1. December and January, 1835–36
In the long and intricately inwrought chain of circumstance which renders worthy1 of record some experiences of Cytherea Graye, Edward Springrove, and others, the first event directly influencing the issue was a Christmas visit.
In the above-mentioned year, 1835, Ambrose Graye, a young architect who had just begun the practice of his profession in the midland town of Hocbridge, to the north of Christminster, went to London to spend the Christmas holidays with a friend who lived in Bloomsbury. They had gone up to Cambridge in the same year, and, after graduating together, Huntway, the friend, had taken orders.
Graye was handsome, frank, and gentle. He had a quality of thought which, exercised on homeliness2, was humour; on nature, picturesqueness3; on abstractions, poetry. Being, as a rule, broadcast, it was all three.
Of the wickedness of the world he was too forgetful. To discover evil in a new friend is to most people only an additional experience: to him it was ever a surprise.
While in London he became acquainted with a retired5 officer in the Navy named Bradleigh, who, with his wife and their daughter, lived in a street not far from Russell Square. Though they were in no more than comfortable circumstances, the captain’s wife came of an ancient family whose genealogical tree was interlaced with some of the most illustrious and well-known in the kingdom.
The young lady, their daughter, seemed to Graye by far the most beautiful and queenly being he had ever beheld6. She was about nineteen or twenty, and her name was Cytherea. In truth she was not so very unlike country girls of that type of beauty, except in one respect. She was perfect in her manner and bearing, and they were not. A mere7 distinguishing peculiarity8, by catching9 the eye, is often read as the pervading10 characteristic, and she appeared to him no less than perfection throughout—transcending her rural rivals in very nature. Graye did a thing the blissfulness of which was only eclipsed by its hazardousness11. He loved her at first sight.
His introductions had led him into contact with Cytherea and her parents two or three times on the first week of his arrival in London, and accident and a lover’s contrivance brought them together as frequently the week following. The parents liked young Graye, and having few friends (for their equals in blood were their superiors in position), he was received on very generous terms. His passion for Cytherea grew not only strong, but ineffably12 exalted13: she, without positively14 encouraging him, tacitly assented15 to his schemes for being near her. Her father and mother seemed to have lost all confidence in nobility of birth, without money to give effect to its presence, and looked upon the budding consequence of the young people’s reciprocal glances with placidity16, if not actual favour.
Graye’s whole impassioned dream terminated in a sad and unaccountable episode. After passing through three weeks of sweet experience, he had arrived at the last stage—a kind of moral Gaza—before plunging17 into an emotional desert. The second week in January had come round, and it was necessary for the young architect to leave town.
Throughout his acquaintanceship with the lady of his heart there had been this marked peculiarity in her love: she had delighted in his presence as a sweetheart should do, yet from first to last she had repressed all recognition of the true nature of the thread which drew them together, blinding herself to its meaning and only natural tendency, and appearing to dread18 his announcement of them. The present seemed enough for her without cumulative19 hope: usually, even if love is in itself an end, it must be regarded as a beginning to be enjoyed.
In spite of evasions20 as an obstacle, and in consequence of them as a spur, he would put the matter off no longer. It was evening. He took her into a little conservatory21 on the landing, and there among the evergreens22, by the light of a few tiny lamps, infinitely23 enhancing the freshness and beauty of the leaves, he made the declaration of a love as fresh and beautiful as they.
‘My love—my darling, be my wife!’
She seemed like one just awakened24. ‘Ah—we must part now!’ she faltered25, in a voice of anguish26. ‘I will write to you.’ She loosened her hand and rushed away.
In a wild fever Graye went home and watched for the next morning. Who shall express his misery27 and wonder when a note containing these words was put into his hand?
‘Good-bye; good-bye for ever. As recognized lovers something divides us eternally. Forgive me—I should have told you before; but your love was sweet! Never mention me.’
That very day, and as it seemed, to put an end to a painful condition of things, daughter and parents left London to pay off a promised visit to a relative in a western county. No message or letter of entreaty28 could wring29 from her any explanation. She begged him not to follow her, and the most bewildering point was that her father and mother appeared, from the tone of a letter Graye received from them, as vexed30 and sad as he at this sudden renunciation. One thing was plain: without admitting her reason as valid31, they knew what that reason was, and did not intend to reveal it.
A week from that day Ambrose Graye left his friend Huntway’s house and saw no more of the Love he mourned. From time to time his friend answered any inquiry32 Graye made by letter respecting her. But very poor food to a lover is intelligence of a mistress filtered through a friend. Huntway could tell nothing definitely. He said he believed there had been some prior flirtation33 between Cytherea and her cousin, an officer of the line, two or three years before Graye met her, which had suddenly been terminated by the cousin’s departure for India, and the young lady’s travelling on the Continent with her parents the whole of the ensuing summer, on account of delicate health. Eventually Huntway said that circumstances had rendered Graye’s attachment34 more hopeless still. Cytherea’s mother had unexpectedly inherited a large fortune and estates in the west of England by the rapid fall of some intervening lives. This had caused their removal from the small house in Bloomsbury, and, as it appeared, a renunciation of their old friends in that quarter.
Young Graye concluded that his Cytherea had forgotten him and his love. But he could not forget her.
2. from 1843 to 1861
Eight years later, feeling lonely and depressed35—a man without relatives, with many acquaintances but no friends—Ambrose Graye met a young lady of a different kind, fairly endowed with money and good gifts. As to caring very deeply for another woman after the loss of Cytherea, it was an absolute impossibility with him. With all, the beautiful things of the earth become more dear as they elude36 pursuit; but with some natures utter elusion37 is the one special event which will make a passing love permanent for ever.
This second young lady and Graye were married. That he did not, first or last, love his wife as he should have done, was known to all; but few knew that his unmanageable heart could never be weaned from useless repining at the loss of its first idol38.
His character to some extent deteriorated39, as emotional constitutions will under the long sense of disappointment at having missed their imagined destiny. And thus, though naturally of a gentle and pleasant disposition40, he grew to be not so tenderly regarded by his acquaintances as it is the lot of some of those persons to be. The winning and sanguine41 receptivity of his early life developed by degrees a moody42 nervousness, and when not picturing prospects43 drawn44 from baseless hope he was the victim of indescribable depression. The practical issue of such a condition was improvidence45, originally almost an unconscious improvidence, for every debt incurred46 had been mentally paid off with a religious exactness from the treasures of expectation before mentioned. But as years revolved47, the same course was continued from the lack of spirit sufficient for shifting out of an old groove48 when it has been found to lead to disaster.
In the year 1861 his wife died, leaving him a widower49 with two children. The elder, a son named Owen, now just turned seventeen, was taken from school, and initiated50 as pupil to the profession of architect in his father’s office. The remaining child was a daughter, and Owen’s junior by a year.
Her christian51 name was Cytherea, and it is easy to guess why.
3. October the Twelfth, 1863
We pass over two years in order to reach the next cardinal52 event of these persons’ lives. The scene is still the Grayes’ native town of Hocbridge, but as it appeared on a Monday afternoon in the month of October.
The weather was sunny and dry, but the ancient borough53 was to be seen wearing one of its least attractive aspects. First on account of the time. It was that stagnant54 hour of the twenty-four when the practical garishness55 of Day, having escaped from the fresh long shadows and enlivening newness of the morning, has not yet made any perceptible advance towards acquiring those mellow56 and soothing57 tones which grace its decline. Next, it was that stage in the progress of the week when business—which, carried on under the gables of an old country place, is not devoid58 of a romantic sparkle—was well-nigh extinguished. Lastly, the town was intentionally59 bent60 upon being attractive by exhibiting to an influx61 of visitors the local talent for dramatic recitation, and provincial62 towns trying to be lively are the dullest of dull things.
Little towns are like little children in this respect, that they interest most when they are enacting63 native peculiarities64 unconscious of beholders. Discovering themselves to be watched they attempt to be entertaining by putting on an antic, and produce disagreeable caricatures which spoil them.
The weather-stained clock-face in the low church tower standing65 at the intersection66 of the three chief streets was expressing half-past two to the Town Hall opposite, where the much talked-of reading from Shakespeare was about to begin. The doors were open, and those persons who had already assembled within the building were noticing the entrance of the new-comers—silently criticizing their dress—questioning the genuineness of their teeth and hair—estimating their private means.
Among these later ones came an exceptional young maiden67 who glowed amid the dulness like a single bright-red poppy in a field of brown stubble. She wore an elegant dark jacket, lavender dress, hat with grey strings68 and trimmings, and gloves of a colour to harmonize. She lightly walked up the side passage of the room, cast a slight glance around, and entered the seat pointed69 out to her.
The young girl was Cytherea Graye; her age was now about eighteen. During her entry, and at various times whilst sitting in her seat and listening to the reader on the platform, her personal appearance formed an interesting subject of study for several neighbouring eyes.
Her face was exceedingly attractive, though artistically70 less perfect than her figure, which approached unusually near to the standard of faultlessness. But even this feature of hers yielded the palm to the gracefulness71 of her movement, which was fascinating and delightful72 to an extreme degree.
Indeed, motion was her speciality, whether shown on its most extended scale of bodily progression, or minutely, as in the uplifting of her eyelids73, the bending of her fingers, the pouting74 of her lip. The carriage of her head—motion within motion—a glide75 upon a glide—was as delicate as that of a magnetic needle. And this flexibility76 and elasticity77 had never been taught her by rule, nor even been acquired by observation, but, nullo cultu, had naturally developed itself with her years. In childhood, a stone or stalk in the way, which had been the inevitable78 occasion of a fall to her playmates, had usually left her safe and upright on her feet after the narrowest escape by oscillations and whirls for the preservation79 of her balance. At mixed Christmas parties, when she numbered but twelve or thirteen years, and was heartily80 despised on that account by lads who deemed themselves men, her apt lightness in the dance covered this incompleteness in her womanhood, and compelled the self-same youths in spite of resolutions to seize upon her childish figure as a partner whom they could not afford to contemn81. And in later years, when the instincts of her sex had shown her this point as the best and rarest feature in her external self, she was not found wanting in attention to the cultivation82 of finish in its details.
Her hair rested gaily83 upon her shoulders in curls and was of a shining corn yellow in the high lights, deepening to a definite nut-brown as each curl wound round into the shade. She had eyes of a sapphire84 hue85, though rather darker than the gem86 ordinarily appears; they possessed87 the affectionate and liquid sparkle of loyalty88 and good faith as distinguishable from that harder brightness which seems to express faithfulness only to the object confronting them.
But to attempt to gain a view of her—or indeed of any fascinating woman—from a measured category, is as difficult as to appreciate the effect of a landscape by exploring it at night with a lantern—or of a full chord of music by piping the notes in succession. Nevertheless it may readily be believed from the description here ventured, that among the many winning phases of her aspect, these were particularly striking:—
During pleasant doubt, when her eyes brightened stealthily and smiled (as eyes will smile) as distinctly as her lips, and in the space of a single instant expressed clearly the whole round of degrees of expectancy89 which lie over the wide expanse between Yea and Nay90.
During the telling of a secret, which was involuntarily accompanied by a sudden minute start, and ecstatic pressure of the listener’s arm, side, or neck, as the position and degree of intimacy91 dictated92.
When anxiously regarding one who possessed her affections.
She suddenly assumed the last-mentioned bearing in the progress of the present entertainment. Her glance was directed out of the window.
Why the particulars of a young lady’s presence at a very mediocre93 performance were prevented from dropping into the oblivion which their intrinsic insignificance94 would naturally have involved—why they were remembered and individualized by herself and others through after years—was simply that she unknowingly stood, as it were, upon the extreme posterior edge of a tract4 in her life, in which the real meaning of Taking Thought had never been known. It was the last hour of experience she ever enjoyed with a mind entirely95 free from a knowledge of that labyrinth96 into which she stepped immediately afterwards—to continue a perplexed97 course along its mazes98 for the greater portion of twenty-nine subsequent months.
The Town Hall, in which Cytherea sat, was a building of brown stone, and through one of the windows could be seen from the interior of the room the housetops and chimneys of the adjacent street, and also the upper part of a neighbouring church spire99, now in course of completion under the superintendence of Miss Graye’s father, the architect to the work.
That the top of this spire should be visible from her position in the room was a fact which Cytherea’s idling eyes had discovered with some interest, and she was now engaged in watching the scene that was being enacted100 about its airy summit. Round the conical stonework rose a cage of scaffolding against the blue sky, and upon this stood five men—four in clothes as white as the new erection close beneath their hands, the fifth in the ordinary dark suit of a gentleman.
The four working-men in white were three masons and a mason’s labourer. The fifth man was the architect, Mr. Graye. He had been giving directions as it seemed, and retiring as far as the narrow footway allowed, stood perfectly101 still.
The picture thus presented to a spectator in the Town Hall was curious and striking. It was an illuminated102 miniature, framed in by the dark margin103 of the window, the keen-edged shadiness of which emphasized by contrast the softness of the objects enclosed.
The height of the spire was about one hundred and twenty feet, and the five men engaged thereon seemed entirely removed from the sphere and experiences of ordinary human beings. They appeared little larger than pigeons, and made their tiny movements with a soft, spirit-like silentness. One idea above all others was conveyed to the mind of a person on the ground by their aspect, namely, concentration of purpose: that they were indifferent to—even unconscious of—the distracted world beneath them, and all that moved upon it. They never looked off the scaffolding.
Then one of them turned; it was Mr. Graye. Again he stood motionless, with attention to the operations of the others. He appeared to be lost in reflection, and had directed his face towards a new stone they were lifting.
‘Why does he stand like that?’ the young lady thought at length—up to that moment as listless and careless as one of the ancient Tarentines, who, on such an afternoon as this, watched from the Theatre the entry into their Harbour of a power that overturned the State.
She moved herself uneasily. ‘I wish he would come down,’ she whispered, still gazing at the skybacked picture. ‘It is so dangerous to be absent-minded up there.’
When she had done murmuring the words her father indecisively laid hold of one of the scaffold-poles, as if to test its strength, then let it go and stepped back. In stepping, his foot slipped. An instant of doubling forward and sideways, and he reeled off into the air, immediately disappearing downwards104.
His agonized105 daughter rose to her feet by a convulsive movement. Her lips parted, and she gasped106 for breath. She could utter no sound. One by one the people about her, unconscious of what had happened, turned their heads, and inquiry and alarm became visible upon their faces at the sight of the poor child. A moment longer, and she fell to the floor.
The next impression of which Cytherea had any consciousness was of being carried from a strange vehicle across the pavement to the steps of her own house by her brother and an older man. Recollection of what had passed evolved itself an instant later, and just as they entered the door—through which another and sadder burden had been carried but a few instants before—her eyes caught sight of the south-western sky, and, without heeding107, saw white sunlight shining in shaft-like lines from a rift108 in a slaty109 cloud. Emotions will attach themselves to scenes that are simultaneous—however foreign in essence these scenes may be-as chemical waters will crystallize on twigs110 and wires. Even after that time any mental agony brought less vividly111 to Cytherea’s mind the scene from the Town Hall windows than sunlight streaming in shaft-like lines.
4. October the Nineteenth
When death enters a house, an element of sadness and an element of horror accompany it. Sadness, from the death itself: horror, from the clouds of blackness we designedly labour to introduce.
The funeral had taken place. Depressed, yet resolved in his demeanour, Owen Graye sat before his father’s private escritoire, engaged in turning out and unfolding a heterogeneous112 collection of papers—forbidding and inharmonious to the eye at all times—most of all to one under the influence of a great grief. Laminae of white paper tied with twine113 were indiscriminately intermixed with other white papers bounded by black edges—these with blue foolscap wrapped round with crude red tape.
The bulk of these letters, bills, and other documents were submitted to a careful examination, by which the appended particulars were ascertained:—
First, that their father’s income from professional sources had been very small, amounting to not more than half their expenditure114; and that his own and his wife’s property, upon which he had relied for the balance, had been sunk and lost in unwise loans to unscrupulous men, who had traded upon their father’s too open-hearted trustfulness.
Second, that finding his mistake, he had endeavoured to regain115 his standing by the illusory path of speculation116. The most notable instance of this was the following. He had been induced, when at Plymouth in the autumn of the previous year, to venture all his spare capital on the bottomry security of an Italian brig which had put into the harbour in distress117. The profit was to be considerable, so was the risk. There turned out to be no security whatever. The circumstances of the case tendered it the most unfortunate speculation that a man like himself—ignorant of all such matters—could possibly engage in. The vessel118 went down, and all Mr. Graye’s money with it.
Third, that these failures had left him burdened with debts he knew not how to meet; so that at the time of his death even the few pounds lying to his account at the bank were his only in name.
Fourth, that the loss of his wife two years earlier had awakened him to a keen sense of his blindness, and of his duty by his children. He had then resolved to reinstate by unflagging zeal119 in the pursuit of his profession, and by no speculation, at least a portion of the little fortune he had let go.
Cytherea was frequently at her brother’s elbow during these examinations. She often remarked sadly—
‘Poor papa failed to fulfil his good intention for want of time, didn’t he, Owen? And there was an excuse for his past, though he never would claim it. I never forget that original disheartening blow, and how that from it sprang all the ills of his life—everything connected with his gloom, and the lassitude in business we used so often to see about him.’
‘I remember what he said once,’ returned the brother, ‘when I sat up late with him. He said, “Owen, don’t love too blindly: blindly you will love if you love at all, but a little care is still possible to a well-disciplined heart. May that heart be yours as it was not mine,” father said. “Cultivate the art of renunciation.” And I am going to, Cytherea.’
‘And once mamma said that an excellent woman was papa’s ruin, because he did not know the way to give her up when he had lost her. I wonder where she is now, Owen? We were told not to try to find out anything about her. Papa never told us her name, did he?’
‘That was by her own request, I believe. But never mind her; she was not our mother.’
The love affair which had been Ambrose Graye’s disheartening blow was precisely120 of that nature which lads take little account of, but girls ponder in their hearts.
5. from October the Nineteenth to July the Ninth
Thus Ambrose Graye’s good intentions with regard to the reintegration of his property had scarcely taken tangible121 form when his sudden death put them for ever out of his power.
Heavy bills, showing the extent of his obligations, tumbled in immediately upon the heels of the funeral from quarters previously122 unheard and unthought of. Thus pressed, a bill was filed in Chancery to have the assets, such as they were, administered by the Court.
‘What will become of us now?’ thought Owen continually.
There is in us an unquenchable expectation, which at the gloomiest time persists in inferring that because we are ourselves, there must be a special future in store for us, though our nature and antecedents to the remotest particular have been common to thousands. Thus to Cytherea and Owen Graye the question how their lives would end seemed the deepest of possible enigmas123. To others who knew their position equally well with themselves the question was the easiest that could be asked—‘Like those of other people similarly circumstanced.’
Then Owen held a consultation124 with his sister to come to some decision on their future course, and a month was passed in waiting for answers to letters, and in the examination of schemes more or less futile125. Sudden hopes that were rainbows to the sight proved but mists to the touch. In the meantime, unpleasant remarks, disguise them as some well-meaning people might, were floating around them every day. The undoubted truth, that they were the children of a dreamer who let slip away every farthing of his money and ran into debt with his neighbours—that the daughter had been brought up to no profession—that the son who had, had made no progress in it, and might come to the dogs—could not from the nature of things be wrapped up in silence in order that it might not hurt their feelings; and as a matter of fact, it greeted their ears in some form or other wherever they went. Their few acquaintances passed them hurriedly. Ancient pot-wallopers, and thriving shopkeepers, in their intervals126 of leisure, stood at their shop-doors—their toes hanging over the edge of the step, and their obese127 waists hanging over their toes—and in discourses128 with friends on the pavement, formulated129 the course of the improvident130, and reduced the children’s prospects to a shadow-like attenuation131. The sons of these men (who wore breastpins of a sarcastic132 kind, and smoked humorous pipes) stared at Cytherea with a stare unmitigated by any of the respect that had formerly133 softened134 it.
Now it is a noticeable fact that we do not much mind what men think of us, or what humiliating secret they discover of our means, parentage, or object, provided that each thinks and acts thereupon in isolation135. It is the exchange of ideas about us that we dread most; and the possession by a hundred acquaintances, severally insulated, of the knowledge of our skeleton-closet’s whereabouts, is not so distressing136 to the nerves as a chat over it by a party of half-a-dozen—exclusive depositaries though these may be.
Perhaps, though Hocbridge watched and whispered, its animus137 would have been little more than a trifle to persons in thriving circumstances. But unfortunately, poverty, whilst it is new, and before the skin has had time to thicken, makes people susceptible138 inversely139 to their opportunities for shielding themselves. In Owen was found, in place of his father’s impressibility, a larger share of his father’s pride, and a squareness of idea which, if coupled with a little more blindness, would have amounted to positive prejudice. To him humanity, so far as he had thought of it at all, was rather divided into distinct classes than blended from extreme to extreme. Hence by a sequence of ideas which might be traced if it were worth while, he either detested140 or respected opinion, and instinctively141 sought to escape a cold shade that mere sensitiveness would have endured. He could have submitted to separation, sickness, exile, drudgery142, hunger and thirst, with stoical indifference143, but superciliousness144 was too incisive145.
After living on for nine months in attempts to make an income as his father’s successor in the profession—attempts which were utterly146 fruitless by reason of his inexperience—Graye came to a simple and sweeping147 resolution. They would privately148 leave that part of England, drop from the sight of acquaintances, gossips, harsh critics, and bitter creditors149 of whose misfortune he was not the cause, and escape the position which galled150 him by the only road their great poverty left open to them—that of his obtaining some employment in a distant place by following his profession as a humble151 under-draughtsman.
He thought over his capabilities152 with the sensations of a soldier grinding his sword at the opening of a campaign. What with lack of employment, owing to the decrease of his late father’s practice, and the absence of direct and uncompromising pressure towards monetary153 results from a pupil’s labour (which seems to be always the case when a professional man’s pupil is also his son), Owen’s progress in the art and science of architecture had been very insignificant154 indeed. Though anything but an idle young man, he had hardly reached the age at which industrious155 men who lack an external whip to send them on in the world, are induced by their own common sense to whip on themselves. Hence his knowledge of plans, elevations156, sections, and specifications157, was not greater at the end of two years of probation158 than might easily have been acquired in six months by a youth of average ability—himself, for instance—amid a bustling159 London practice.
But at any rate he could make himself handy to one of the profession—some man in a remote town—and there fulfil his indentures160. A tangible inducement lay in this direction of survey. He had a slight conception of such a man—a Mr. Gradfield—who was in practice in Budmouth Regis, a seaport161 town and watering-place in the south of England.
After some doubts, Graye ventured to write to this gentleman, asking the necessary question, shortly alluding162 to his father’s death, and stating that his term of apprenticeship163 had only half expired. He would be glad to complete his articles at a very low salary for the whole remaining two years, provided payment could begin at once.
The answer from Mr. Gradfield stated that he was not in want of a pupil who would serve the remainder of his time on the terms Mr. Graye mentioned. But he would just add one remark. He chanced to be in want of some young man in his office—for a short time only, probably about two months—to trace drawings, and attend to other subsidiary work of the kind. If Mr. Graye did not object to occupy such an inferior position as these duties would entail164, and to accept weekly wages which to one with his expectations would be considered merely nominal165, the post would give him an opportunity for learning a few more details of the profession.
‘It is a beginning, and, above all, an abiding-place, away from the shadow of the cloud which hangs over us here—I will go,’ said Owen.
Cytherea’s plan for her future, an intensely simple one, owing to the even greater narrowness of her resources, was already marked out. One advantage had accrued166 to her through her mother’s possession of a fair share of personal property, and perhaps only one. She had been carefully educated. Upon this consideration her plan was based. She was to take up her abode167 in her brother’s lodging168 at Budmouth, when she would immediately advertise for a situation as governess, having obtained the consent of a lawyer at Aldbrickham who was winding169 up her father’s affairs, and who knew the history of her position, to allow himself to be referred to in the matter of her past life and respectability.
Early one morning they departed from their native town, leaving behind them scarcely a trace of their footsteps.
Then the town pitied their want of wisdom in taking such a step. ‘Rashness; they would have made a better income in Hocbridge, where they are known! There is no doubt that they would.’
But what is Wisdom really? A steady handling of any means to bring about any end necessary to happiness.
Yet whether one’s end be the usual end—a wealthy position in life—or no, the name of wisdom is seldom applied170 but to the means to that usual end.
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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picturesqueness
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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pervading
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hazardousness
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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20
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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21
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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22
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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23
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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24
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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25
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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26
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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27
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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28
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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29
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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30
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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31
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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32
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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33
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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34
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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35
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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36
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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37
elusion
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| n.逃避，规避 | |
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38
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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39
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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41
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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42
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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43
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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44
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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45
improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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46
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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47
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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48
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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49
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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50
initiated
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|
| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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51
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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52
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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53
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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54
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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55
garishness
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| n.鲜艳夺目，炫耀 | |
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56
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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57
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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58
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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59
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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60
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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61
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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62
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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63
enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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64
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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65
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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66
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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67
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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68
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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69
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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70
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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71
gracefulness
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72
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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73
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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74
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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75
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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76
flexibility
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|
| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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77
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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78
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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79
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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80
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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81
contemn
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| v.蔑视 | |
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82
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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83
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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84
sapphire
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|
| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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85
hue
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|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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86
gem
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|
| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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87
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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88
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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89
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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90
nay
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|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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91
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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92
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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93
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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94
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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95
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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96
labyrinth
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|
| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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97
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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98
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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99
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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100
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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103
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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104
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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105
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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106
gasped
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|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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107
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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108
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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109
slaty
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| 石板一样的，石板色的 | |
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110
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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111
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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112
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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113
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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114
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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115
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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116
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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117
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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118
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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119
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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120
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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121
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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122
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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123
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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124
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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125
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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126
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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127
obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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128
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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129
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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130
improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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131
attenuation
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| n.变薄；弄细；稀薄化；减少 | |
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132
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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133
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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134
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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135
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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136
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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137
animus
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| n.恶意；意图 | |
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138
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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139
inversely
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| adj.相反的 | |
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140
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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142
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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143
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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144
superciliousness
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| n.高傲，傲慢 | |
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145
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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146
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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147
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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148
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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149
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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150
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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151
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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152
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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153
monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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154
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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155
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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156
elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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157
specifications
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| n.规格；载明；详述；（产品等的）说明书；说明书( specification的名词复数 )；详细的计划书；载明；详述 | |
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158
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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159
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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160
indentures
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| vt.以契约束缚（indenture的第三人称单数形式） | |
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161
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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162
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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163
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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164
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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165
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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166
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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167
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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168
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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169
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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170
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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