perhaps--the wretched winter months, when England was detestable, and when he would take her to brighter climes--to the Mediterranean137, to Cannes, Naples, Algiers it may be, where the soft climate and his ever-watchful attention and skill would enable her to shake off the spell of the disease which then oppressed her.
He would return at once--to Madeleine! Those dull lawyers in their foggy den in Lincoln's-inn little knew how soon he would obey their mandate138, or what was the motive-power which induced his obedience139. In his life he had never felt so happy. He laughed aloud. He clapped the astonished waiter, who had hitherto looked upon the Herr Englander as the most miserable of his melancholy140 nation, on the shoulder, and bade him send his passport to the Embassy to be viséd, and prepare for his departure. No; he would go himself to the Embassy. He was so full of radiant happiness that he must find some outlet141 for it; and he remembered that he had made the acquaintance of a young gentleman, son of one of his aristocratic London patients, who was an attaché to our minister. He would himself go to the Embassy, see the boy, and offer to do any mission for him in England, to convey anything to his mother. The waiter smiled, foreseeing in his guest's happiness a good trinkgeld for himself; gentlemen usually sent their passports by the hausknecht, but the Herr could go if he wished it--of course he could go!
So Wilmot started off with his passport in his pocket. The sober-going citizens stared as they met, and turned round to stare after the eager rushing Englishman. He never heeded142 them; he pushed on; he reached the Embassy, and asked for his young friend Mr. Walsingham, and chafed143 and fumed144 and stamped about the room in which he was left while Mr. Walsingham was being sought for. At length Mr. Walsingham arrived. He was glad to see Dr. Wilmot; thanks for his offer! He would intrude145 upon him so far as to ask him to convey a parcel to Lady Caroline. Visa? O, ah! that wasn't in his department; but if Dr. Wilmot would give him the passport, he'd see it put all right. Would Dr. Wilmot excuse him for a few moments while he did so, and would he like to look at last Monday's Post, which had just arrived?
Wilmot sat himself down and took up the paper. He turned it vaguely146 to and fro, glancing rapidly and uninterestedly at its news. At length his eye hit upon a paragraph headed "Marriage in High Life." He passed it, but finding nothing to interest him, turned back to it again, and there he read:
"On the 13th instant, at St. George's, Hanover-square, by the Lord Bishop147 of Boscastle, Madeleine, eldest148 daughter of Kilsyth of Kilsyth, to Ramsay Caird, Esq., of Dunnsloggan, N.B."
When Mr. Walsingham returned with the passport he found his visitor had fainted.
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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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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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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27
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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28
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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29
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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30
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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31
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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32
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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33
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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34
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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35
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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36
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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37
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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38
alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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40
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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41
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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42
expiating
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的现在分词 ) | |
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43
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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44
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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45
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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46
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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47
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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48
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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49
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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50
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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51
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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52
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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53
solvency
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| n.偿付能力，溶解力 | |
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54
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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55
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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56
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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57
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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58
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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59
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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60
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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61
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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62
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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63
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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64
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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65
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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66
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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67
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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68
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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69
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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70
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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71
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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72
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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73
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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74
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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75
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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76
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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77
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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78
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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79
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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80
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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81
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
accrues
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| v.增加( accrue的第三人称单数 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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83
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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84
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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85
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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86
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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87
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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88
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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89
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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90
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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91
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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92
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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93
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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94
nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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95
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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96
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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97
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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98
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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99
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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100
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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101
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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102
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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103
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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104
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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105
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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106
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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107
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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108
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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109
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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110
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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111
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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112
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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113
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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115
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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116
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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117
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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118
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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119
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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120
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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121
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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122
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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123
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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124
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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125
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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126
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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127
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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128
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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129
intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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130
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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131
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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132
accrued
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| adj.权责已发生的v.增加( accrue的过去式和过去分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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133
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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134
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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135
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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136
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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137
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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138
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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139
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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140
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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141
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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142
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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144
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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145
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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146
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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147
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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148
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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