‘When Elinor arrived in Yorkshire, she found her aunt was dead. Elinor went to visit her grave. It was, in compliance1 with her last request, placed near the window of the independent meetinghouse, and bore for inscription2 her favourite text, ‘Those whom he foreknew, he also predestinated,’ &c. &c. Elinor stood by the grave some time, but could not shed a tear. This contrast of a life so rigid3, and a death so hopeful, — this silence of humanity, and eloquence4 of the grave, — pierced through her heart, as it will through every heart that has indulged in the inebriation5 of human passion, and feels that the draught6 has been drawn7 from broken cisterns8.
‘Her aunt’s death made Elinor’s life, if possible, more secluded9, and her habits more monotonous10 than they would otherwise have been. She was very charitable to the cottagers in her neighbourhood; but except to visit their habitations, she never quitted her own.
‘Often she contemplated11 a small stream that flowed at the end of her garden. As she had lost all her sensibility of nature, another motive12 was assigned for this mute and dark contemplation; and her servant, much attached to her, watched her closely.
‘She was roused from this fearful state of stupefaction and despair, which those who have felt shudder13 at the attempt to describe, by a letter from Margaret. She had received several from her which lay unanswered, (no unusual thing in those days), but this she tore open, read with interest inconceivable, and prepared instantly to answer by action.
‘Margaret’s high spirits seemed to have sunk in her hour of danger. She hinted that that hour was rapidly approaching, and that she earnestly implored14 the presence of her affectionate kinswoman to soothe15 and sustain in the moment of her approaching peril16. She added, that the manly17 and affectionate tenderness of John Sandal at this period, had touched her heart more deeply, if possible, than all the former testimonies18 of his affection — but that she could not bear his resignation of all his usual habits of rural amusement, and of the neighbouring society — that she in vain had chided him from her couch, where she lingered in pain and hope, and hoped that Elinor’s presence might induce him to yield to her request, as he must feel, on her arrival, the dearest companion of her youth was present — and that, at such a moment, a female companion was more suitable than even the gentlest and most affectionate of the other sex.
‘Elinor set out directly. The purity of her feelings had formed an impenetrable barrier between her heart and its object, — and she apprehended19 no more danger from the presence of one who was wedded20, and wedded to her relative, than from that of her own brother.
‘She arrived at the Castle — Margaret’s hour of danger had begun — she had been very ill during the preceding period. The natural consequences of her situation had been aggravated21 by a feeling of dignified22 responsibility on the birth of an heir to the house of Mortimer — and this feeling had not contributed to render that situation more supportable.
‘Elinor bent23 over the bed of pain — pressed her cold lips to the burning lips of the sufferer — and prayed for her.
‘The first medical assistance in the country (then very rarely employed on such occasions) had been obtained at a vast expence. The widow Sandal, declining all attendance on the sufferer, paced through the adjacent apartments in agony unutterable and unuttered.
‘Two days and nights went on in hope and terror — the bell-ringers sat up in every church within ten miles round — the tenantry crowded round the Castle with honest heartfelt solicitude24 — the neighbouring nobility sent their messages of inquiry25 every hour. An accouchement in a noble family was then an event of importance.
‘The hour came — twins were born dead — and the young mother was fated to follow them within a few hours! While life yet remained, Margaret shewed the remains26 of the lofty spirit of the Mortimers. She sought with her cold hand that of her wretched husband and of the weeping Elinor. She joined them in an embrace which one of them at least understood, and prayed that their union might be eternal. She then begged to see the bodies of her infant sons — they were produced; and it was said that she uttered expressions, intimating that, had they not been the heirs of the Mortimer family — had not expectation been wound so high, and supported by all the hopes that life and youth could flatter her with, — she and they might yet have existed.
‘As she spoke27, her voice grew feebler, and her eyes dim — their last light was turned on him she loved; and when sight was gone, she still felt his arms enfold her. The next moment they enfolded — nothing!
‘In the terrible spasms28 of masculine agony — the more intensely felt as they are more rarely indulged — the young widower29 dashed himself on the bed, which shook with his convulsive grief; and Elinor, losing all sense but that of a calamity30 so sudden and so terrible, echoed his deep and suffocating31 sobs32, as it she whom they deplored34 had not been the only obstacle to her happiness.
‘Amid the voice of mourning that rung through the Castle from vault35 to tower in that day of trouble, none was loud like that of the widow Sandal — her wailings were shrieks36, her grief was despair. Rushing through the rooms like one distracted, she tore her hair out by the roots, and imprecated the most fearful curses on her head. At length she approached the apartment where the corse lay. The servants, shocked at her distraction37, would have withheld38 her from entering it, but could not. She burst into the room, cast one wild look on its inmates39 — the still corse and the dumb mourners — and then, flinging herself on her knees before her son, confessed the secret of her guilt40, and developed to its foul41 base the foundation of that pile of iniquity42 and sorrow which had now reached its summit.
‘Her son listened to this horrible confession43 with fixed44 eye and features unmoved; and at its conclusion, when the wretched penitent45 implored the assistance of her son to raise her from her knees, he repelled47 her outstretched hands, and with a weak wild laugh, sunk back on the bed. He never could be removed from it till the corse to which he clung was borne away, and then the mourners hardly knew which to deplore33 — her who was deprived of the light of life, or him in whom the light of reason was extinguished for ever!
‘The wretched, guilty mother, (but for her fate no one can be solicitous), a few months after, on her dying bed, declared the secret of her crime to a minister of an independent congregation, who was induced, by the report of her despair, to visit her. She confessed that, being instigated48 by avarice49, and still more by the desire of regaining50 her lost consequence in the family, and knowing the wealth and dignity her son would acquire, and in which she must participate, by his marriage with Margaret, she had, after using all the means of persuasion51 and intreaty, been driven, in despair at her disappointment, to fabricate a tale as false as it was horrible, which she related to her deluded52 son on the evening before his intended nuptials53 with Elinor. She had assured him he was not her son, but the offspring of the illicit54 commerce of her husband the preacher with the Puritan mother of Elinor, who had formerly55 been one of his congregation, and whose well-known and strongly-expressed admiration56 of his preaching had been once supposed extended to his person, — had caused her much jealous anxiety in the early years of their marriage, and was now made the basis of this horrible fiction. She added, that Margaret’s obvious attachment57 to her cousin had, in some degree, palliated her guilt to herself; but that, when she saw him quit her house in despair on the morning of his intended marriage, and rush he knew not whither, she was half tempted58 to recall him, and confess the truth. Her mind again became hardened, and she reflected that her secret was safe, as she had bound him by an oath, from respect to his father’s memory, and compassion59 to the guilty mother of Elinor, never to disclose the truth to her daughter.
‘The event had succeeded to her guilty wishes. — Sandal beheld60 Elinor with the eyes of a brother, and the image of Margaret easily found a place in his unoccupied affections. But, as often befals to the dealers61 in falsehood and obliquity62, the apparent accomplishment63 of her hopes proved her ruin. In the event of the marriage of John and Margaret proving issueless, the estates and title went to the distant relative named in the will; and her son, deprived of reason by the calamities64 in which her arts had involved him, was by them also deprived of the wealth and rank to which they were meant to raise him, and reduced to the small pension obtained by his former services, — the poverty of the King, then himself a pensioner65 of Lewis XIV., forbidding the possibility of added remuneration. When the minister heard to the last the terrible confession of the dying penitent, in the awful language ascribed to Bishop66 Burnet when consulted by another criminal, — he bid her ‘almost despair,’ and departed.
‘Elinor has retired67, with the helpless object of her unfading love and unceasing care, to her cottage in Yorkshire. There, in the language of that divine and blind old man, the fame of whose poetry has not yet reached this country, it is
‘Her delight to see him sitting in the house,’
and watch, like the father of the Jewish champion, the growth of that ‘God-given strength,’ that intellectual power, which, unlike Samson’s, will never return.
‘After an interval68 of two years, during which she had expended69 a large part of the capital of her fortune in obtaining the first medical advice for the patient, and ‘suffered many things of many physicians,’ she gave up all hope, — and, reflecting that the interest of her fortune thus diminished would be but sufficient to procure70 the comforts of life for herself and him whom she has resolved never to forsake71, she sat down in patient misery72 with her melancholy73 companion, and added one more to the many proofs of woman’s heart, ‘unwearied in well-doing,’ without the intoxication74 of passion, the excitement of applause, or even the gratitude75 of the unconscious object.
‘Were this a life of calm privation, and pulseless apathy76, her efforts would scarce have merit, and her sufferings hardly demand compassion; but it is one of pain incessant77 and immitigable. The first-born of her heart lies dead within it; but that heart is still alive with all its keenest sensibilities, its most vivid hopes, and its most exquisite78 sense of grief.
‘She sits beside him all day — she watches that eye whose light was life, and sees it fixed on her in glassy and unmeaning complacency — she dreams of that smile which burst on her soul like the morning sun over a landscape in spring, and sees that smile of vacancy79 which tries to convey satisfaction, but cannot give it the language of expression. Averting80 her head, she thinks of other days. A vision passes before her. — Lovely and glorious things, the hues81 of whose colouring are not of this world, and whose web is too fine to be woven in the loom82 of life, — rise to her eye like the illusions of enchantment83. A strain of rich remembered music floats in her hearing — she dreams of the hero, the lover, the beloved, — him in whom were united all that could dazzle the eye, inebriate84 the imagination, and melt the heart. She sees him as he first appeared to her, — and the mirage85 of the desert present not a vision more delicious and deceptive86 — she bends to drink of that false fountain, and the stream disappears — she starts from her reverie, and hears the weak laugh of the sufferer, as he moves a little water in a shell, and imagines he sees the ocean in a storm!
‘She has one consolation87. When a short interval of recollection returns, — when his speech becomes articulate, — he utters her name, not that of Margaret, and a beam of early hope dances on her heart as she hears it, but fades away as fast as the rare and wandering ray of intellect from the lost mind of the sufferer!
‘Unceasingly attentive88 to his health and his comforts, she walked out with him every evening, but led him through the most sequestered89 paths, to avoid those whose mockful persecution90, or whose vacant pity, might be equally torturing to her feelings, or harassing91 to her still gentle and smiling companion.
‘It was at this period,’ said the stranger to Aliaga, ‘I first became acquainted with — I mean — at this time a stranger, who had taken up his abode92 near the hamlet where Elinor resided, was seen to watch the two figures as they passed slowly on their retired walk. Evening after evening he watched them. He knew the history of these two unhappy beings, and prepared himself to take advantage of it. It was impossible, considering their secluded mode of existence, to obtain an introduction. He tried to recommend himself by his occasional attentions to the invalid93 — he sometimes picked up the flowers that an unconscious hand flung into the stream, and listened, with a gracious smile, to the indistinct sounds in which the sufferer, who still retained all the graciousness of his perished mind, attempted to thank him.
‘Elinor felt grateful for these occasional attentions; but she was somewhat alarmed at the assiduity with which the stranger attended their melancholy walk every evening, — and, whether encouraged, neglected, or even repelled, still found the means of insinuating94 himself into companionship. Even the mournful dignity of Elinor’s demeanour, — her deep dejection, — her bows or brief replies, — were unavailing against the gentle but indefatigable95 importunity96 of the intruder.
‘By degrees he ventured to speak to her of her misfortunes, — and that topic is a sure key to the confidence of the unhappy. Elinor began to listen to him; — and, though somewhat amazed at the knowledge he displayed of every circumstance of her life, she could not but feel soothed98 by the tone of sympathy in which he spoke, and excited by the mysterious hints of hope which he sometimes suffered to escape him as if involuntarily. It was observed soon by the inmates of the hamlet, whom idleness and the want of any object of excitement had made curious, that Elinor and the stranger were inseparable in their evening walks.
‘It was about a fortnight after this observation was first made, that Elinor, unattended, drenched99 with rain, and her head uncovered, loudly and eagerly demanded admittance, at a late hour, at the house of a neighbouring clergyman. She was admitted, — and the surprise of her reverend host at this visit, equally unseasonable and unexpected, was exchanged for a deeper feeling of wonder and terror as she related the cause of it. He at first imagined (knowing her unhappy situation) that the constant presence of an insane person might have a contagious101 effect on the intellects of one so perseveringly102 exposed to that presence.
‘As Elinor, however, proceeded to disclose the awful proposal, and the scarcely less awful name of the unholy intruder, the clergyman betrayed considerable emotion; and, after a long pause, desired permission to accompany her on their next meeting. This was to be the following evening, for the stranger was unremitting in his attendance on her lonely walks.
‘It is necessary to mention, that this clergyman had been for some years abroad — that events had occurred to him in foreign countries, of which strange reports were spread, but on the subject of which he had been always profoundly silent — and that having but lately fixed his residence in the neighbourhood, he was equally a stranger to Elinor, and to the circumstances of her past life, and of her present situation.
‘It was now autumn, — the evenings were growing short, and the brief twilight103 was rapidly succeeded by night. On the dubious104 verge105 of both, the clergyman quitted his house, and went in the direction where Elinor told him she was accustomed to meet the stranger.
‘They were there before him; and in the shuddering106 and averted107 form of Elinor, and the stern but calm importunity of her companion, he read the terrible secret of their conference. Suddenly he advanced and stood before the stranger. They immediately recognised each other. An expression that was never before beheld there — an expression of fear — wandered over the features of the stranger! He paused for a moment, and then departed without uttering a word — nor was Elinor ever again molested108 by his presence.
‘It was some days before the clergyman recovered from the shock of this singular encounter sufficiently109 to see Elinor, and explain to her the cause of his deep and painful agitation110.
‘He sent to announce to her when he was able to receive her, and appointed the night for the time of meeting, for he knew that during the day she never forsook112 the helpless object of her unalienated heart. The night arrived — imagine them seated in the antique study of the clergyman, whose shelves were filled with the ponderous113 volumes of ancient learning — the embers of a peat fire shed a dim and fitful light through the room, and the single candle that burned on a distant oaken stand, seemed to shed its light on that alone — not a ray fell on the figures of Elinor and her companion, as they sat in their massive chairs of carved-like figures in the richly-wrought nitches of some Catholic place of worship — ’
‘That is a most profane114 and abominable115 comparison,’ said Aliaga, starting from the doze116 in which he had frequently indulged during this long narrative117.
‘But hear the result,’ said the pertinacious118 narrator. ‘The clergyman confessed to Elinor that he had been acquainted with an Irishman of the name of Melmoth, whose various erudition, profound intellect, and intense appetency for information, had interested him so deeply as to lead to a perfect intimacy119 between them. At the breaking out of the troubles in England, the clergyman had been compelled, with his father’s family, to seek refuge in Holland. There again he met Melmoth, who proposed to him a journey to Poland — the offer was accepted, and to Poland they went. The clergyman here told many extraordinary tales of Dr Dee, and of Albert Alasco, the Polish adventurer, who were their companions both in England and Poland — and he added, that he felt his companion Melmoth was irrevocably attached to the study of that art which is held in just abomination by all ‘who name the name of Christ.’ The power of the intellectual vessel120 was too great for the narrow seas where it was coasting — it longed to set out on a voyage of discovery — in other words, Melmoth attached himself to those impostors, or worse, who promised him the knowledge and the power of the future world — on conditions that are unutterable.’ A strange expression crossed his face as he spoke. He recovered himself, and added, ‘From that hour our intercourse121 ceased. I conceived of him as of one given up to diabolical122 delusions123 — to the power of the enemy.
‘I had not seen Melmoth for some years. I was preparing to quit Germany, when, on the eve of my departure, I received a message from a person who announced himself as my friend, and who, believing himself dying, wished for the attendance of a Protestant minister. We were then in the territories of a Catholic electoral bishop. I lost no time in attending the sick person. As I entered his room, conducted by a servant, who immediately closed the door and retired, I was astonished to see the room filled with an astrological apparatus124, books and implements125 of a science I did not understand; in a corner there was a bed, near which there was neither priest or physician, relative or friend — on it lay extended the form of Melmoth. I approached, and attempted to address to him some words of consolation. He waved his hand to me to be silent — and I was so. The recollection of his former habits and pursuits, and the view of his present situation, had an effect that appalled126 more than it amazed me. ‘Come near,’ said Melmoth, speaking very faintly — ‘nearer. I am dying — how my life has been passed you know but too well. Mine was the great angelic sin — pride and intellectual glorying! It was the first mortal sin — a boundless127 aspiration128 after forbidden knowledge! I am now dying. I ask for no forms of religion — I wish not to hear words that have to me no meaning, or that I wish had none! Spare your look of horror. I sent for you to exact your solemn promise that you will conceal129 from every human being the fact of my death — let no man know that I died, or when, or where.’
‘He spoke with a distinctness of tone, and energy of manner, that convinced me he could not be in the state he described himself to be, and I said, ‘But I cannot believe you are dying — your intellects are clear, your voice is strong, your language is coherent, and but for the paleness of your face, and your lying extended on that bed, I could not even imagine you were ill.’ He answered, ‘Have you patience and courage to abide130 by the proof that what I say is true?’ I replied, that I doubtless had patience, and for the courage, I looked to that Being for whose name I had too much reverence131 to utter in his hearing. He acknowledged my forbearance by a ghastly smile which I understood too well, and pointed111 to a clock that stood at the foot of his bed. ‘Observe,’ said he, ‘the hour-hand is on eleven, and I am now sane100, clear of speech, and apparently132 healthful — tarry but an hour, and you yourself will behold133 me dead!’
‘I remained by his bed-side — the eyes of both were fixed intently on the slow motion of the clock. From time to time he spoke, but his strength now appeared obviously declining. He repeatedly urged on me the necessity of profound secresy, its importance to myself, and yet he hinted at the possibility of our future meeting, I asked why he thought proper to confide97 to me a secret whose divulgement was so perilous134, and which might have been so easily concealed135? Unknowing whether he existed, or where, I must have been equally ignorant of the mode and place of his death. To this he returned no answer. As the hand of the clock approached the hour of twelve, his countenance136 changed — his eyes became dim — his speech inarticulate — his jaw137 dropped — his respiration138 ceased. I applied139 a glass to his lips — but there was not a breath to stain it. I felt his wrist but there was no pulse. I placed my hand on his heart — there was not the slightest vibration140. In a few minutes the body was perfectly141 cold. I did not quit the room till nearly an hour after the body gave no signs of returning animation142.
‘Unhappy circumstances detained me long abroad. I was in various parts of the Continent, and every where I was haunted with the report of Melmoth being still alive. To these reports I gave no credit, and returned to England in the full conviction of his being dead. Yet it was Melmoth who walked and spoke with you the last night of our meeting. My eyes never more faithfully attested143 the presence of living being. It was Melmoth himself, such as I beheld him many years ago, when my hairs were dark and my steps were firm. I am changed, but he is the same — time seems to have forborne to touch him from terror. By what means or power he is thus enabled to continue his posthumous144 and preternatural existence, it is impossible to conceive, unless the fearful report that every where followed his steps on the Continent, be indeed true.’
‘Elinor, impelled145 by terror and wild curiosity, inquired into that report which dreadful experience had anticipated the meaning of. ‘Seek no farther,’ said the minister, ‘you know already more than should ever have reached the human ear, or entered into the conception of the human mind. Enough that you have been enabled by Divine Power to repel46 the assaults of the evil one — the trial was terrible, but the result will be glorious. Should the foe146 persevere147 in his attempts, remember that he has been already repelled amid the horrors of the dungeon148 and of the scaffold, the screams of Bedlam149 and the flames of the Inquisition — he is yet to be subdued150 by a foe that he deemed of all others the least invincible151 — the withered152 energies of a broken heart. He has traversed the earth in search of victims, ‘Seeking whom he might devour,’ — and has found no prey153, even where he might seek for it with all the cupidity154 of infernal expectation. Let it be your glory and crown of rejoicing, that even the feeblest of his adversaries155 has repulsed156 him with a power that will always annihilate157 his.’
‘Who is that faded form that supports with difficulty an emaciated158 invalid, and seems at every step to need the support she gives? — It is still Elinor tending John. Their path is the same, but the season is changed — and that change seems to her to have passed alike on the mental and physical world. It is a dreary159 evening in Autumn — the stream flows dark and turbid160 beside their path — the blast is groaning161 among the trees, and the dry discoloured leaves are sounding under their feet — their walk is uncheered by human converse162, for one of them no longer thinks, and seldom speaks!
‘Suddenly he gives a sign that he wishes to be seated — it is complied with, and she sits beside him on the felled trunk of a tree. He declines his head on her bosom163, and she feels with delighted amazement164, a few tears streaming on it for the first time for years — a soft but conscious pressure of her hand, seems to her like the signal of reviving intelligence — with breathless hope she watches him as he slowly raises his head, and fixes his eyes — God of all consolation, there is intelligence in his glance! He thanks her with an unutterable look for all her care, her long and painful labour of love! His lips are open, but long unaccustomed to utter human sounds, the effort is made with difficulty — again that effort is repeated and fails — his strength is exhausted165 — his eyes close — his last gentle sigh is breathed on the bosom of faith and love — and Elinor soon after said to those who surrounded her bed, that she died happy, since he knew her once more! She gave one parting awful sign to the minister, which was understood and answered!
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1
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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3
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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4
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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5
inebriation
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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6
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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7
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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8
cisterns
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| n.蓄水池，储水箱( cistern的名词复数 )；地下储水池 | |
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9
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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10
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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12
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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13
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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14
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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26
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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27
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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28
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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29
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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32
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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33
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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34
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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36
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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37
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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38
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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39
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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40
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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41
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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42
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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43
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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44
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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45
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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46
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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47
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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48
instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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50
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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51
persuasion
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|
| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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52
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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54
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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55
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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56
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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57
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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58
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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59
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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60
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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61
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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62
obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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63
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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64
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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65
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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66
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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67
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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68
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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69
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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70
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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71
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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72
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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73
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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74
intoxication
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|
| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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75
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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76
apathy
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|
| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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77
incessant
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|
| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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78
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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79
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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80
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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81
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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82
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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83
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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84
inebriate
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| v.使醉 | |
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85
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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86
deceptive
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|
| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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87
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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88
attentive
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|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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89
sequestered
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|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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90
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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91
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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92
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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93
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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94
insinuating
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|
| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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95
indefatigable
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|
| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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96
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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97
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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98
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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99
drenched
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|
| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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100
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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101
contagious
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|
| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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102
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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103
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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104
dubious
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|
| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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105
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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106
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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107
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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108
molested
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| v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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109
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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110
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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111
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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112
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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113
ponderous
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|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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114
profane
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|
| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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115
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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116
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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117
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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118
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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119
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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120
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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121
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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122
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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123
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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124
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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125
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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126
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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127
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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128
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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129
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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130
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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131
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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132
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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133
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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134
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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135
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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136
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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137
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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138
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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139
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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140
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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141
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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142
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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143
attested
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|
| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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144
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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145
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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147
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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148
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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149
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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150
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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151
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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152
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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153
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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154
cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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155
adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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156
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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157
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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158
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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159
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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160
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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161
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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162
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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163
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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164
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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165
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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