Alicia Audley and her father's pretty wife had plenty of room for the comfortable indulgence of their dislike in the spacious21 old mansion22. My lady had her own apartments, as we know—luxurious23 chambers25, in which all conceivable elegancies had been gathered for the comfort of their occupant. Alicia had her own rooms in another part of the large house. She had her favorite mare27, her Newfoundland dog, and her drawing materials, and she made herself tolerably happy. She was not very happy, this frank, generous-hearted girl, for it was scarcely possible that she could be altogether at ease in the constrained28 atmosphere of the Court. Her father was changed; that dear father over whom she had once reigned29 supreme30 with the boundless31 authority of a spoiled child, had accepted another ruler and submitted to a new dynasty. Little by little my lady's petty power made itself felt in that narrow household; and Alicia saw her father gradually lured32 across the gulf that divided Lady Audley from her step-daughter, until he stood at last quite upon the other side of the abyss, and looked coldly upon his only child across that widening chasm33.
Alicia felt that he was lost to her. My lady's beaming smiles, my lady's winning words, my lady's radiant glances and bewitching graces had done their work of enchantment34, and Sir Michael had grown to look upon his daughter as a somewhat wilful35 and capricious young person who had behaved with determined36 unkindness to the wife he loved.
Poor Alicia saw all this, and bore her burden as well as she could. It seemed very hard to be a handsome, gray-eyed heiress, with dogs and horses and servants at her command, and yet to be so much alone in the world as to know of not one friendly ear into which she might pour her sorrows.
"If Bob was good for anything I could have told him how unhappy I am," thought Miss Audley; "but I may just as well tell Caesar my troubles for any consolation37 I should get from Cousin Robert."
Sir Michael Audley obeyed his pretty nurse, and went to bed a little after nine o'clock upon this bleak38 March evening. Perhaps the baronet's bedroom was about the pleasantést retreat that an invalid39 could have chosen in such cold and cheerless weather. The dark-green velvet40 curtains were drawn41 before the windows and about the ponderous42 bed. The wood fire burned redly upon the broad hearth43. The reading lamp was lighted upon a delicious little table close to Sir Michael's pillow, and a heap of magazines and newspapers had been arranged by my lady's own fair hands for the pleasure of the invalid.
Lady Audley sat by the bedside for about ten minutes, talking to her husband, talking very seriously, about this strange and awful question—Robert Audley's lunacy; but at the end of that time she rose and bade her husband good-night.
She lowered the green silk shade before the reading lamp, adjusting it carefully for the repose44 of the baronet's eyes.
"I shall leave you, dear," she said. "If you can sleep, so much the better. If you wish to read, the books and papers are close to you. I will leave the doors between the rooms open, and I shall hear your voice if you call me."
Lady Audley went through her dressing-room into the boudoir, where she had sat with her husband since dinner.
Every evidence of womanly refinement45 was visible in the elegant chamber24. My lady's piano was open, covered with scattered46 sheets of music and exquisitely-bound collections of scenas and fantasias which no master need have disdained48 to study. My lady's easel stood near the window, bearing witness to my lady's artistic49 talent, in the shape of a water-colored sketch50 of the Court and gardens. My lady's fairy-like embroideries51 of lace and muslin, rainbow-hued silks, and delicately-tinted wools littered the luxurious apartment; while the looking-glasses, cunningly placed at angles and opposite corners by an artistic upholsterer, multiplied my lady's image, and in that image reflected the most beautiful object in the enchanted52 chamber.
Amid all this lamplight, gilding53, color, wealth, and beauty, Lucy Audley sat down on a low seat by the fire to think.
If Mr. Holman Hunt could have peeped into the pretty boudoir, I think the picture would have been photographed upon his brain to be reproduced by-and-by upon a bishop's half-length for the glorification54 of the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. My lady in that half-recumbent attitude, with her elbow resting on one knee, and her perfect chin supported by her hand, the rich folds of drapery falling away in long undulating lines from the exquisite47 outline of her figure, and the luminous56, rose-colored firelight enveloping57 her in a soft haze58, only broken by the golden glitter of her yellow hair—beautiful in herself, but made bewilderingly beautiful by the gorgeous surroundings which adorn59 the shrine60 of her loveliness. Drinking-cups of gold and ivory, chiseled61 by Benvenuto Cellini; cabinets of buhl and porcelain62, bearing the cipher63 of Austrian Marie-Antoinette, amid devices of rosebuds65 and true-lovers' knots, birds and butterflies, cupidons and shepherdesses, goddesses, courtiers, cottagers, and milkmaids; statuettes of Parian marble and biscuit china; gilded66 baskets of hothouse flowers; fantastical caskets of Indian filigree-work; fragile tea-cups of turquoise67 china, adorned68 by medallion miniatures of Louis the Great and Louis the Well-beloved, Louise de la Valliere, Athenais de Montespan, and Marie Jeanne Gomard de Vaubernier: cabinet pictures and gilded mirrors, shimmering69 satin and diaphanous70 lace; all that gold can buy or art devise had been gathered together for the beautification of this quiet chamber in which my lady sat listening to the mourning of the shrill71 March wind, and the flapping of the ivy72 leaves against the casements73, and looking into the red chasms74 in the burning coals.
I should be preaching a very stale sermon, and harping75 upon a very familiar moral, if I were to seize this opportunity of declaiming against art and beauty, because my lady was more wretched in this elegant apartment than many a half-starved seamstress in her dreary76 garret. She was wretched by reason of a wound which lay too deep for the possibility of any solace77 from such plasters as wealth and luxury; but her wretchedness was of an abnormal nature, and I can see no occasion for seizing upon the fact of her misery78 as an argument in favor of poverty and discomfort79 as opposed to opulence80. The Benvenuto Cellini carvings81 and the Sevres porcelain could not give her happiness, because she had passed out of their region. She was no longer innocent; and the pleasure we take in art and loveliness being an innocent pleasure, had passed beyond her reach. Six or seven years before, she would have been happy in the possession of this little Aladdin's palace; but she had wandered out of the circle of careless, pleasure seeking creatures, she had strayed far away into a desolate82 labyrinth83 of guilt84 and treachery, terror and crime, and all the treasures that had been collected for her could have given her no pleasure but one, the pleasure of flinging them into a heap beneath her feet and trampling85 upon them and destroying them in her cruel despair.
There were some things that would have inspired her with an awful joy, a horrible rejoicing. If Robert Audley, her pitiless enemy, her unrelenting pursuer, had lain dead in the adjoining chamber, she would have exulted86 over his bier.
What pleasures could have remained for Lucretia Borgia and Catharine de Medici, when the dreadful boundary line between innocence87 and guilt was passed, and the lost creatures stood upon the lonely outer side? Only horrible, vengeful joys, and treacherous88 delights were left for these miserable89 women. With what disdainful bitterness they must have watched the frivolous90 vanities, the petty deceptions91, the paltry92 sins of ordinary offenders93. Perhaps they took a horrible pride in the enormity of their wickedness; in this "Divinity of Hell," which made them greatest among sinful creatures.
My lady, brooding by the fire in her lonely chamber, with her large, clear blue eyes fixed94 upon the yawning gulfs of lurid95 crimson96 in the burning coals, may have thought of many things very far away from the terribly silent struggle in which she was engaged. She may have thought of long-ago years of childish innocence, childish follies97 and selfishness, of frivolous, feminine sins that had weighed very lightly upon her conscience. Perhaps in that retrospective revery she recalled that early time in which she had first looked in the glass and discovered that she was beautiful; that fatal early time in which she had first begun to look upon her loveliness as a right divine, a boundless possession which was to be a set-off against all girlish shortcomings, a counterbalance of every youthful sin. Did she remember the day in which that fairy dower of beauty had first taught her to be selfish and cruel, indifferent to the joys and sorrows of others, cold-hearted and capricious, greedy of admiration98, exacting99 and tyrannical with that petty woman's tyranny which is the worst of despotism? Did she trace every sin of her life back to its true source? and did she discover that poisoned fountain in her own exaggerated estimate of the value of a pretty face? Surely, if her thoughts wandered so far along the backward current of her life, she must have repented100 in bitterness and despair of that first day in which the master-passions of her life had become her rulers, and the three demons3 of Vanity, Selfishness, and Ambition, had joined hands and said, "This woman is our slave, let us see what she will become under our guidance."
How small those first youthful errors seemed as my lady looked back upon them in that long revery by the lonely hearth! What small vanities, what petty cruelties! A triumph over a schoolfellow; a flirtation101 with the lover of a friend; an assertion of the right divine invested in blue eyes and shimmering golden-tinted hair. But how terribly that narrow pathway had widened out into the broad highroad of sin, and how swift the footsteps had become upon the now familiar way!
My lady twisted her fingers in her loose amber26 curls, and made as if she would have torn them from her head. But even in that moment of mute despair the unyielding dominion102 of beauty asserted itself, and she released the poor tangled103 glitter of ringlets, leaving them to make a halo round her head in the dim firelight.
"I was not wicked when I was young," she thought, as she stared gloomingly at the fire, "I was only thoughtless. I never did any harm—at least, wilfully104. Have I ever been really wicked, I wonder?" she mused105. "My worst wickednesses have been the result of wild impulses, and not of deeply-laid plots. I am not like the women I have read of, who have lain night after night in the horrible darkness and stillness, planning out treacherous deeds, and arranging every circumstance of an appointed crime. I wonder whether they suffered—those women—whether they ever suffered as—"
Her thoughts wandered away into a weary maze107 of confusion. Suddenly she drew herself up with a proud, defiant108 gesture, and her eyes glittered with a light that was not entirely109 reflected from the fire.
"You are mad, Mr. Robert Audley," she said, "you are mad, and your fancies are a madman's fancies. I know what madness is. I know its signs and tokens, and I say that you are mad."
She put her hand to her head, as if thinking of something which confused and bewildered her, and which she found it difficult to contemplate110 with calmness.
"Dare I defy him?" she muttered. "Dare I? dare I? Will he stop, now that he has once gone so far? Will he stop for fear of me? Will he stop for fear of me, when the thought of what his uncle must suffer has not stopped him? Will anything stop him—but death?"
She pronounced the last words in an awful whisper; and with her head bent55 forward, her eyes dilated111, and her lips still parted as they had been parted in her utterance112 of that final word "death," she sat blankly staring at the fire.
"I can't plot horrible things," she muttered, presently; "my brain isn't strong enough, or I'm not wicked enough, or brave enough. If I met Robert Audley in those lonely gardens, as I—"
The current of her thoughts was interrupted by a cautious knocking at her door. She rose suddenly, startled by any sound in the stillness of her room. She rose, and threw herself into a low chair near the fire. She flung her beautiful head back upon the soft cushions, and took a book from the table near her. Insignificant113 as this action was, it spoke114 very plainly. It spoke very plainly of ever-recurring fears—of fatal necessities for concealment—of a mind that in its silent agonies was ever alive to the importance of outward effect. It told more plainly than anything else could have told how complete an actress my lady had been made by the awful necessity of her life.
The modest rap at the door was repeated.
"Come in," cried Lady Audley, in her liveliest tone.
The door was opened with that respectful noiselessness peculiar115 to a well-bred servant, and a young woman, plainly dressed, and carrying some of the cold March winds in the folds of her garments, crossed the threshold of the apartment and lingered near the door, waiting permission to approach the inner regions of my lady's retreat.
It was Phoebe Marks, the pale-faced wife of the Mount Stanning innkeeper.
"I beg pardon, my lady, for intruding116 without leave," she said; "but I thought I might venture to come straight up without waiting for permission."
"Yes, yes, Phoebe, to be sure. Take off your bonnet117, you wretched, cold-looking creature, and come sit down here."
Lady Audley pointed106 to the low ottoman upon which she had herself been seated a few minutes before. The lady's maid had often sat upon it listening to her mistress' prattle118 in the old days, when she had been my lady's chief companion and confidante.
"Sit down here, Phoebe," Lady Audley repeated; "sit down here and talk to me; I'm very glad you came here to-night. I was horribly lonely in this dreary place."
My lady shivered and looked round at the bright collection of bric-a-brac, as if the Sevres and bronze, the buhl and ormolu, had been the moldering adornments of some ruined castle. The dreary wretchedness of her thoughts had communicated itself to every object about her, and all outer things took their color from that weary inner life which held its slow course of secret anguish119 in her breast. She had spoken the entire truth in saying that she was glad of her lady's maid's visit. Her frivolous nature clung to this weak shelter in the hour of her fear and suffering. There were sympathies between her and this girl, who was like herself, inwardly as well as outwardly—like herself, selfish, and cold, and cruel, eager for her own advancement120, and greedy of opulence and elegance121; angry with the lot that had been cast her, and weary of dull dependence122. My lady hated Alicia for her frank, passionate123, generous, daring nature; she hated her step-daughter, and clung to this pale-faced, pale-haired girl, whom she thought neither better nor worse than herself.
Phoebe Marks obeyed her late mistress' commands, and took off her bonnet before seating herself on the ottoman at Lady Audley's feet. Her smooth bands of light hair were unruffled by the March winds; her trimly-made drab dress and linen124 collar were as neatly125 arranged as they could have been had she only that moment completed her toilet.
"Sir Michael is better, I hope, my lady," she said.
"Yes, Phoebe, much better. He is asleep. You may close that door," added Lady Audley, with a motion of her head toward the door of communication between the rooms, which had been left open.
Mrs. Marks obeyed submissively, and then returned to her seat.
"I am very, very unhappy, Phoebe," my lady said, fretfully; "wretchedly miserable."
"About the—secret?" asked Mrs. Marks, in a half whisper.
My lady did not notice that question. She resumed in the same complaining tone. She was glad to be able to complain even to this lady's maid. She had brooded over her fears, and had suffered in secret so long, that it was an inexpressible relief to her to bemoan126 her fate aloud.
"I am cruelly persecuted127 and harassed128, Phoebe Marks," she said. "I am pursued and tormented129 by a man whom I never injured, whom I have never wished to injure. I am never suffered to rest by this relentless130 tormentor131, and—"
She paused, staring at the fire again, as she had done in her loneliness. Lost again in the dark intricacies of thoughts which wandered hither and thither132 in a dreadful chaos133 of terrified bewilderments, she could not come to any fixed conclusion.
Phoebe Marks watched my lady's face, looking upward at her late mistress with pale, anxious eyes, that only relaxed their watchfulness134 when Lady Audley's glance met that of her companion.
"I think I know whom you mean, my lady," said the innkeeper's wife, after a pause; "I think I know who it is who is so cruel to you."
"Oh, of course," answered my lady, bitterly; "my secrets are everybody's secrets. You know all about it, no doubt."
"The person is a gentleman—is he not, my lady?"
"Yes."
"A gentleman who came to the Castle Inn two months ago, when I warned you—"
"Yes, yes," answered my lady, impatiently.
"I thought so. The same gentleman is at our place to-night, my lady."
Lady Audley started up from her chair—started up as if she would have done something desperate in her despairing fury; but she sank back again with a weary, querulous sigh. What warfare could such a feeble creature wage against her fate? What could she do but wind like a hunted hare till she found her way back to the starting-point of the cruel chase, to be there trampled135 down by her pursuers?
"At the Castle Inn?" she cried. "I might have known as much. He has gone there to wring136 my secrets from your husband. Fool!" she exclaimed, suddenly turning upon Phoebe Marks in a transport of anger, "do you want to destroy me that you have left those two men together?"
Mrs. Marks clasped her hands piteously.
"I didn't come away of my own free will, my lady," she said; "no one could have been more unwilling137 to leave the house than I was this night. I was sent here."
"Who sent you here?"
"Luke, my lady. You can't tell how hard he can be upon me if I go against him."
"Why did he send you?"
The innkeeper's wife dropped her eyelids138 under Lady Audley's angry glances, and hesitated confusedly before she answered this question.
"Indeed, my lady," she stammered139, "I didn't want to come. I told Luke that it was too bad for us to worry you, first asking this favor, and then asking that, and never leaving you alone for a month together; but—but—he bore me down with his loud, blustering talk, and he made me come."
"Yes, yes," cried Lady Audley, impatiently. "I know that. I want to know why you have come."
"Why, you know, my lady," answered Phoebe, half reluctantly, "Luke is very extravagant140; and all I can say to him, I can't get him to be careful or steady. He's not sober; and when he's drinking with a lot of rough countrymen, and drinking, perhaps even more than they do, it isn't likely that his head can be very clear for accounts. If it hadn't been for me we should have been ruined before this; and hard as I've tried, I haven't been able to keep the ruin off. You remember giving me the money for the brewer's bill, my lady?"
"Yes, I remember very well," answered Lady Audley, with a bitter laugh, "for I wanted that money to pay my own bills."
"I know you did, my lady, and it was very, very hard for me to have to come and ask you for it, after all that we'd received from you before. But that isn't the worst: when Luke sent me down here to beg the favor of that help he never told me that the Christmas rent was still owing; but it was, my lady, and it's owing now, and—and there's a bailiff in the house to-night, and we're to be sold up to-morrow unless—"
"Unless I pay your rent, I suppose," cried Lucy Audley. "I might have guessed what was coming."
"Yes," answered my lady, bitterly, "he made you come; and he will make you come whenever he pleases, and whenever he wants money for the gratification of his low vices64; and you and he are my pensioners142 as long as I live, or as long as I have any money to give; for I suppose when my purse is empty and my credit ruined, you and your husband will turn upon me and sell me to the highest bidder143. Do you know, Phoebe Marks, that my jewel-case has been half emptied to meet your claims? Do you know that my pin-money, which I thought such a princely allowance when my marriage settlement was made, and when I was a poor governess at Mr. Dawson's, Heaven help me! my pin-money has been overdrawn144 half a year to satisfy your demands? What can I do to appease145 you? Shall I sell my Marie Antoinette cabinet, or my pompadour china, Leroy's and Benson's ormolu clocks, or my Gobelin tapestried146 chairs and ottomans? How shall I satisfy you next?"
"Oh, my lady, my lady," cried Phoebe, piteously, "don't be so cruel to me; you know, you know that it isn't I who want to impose upon you."
"I know nothing," exclaimed Lady Audley, "except that I am the most miserable of women. Let me think," she cried, silencing Phoebe's consolatory147 murmurs148 with an imperious gesture. "Hold your tongue, girl, and let me think of this business, if I can."
She put her hands to her forehead, clasping her slender fingers across her brow, as if she would have controlled the action of her brain by their convulsive pressure.
"Robert Audley is with your husband," she said, slowly, speaking to herself rather than to her companion. "These two men are together, and there are bailiffs in the house, and your brutal149 husband is no doubt brutally150 drunk by this time, and brutally obstinate151 and ferocious152 in his drunkenness. If I refuse to pay this money his ferocity will be multiplied by a hundredfold. There's little use in discussing that matter. The money must be paid."
"But if you do pay it," said Phoebe, earnestly, "I hope you will impress upon Luke that it is the last money you will ever give him while he stops in that house."
"Why?" asked Lady Audley, letting her hands fall on her lap, and looking inquiringly at Mrs. Marks.
"Because I want Luke to leave the Castle."
"But why do you want him to leave?"
"Oh, for ever so many reasons, my lady," answered Phoebe. "He's not fit to be the landlord of a public-house. I didn't know that when I married him, or I would have gone against the business, and tried to persuade him to take to the farming line. Not that I suppose he'd have given up his own fancy, either; for he's obstinate enough, as you know, my lady. He's not fit for his present business. He's scarcely ever sober after dark; and when he's drunk he gets almost wild, and doesn't seem to know what he does. We've had two or three narrow escapes with him already."
"Narrow escapes!" repeated Lady Audley. "What do you mean?"
"Why, we've run the risk of being burnt in our beds through his carelessness."
"Burnt in your beds through his carelessness! Why, how was that?" asked my lady, rather listlessly. She was too selfish, and too deeply absorbed in her own troubles to take much interest in any danger which had befallen her some-time lady's-maid.
"You know what a queer old place the Castle is, my lady; all tumble-down wood-work, and rotten rafters, and such like. The Chelmsford Insurance Company won't insure it; for they say if the place did happen to catch fire of a windy night it would blaze away like so much tinder, and nothing in the world could save it. Well, Luke knows this; and the landlord has warned him of it times and often, for he lives close against us, and he keeps a pretty sharp eye upon all my husband's goings on; but when Luke's tipsy he doesn't know what he's about, and only a week ago he left a candle burning in one of the out-houses, and the flame caught one of the rafters of the sloping roof, and if it hadn't been for me finding it out when I went round the house the last thing, we should have all been burnt to death, perhaps. And that's the third time the same kind of thing has happened in the six months we've had the place, and you can't wonder that I'm frightened, can you, my lady?"
My lady had not wondered, she had not thought about the business at all. She had scarcely listened to these commonplace details; why should she care for this low-born waiting-woman's perils153 and troubles? Had she not her own terrors, her own soul-absorbing perplexities to usurp154 every thought of which her brain was capable?
She did not make any remark upon that which poor Phoebe just told her; she scarcely comprehended what had been said, until some moments after the girl had finished speaking, when the words assumed their full meaning, as some words do after they have been heard without being heeded155.
"Burnt in your beds," said the young lady, at last. "It would have been a good thing for me if that precious creature, your husband, had been burnt in his bed before to-night."
A vivid picture had flashed upon her as she spoke. The picture of that frail156 wooden tenement157, the Castle Inn, reduced to a roofless chaos of lath and plaster, vomiting158 flames from its black mouth, and spitting blazing sparks upward toward the cold night sky.
She gave a weary sigh as she dismissed this image from her restless brain. She would be no better off even if this enemy should be for ever silenced. She had another and far more dangerous foe159—a foe who was not to be bribed160 or bought off, though she had been as rich as an empress.
"I'll give you the money to send this bailiff away," my lady said, after a pause. "I must give you the last sovereign in my purse, but what of that? you know as well as I do that I dare not refuse you."
Lady Audley rose and took the lighted lamp from her writing-table. "The money is in my dressing-room," she said; "I will go and fetch it."
"Oh, my lady," exclaimed Phoebe, suddenly, "I forgot something; I was in such a way about this business that I quite forgot it."
"Quite forgot what?"
"A letter that was given me to bring to you, my lady, just before I left home."
"What letter?"
"A letter from Mr. Audley. He heard my husband mention that I was coming down here, and he asked me to carry this letter."
Lady Audley set the lamp down upon the table nearest to her, and held out her hand to receive the letter. Phoebe Marks could scarcely fail to observe that the little jeweled hand shook like a leaf.
"Give it me—give it me," she cried; "let me see what more he has to say."
Lady Audley almost snatched the letter from Phoebe's hand in her wild impatience161. She tore open the envelope and flung it from her; she could scarcely unfold the sheet of note-paper in her eager excitement.
The letter was very brief. It contained only these words:
"Should Mrs. George Talboys really have survived the date of her supposed death, as recorded in the public prints, and upon the tombstone in Ventnor churchyard, and should she exist in the person of the lady suspected and accused by the writer of this, there can be no great difficulty in finding some one able and willing to identify her. Mrs. Barkamb, the owner of North Cottages, Wildernsea, would no doubt consent to throw some light upon this matter; either to dispel162 a delusion163 or to confirm a suspicion.
"ROBERT AUDLEY.
"March 3, 1859.
"The Castle Inn, Mount Stanning."
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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afterward
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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gulf
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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pennants
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cannon
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vow
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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brotherhood
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blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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spacious
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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24
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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25
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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26
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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27
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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28
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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29
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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30
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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31
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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32
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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33
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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34
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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35
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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36
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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37
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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38
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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39
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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40
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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41
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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43
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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44
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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45
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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46
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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47
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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48
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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49
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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50
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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51
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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52
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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54
glorification
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| n.赞颂 | |
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55
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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56
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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57
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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58
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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59
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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60
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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61
chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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62
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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63
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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64
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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65
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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66
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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67
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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68
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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69
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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70
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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71
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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72
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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73
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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74
chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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75
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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76
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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77
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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78
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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79
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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80
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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81
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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82
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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83
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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84
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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85
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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86
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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88
treacherous
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|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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89
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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90
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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91
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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92
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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93
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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94
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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95
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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96
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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97
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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98
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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99
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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100
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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102
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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103
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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104
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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105
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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106
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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107
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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108
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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109
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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110
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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111
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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113
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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114
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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115
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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116
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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117
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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118
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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119
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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120
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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121
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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122
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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123
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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124
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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125
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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126
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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127
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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128
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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129
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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130
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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131
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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132
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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133
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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134
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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135
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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136
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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137
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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138
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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139
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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141
sobbed
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|
| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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142
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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143
bidder
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| n.(拍卖时的)出价人，报价人，投标人 | |
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144
overdrawn
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| 透支( overdraw的过去分词 )； (overdraw的过去分词) | |
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145
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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146
tapestried
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|
| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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148
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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149
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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150
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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151
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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152
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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153
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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154
usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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155
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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156
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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157
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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158
vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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159
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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160
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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161
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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162
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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163
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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