The rectory of Bloomford was situated on a gently sloping hill-side, about a quarter of a mile above the church. It was a picturesque18 old building, with a roof of red tiles and a multiplicity of chimneys and gables, with small latticed windows in the upper story, broad eaves beneath which endless birds made their nests, and, over all, a forest of ivy19, so old that the stems were like the trunks of trees. Before the house lay a carefully-tended flower garden, behind it a kitchen garden and an orchard20, all around which ran a crumbling21 brick wall, some six feet high, on the outside thickly overgrown with the abounding22 ivy, within kept clear for the training of peach and plum trees. Even now, at the end of November, it was by no means a dreary23 place, for its smallness always gave it a compact and comfortable air; while in the autumn evenings all the front windows would glow with the warm reflection of the setting sun, and the smoke from the high chimneys curl up in many-hued shapes which seemed to bespeak25 the homelike comfort within. As you viewed the house from the front, there was, indeed, an object which gave it an air of individuality as distinguished26 from any other pleasantly situated country house; this was a somewhat newly-built tower, mainly of glass, which constituted a modest observatory27, containing a large telescope, which was one of the chief delights of the clergyman’s existence. This tower he had had built immediately after his entering upon the living, not without considerable scandal in the neighbourhood, where Mr. Norman was in consequence at first regarded as a species of Dr. Faustus, with whom it might possibly be dangerous, notwithstanding the apparent soundness of his doctrine28, to hold much connection. It had indeed been formally decided at a meeting of the Bloomford Ladies’ Sewing Club: “That this club considers the study of astronomy to be a sinful prying29 into the mysteries of the Almighty30, and consequently a wilful31 tempting32 of His displeasure; that this club is surprised and grieved that a clergyman of the Church of England should set such an example to the <>weaklings of his flock; and that this club do, in consequence, prepare a memorial on this subject, to be duly presented to the Rev33. Mr. Norman on the earliest fitting opportunity.” This resolution was written out, with the due emphasis, by the secretary of the club, but the memorial was never presented, owing, I believe, to the fact that the personal amiability34 of the reverend gentleman in a very short time succeeded in utterly35 disarming36 the suspicions of the fair inquisitors. At that time a large majority of the club were unmarried ladies, and it may not unreasonably37 be concluded that the fact of Mr. Norman being then a bachelor of twenty-four had an appreciable38 influence in weakening their zeal39 for the preservation40 of the Creator’s privacy. This had been some ten years since, and at present the only memorial of those early prejudices existed in the person of a poor old woman of the village, who, having gone harmlessly crazy just at the time when the rector’s presumption41 had been the great topic of conversation, still never failed to pass him without asking, with a respectful curtesy —
“What’s the latest news from heaven, my lord?”
The respectable subscribers to our circulating libraries would not owe me much thanks were I to describe in detail the oft-treated history of a clergyman’s search among his fair parishioners for a suitable partner of his cares, or, perhaps I should say, the hot competition among the latter for the possession of the dearly-coveted honour, the position of a parson’s wife. Without unnecessary amplitude42 of description, therefore, I shall content myself with saying that, before Edward Norman had been a year in his cure, the lot had been drawn43, and the happy maid had received her prize; nor could the most envious44 assert that in choosing Helen Burton for his bride, the clergyman had laid himself open to imputations on his taste or his generosity45. Helen had long been, undisputedly, the village beauty, but so humble46 was her social position that not one of the damsels who boasted of their place in the aristocracy of the district had for a moment dreamed of her as a rival. She was nothing more than the daughter of the principal tailor in Bloomford, but her father was a man of the strictest integrity, even of some intellectual pretensions47, and universally respected by all who were so unfortunate as to be tainted48 with the modern heresy49 that money does not make the man. Helen had, thanks to this worthy50 man’s care, received an education which would compare very favourably51 indeed even with that possessed52 by the daughters of Sir Bedford Lamb, one of the members for the county, whose seat was only some two miles distant from Bloomford. It was indeed then to the astonishment53 of all, but to the scandalisation — and that affected54 — of only the few, that Helen Burton had become Mrs. Norman.
Edward Norman loved his wife devotedly55, passionately56. Upon her he lavished57 all the treasures of his dreamy, sentimental58, poetical59 temperament60. From his first sight of her she had become the goddess of his thought, the centre of every hope and longing61 which shed its fragrance62 upon his calm, contemplative life; and when at length these aspirations63 were fulfilled, and she had become the goddess of his hearth64, the man felt as if life had nothing more to give him. But from the very exuberance65 of its bounty66 towards him did life become more than ever dear, and this in face of the fact that it was gradually, hopelessly slipping away from him. But sometimes again this very hopelessness bred within him a refinement67 of delight to which a healthier man could scarcely have attained68. As, during the early months of their marriage, he often sat through the long summer evenings in the quietness of his study, holding Helen’s hand within his own, and both together gazing westwards on the melting glories of the sunset, he felt that to gradually sink into his grave cared for at every moment by this angel whom Fate had sent to bless him, and drink in the ever-deepening fervour of her love as she felt him passing from her side, to hold, when all was over, for ever a sacred place in so pure a mind — at times he felt that these were delights far superior to the possession of the most robust69 health and hopes of the longest life. To be sure there was a tinge70 of refined selfishness in this; but that was a part of his nature. And what purest affection is without it?
But in these hopes he had deceived himself. Before his bliss71 had lasted for a year it seemed about to be crowned by the birth of a child. The child — a girl — was indeed born, but at the expense of its mother’s life.
Edward Norman’s grief was sacred even to the impertinence of village gossip. When, a few weeks after, a beer-muddled rustic72 happened to stray late at night in the neighbourhood of the churchyard, and next morning spread the report among his fellow-yokels that he had seen a ghost by the new grave stretching up its arms in the moonlight, his story did not attract much comment, for the hearts of the humblest, which, after all, are human, whispered that the agony of a husband over a young wife’s tomb was not a subject for trivial chatter73.
But when the period of more or less lachrymose74 sympathy had waned75 with the rector’s first year of bereavement76, other thoughts began once more to spring in the young female mind of Bloomford. If Mr. Norman had been interesting before, how infinitely77 more so had he now become. The movement for a fresh attack upon his sensibilities took first of all the ominous78 form of sympathy for his child, poor little Helen. What a shocking thing it was that the little darling — such an absolute little angel — had no mother to care for it. How was it possible that it should be sufficiently79 tended by the hired nurse-girl, even though overseered by the rector’s housekeeper80, Mrs. Cope, a worthy old lady who had watched Edward Norman’s own cradle, and, shortly after his wife’s death, had gladly complied with his written request that she would undertake the guidance of his household? Of course, such a state of affairs was absolutely contrary to the nature of things — it might even be said to the divine law; for it should be noted81 that these ladies, who had once been shocked at the clergyman’s astronomical82 studies, were anything but backward in interpreting the thoughts and the wishes of Providence83 when it suited them to do so. But then arose the question among the more serious as to whether a clergyman could, consistently with his sacred office, take unto himself a second fleshly comforter. The younger maidens84 firmly maintained that there was nothing shocking in such a course, and to such an extent did their views preponderate86 that when, by chance, an inoffensive damsel of sixty summers, whose turn it was to read aloud for an evening to the Bloomford Ladies’ Mutual87 Improvement Society (a recent development of the Sewing–Club before-mentioned) came, in the “Vicar of Wakefield,” to those unfortunate sentiments of Dr. Primrose88 on the very question at issue, she was forthwith stopped by a chorus of dissentients, and the book was no more read aloud in the Society; it being whispered by one or two members, that, after all, Goldsmith did not display that delicacy90 of conception necessary in one whose works are to be fitted for mutual improvement.
Whether Mr. Norman was aware of this and the like matters it would not be easy to say; in all probability not. His life became every day more solitary91 and secluded92; to such an extent, indeed, as to give rise to the remonstrances93 of his more sensible friends. As his wont94 was, he listened with amiability to all who found an opportunity of addressing him, but without the slightest effect upon his conduct.
By nature little disposed to social life, he now lived more and more in the company of his books and his thoughts. His grief had, of course, calmed as time wore on; had become, indeed, somewhat of a quiet pleasure, finding its expression in long hours of reverie wherein his thoughts were busiest with multiplying idealisations of his dead wife, and of the bliss he had enjoyed with her; or, at other times, in looking forward to the day when little Helen would revive her mother’s loveliness in the full blush of womanhood, and wondering whether he would live to see it.
Under such circumstances, he was rather glad to avail himself of the popular sympathy in order to provide a pretext95 for his much-loved retirement96. His health was another, and a real cause for abstinence from too active exertions97. His malady progressed, very slowly but perceptibly, and, some five years after his wife’s death, a special illness rendered it absolutely necessary that he should have the benefit of a change of air. He accordingly obtained leave of absence from his duties, and passed rather more than a month in the south of France. It was immediately after his return to Bloomford that a letter from Golding came to his hand, resulting in his sudden visit to London, the circumstances of which have been detailed98 in the last chapter.
Three days after this, Edward Norman was sitting at breakfast in the little morning-room which looked northwards, upon what was in summer the pleasantest part of the garden — a fair lawn, bordered with flower-beds, and enclosed with thick growths of laburnum. The room itself was light and cheerful, the choice and arrangement of its ornaments99 remaining still a sacred memorial of the taste of its former mistress. Everything bespoke100 the utmost elegance102 and refinement in him who now alone used the room, impressing the beholder103 with ideas fully4 borne out by the appearance of the clergyman himself.
He was sitting in an arm-chair by the fireside, a small low table bearing the tray which held his simple breakfast. He wore a handsome dressing-gown closely folded around him, from beneath the bottom of which appeared a pair of spotless woollen slippers104. A newspaper lay on the table, which had apparently105 not yet been opened, but an exquisite106 little copy of Horace formed his companion at breakfast instead, which he perused107 with a languid pleasure through his gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
It did not, however, seem to engross108 his attention, for his eyes frequently wandered to the windows and looked out upon the rays of faint sunlight which, struggling through ominous clouds, fell athwart the lawn and upon the leafless laburnums. At one of these glances his face suddenly assumed a look of keener interest. This was caused by the sight of two children, a little girl, perhaps eight years old, with a face of delicate prettiness, and dressed in a handsome little winter costume which became her wonderfully, and by her side a boy, in appearance much older, though in reality about the same age. The clothing had undergone a reformation; but the handsome, pale, attenuated109 features, and the curling yellow hair were evidently those of poor Golding’s child. He seemed to follow his graceful110 little companion with reluctance111, scarcely ever raising his eyes to look at the objects around him, but keeping them bent2 upon the grass.
The expression on his face was sorrowful in the extreme; tears seemed momentarily about to start from his eyes. The remarks which the little girl addressed to him he seemed not to understand; at all events, he scarcely attempted to answer them. The two were not quite alone, but were followed at the distance of a few yards by a cheerful-looking aged113" target="_blank">middle-aged112 woman, who knitted as she walked, casting each moment curious glances at the children in front of her. This was Mrs. Cope, the rector’s worthy housekeeper. In her cheeks still lived much of the bloom which had made her not a little admired, when, as a country maiden85 of sixteen, she had been called to act as handmaid of Edward Norman himself, then aged one year.
Mrs. Cope was now a widow, and among the most active of the plotters against Mr. Norman’s peace in Bloomford there were not a few who looked with a jealous eye upon this lady. If the rector had begun by marrying a tailor’s daughter, who could guarantee that he would not once more bid defiance114 to the world by taking to wife his housekeeper? The more prudish115 even whispered that it really was not very delicate in Mr. Norman to permit the residence in his ladyless house of a “female” of Mrs. Cope’s years and appearance.
The rector’s eyes were still fixed116 upon the figures on the lawn, when a sudden ring at the door-bell announced the arrival of a visitor. A moment after a servant tapped at the door, and proclaimed —
“Mr. Whiffle.”
This gentleman was no other than the curate of the parish. His appearance and character appear to me to merit a few lines of description. In stature117 he stood some five feet, no more, and his head looked very much too large for this diminutive118 body. Probably this effect was increased by the peculiarities120 of his hair, which stood almost on end in large, coarse, reddish clusters over the top of his head; the pressure of a hat seemed to have not the slightest effect upon its stubborn elasticity121. He wore extremely stiff whiskers, also red in hue24, but no moustache. The habitual122 expression of his face was irresistibly123 comic; the eyes being very large and constantly moving in the drollest manner, whilst his nose, slightly celestial124 in tendency, and the peculiar119 conformation of his mouth and chin gave his countenance125 something of a Hibernian cast, though the man was true-born English. His constant attitude was very upright, as if to make the most of his inches, with the fore-finger of either hand inserted in his waistcoat pockets, and with his toes, upon which he regularly rose as he spoke101, decidedly turned in towards each other. Such was the outward and visible appearance of Mr. Orlando Whiffle. Of his character I shall not say much at present, leaving it for the divination126 of the acute reader. I may, however, remark that the man was a living satire127 upon the Church of which he was a servant, an admirable caricature, far excelling anything that a professed128 ridiculer of ecclesiasticism could possibly have conceived. His age was about forty, and he had officiated as curate in Bloomford since the arrival of Mr. Norman. At that time, some ten years ago, he already rejoiced in a family of three sons and two daughters, and the circle of his patria potesas had since been widened by the arrival of three more daughters. And yet Mr. Whiffle was a light-hearted man.
He advanced into the room with his usual bow, which, like everything he did, was very much exaggerated and extremely ridiculous, then stepped briskly up to a low arm-chair over against that occupied by the rector, and dropped into it with quite a startling suddenness.
“Good-morning, Mr. Whiffle,” said the rector, not taking the trouble to rise. “Quite a pleasant morning.”
“Remarkably129 so, sir. The singing of the sparrows quite charmed me as I came along.”
“Of the sparrows, Mr. Whiffle?”
“Possibly they may have been another species of bird, sir. I have never given much attention to natural history. The Church does not encourage it.”
He spoke in a sprightly130, jerky manner, twirling his soft, clerical hat in his hand, and constantly shuffling131 uneasily on his chair.
“Did you come across the lawn?” asked the rector, smiling slightly.
“I did, sir. And I observed there a young gentleman of whose existence here I was not previously132 aware. May I ask who?”
“He is the child of an old friend of mine — a man in a humble position in life — who has just died and left, as far as he was aware of, no relatives. I have undertaken to take care of the boy.”
“Ah! Interesting, very interesting! You will send him to school, I presume? He is hardly old enough for a boarding-school yet.”
“Nor advanced enough. The poor child has received absolutely no education of any kind.”
“Ah! Interesting beyond expression. Absolutely virgin133 soil for the ploughshare of instruction; absolutely unturned ground for the seed of fundamental ideas! I think I have already hinted to you, sir, that I am preparing a pamphlet on the subject of ‘Fundamental Ideas,’ in which I prove that there are three such ideas, and three only, which should never fail to be first of all instilled134 into the youthful mind. The first of these is the Inviolability of the Church as by Law Established; the second is the Immutability135 of the Poor Laws; the third is the Condemnability of Dissent89. These I am wont, in my facetious136 way, to term my three ‘Abilities,’ — ha, ha, ha! I fancy I shall prove to the satisfaction of all readers that an education grounded upon the basework of these three ideas would be the very ideal of what education should be.”
“I am hardly at one with you as to your second,” said Mr. Norman, “and I imagine that if you had accompanied me in a walk I took the other day in London, you would have replaced it by some more fitting one — say the Immutability of Human Wretchedness. Did you ever happen to walk through Whitecross Street when you lived in London, Mr. Whiffle?”
“Whitecross Street, my dear sir? I had the happiness of officiating for a brief period in the very parish which includes it.”
“Indeed? Then I need not describe it to you. Good God! I shall be haunted to my dying day with the scenes I beheld137 there last Saturday night.”
“Very bad locality, sir; remarkably bad. Indeed, I may say it surpasses my limited comprehension that such localities should be permitted to exist in a land enjoying the inestimable blessing138 of a Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. Upon my word, sir, that is one of the things that one should preach a crusade against! Yes, if I had the happiness of holding a living in London, I would commence to preach a crusade against Whitecross Street tomorrow — I mean next Sunday.”
Mr. Whiffle, according to his habit, rose to his feet in the excitement of speaking, crushed his hat emphatically upon the table, thrust his fingers deep into his waistcoat pockets, and swayed backwards139 and forwards on his toes. As he concluded, he plumped down again into his easy chair.
“But I imagine, Mr. Whiffle, that the first step towards abolishing such horrors would consist of a judicious140 alteration141 in those Poor Laws which you pledge yourself to maintain.”
Mr. Norman had scarcely a serious air when conversing142 with his curate. You could see that he took a pleasure in bringing out the man’s eccentricities143 and internally making merry over them.
“No such thing, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Whiffle, “that is, I mean, if you permit me to urge my opinion against that of my rector. I assure you, sir, I have given thought to the subject. It is not the Poor Laws at fault; it is inherent impracticability in the nature of the lower classes which renders these Laws comparatively inoperative. Depend upon it, sir, the spread of Dissent among these off-scourings of the earth, if I may so express myself, is the origin and root of the evil. They lack respect for the Established Church, sir.”
“Possibly there may be something in what you say, Mr. Whiffle.”
“I have in my head, sir, the details of a pamphlet on the subject of Dissent. I will venture to submit it to you in a short time. If there is one thing against which the Church should at once preach a crusade, it is that canker in the blossom of contemporary society, if I may so express myself — Dissent!”
“It was horrible, horrible!” said the rector, speaking more to himself than to Mr. Whiffle. “The thought oftenest in my mind whilst in that hideous144 scene was: How can we wonder that men doubt the existence of God?”
“Precisely145 the same thought has often occurred to myself. Really, one ought to carry about with one small selected volumes of religious evidences, especially for such occasions.”
There was silence for some minutes, during which Mr. Whiffle whistled a Te Deum in a very low tone. Mr. Norman then suddenly seemed to rouse himself.
“But I have been wandering,” he said. “My real reason for begging you to look in this morning was that I might consult you on the subject of Arthur’s education. The child’s name is Arthur Golding. Do you think your leisure would permit of your giving the child two or three hours’ teaching a day?”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Whiffle, starting to his feet, “I should be overjoyed to be entrusted147 with such a duty! It would be the proudest day for me since that ever-memorable one upon which I entered the Church!”
“I am glad it so entirely148 chimes with your inclinations149. As I said, the poor lad is terribly backward. He is, moreover, quite unusually sensitive for a child. I fancy that in any case we must wait some little time before attempting to do anything with him. I never saw a child suffer so as he has done in consequence of his father’s death. Suppose I walk over to you this evening, if it continues fine, and bring Arthur with me? The sight of your children might cheer him.”
“Precisely, precisely!” exclaimed Orlando, who grew more cheery than ever when reminded of his family — for did not a tutorship imply a stipend150? “Let us say seven o’clock, my dear sir. At that hour we shall all be gathered round the hearth in domestic peace, I hope.”
“So be it.”
Very shortly after this Mr. Whiffle rose and took his leave. He was, it should be noticed, a man by no means devoid151 of information, which, when he kept clear of clerical matters, he could make tolerable use of. He was a fair classical scholar, but especially an excellent arithmetician, so that Edward Norman had not acted with such indiscretion as might at first sight appear in proposing to entrust146 to him such an important matter as a child’s education.
The rector had not seen fit, however, to make Mr. Whiffle his confidant in the exact story of Arthur Golding’s antecedents. Nothing would be gained by doing so; on the contrary Orlando’s active tongue would scarcely fail to circulate among the parishioners stories which were far better kept secret. But that afternoon Mr. Norman, in writing a letter to the only intimate friend he possessed, by name Gilbert Gresham, an artist who was just then travelling in Italy, gave a full account of the evening he had passed in Whitecross Street.
It was only in these letters to his friend that Edward Norman gave utterance152 to his real feelings. In miscellaneous company he was always under obvious restraints; with such men as his curate and sundry153 of the neighbouring clergy who occasionally visited him he was at ease, often gravely satirical, but still not himself. Thus it came about that various estimates of his character were in circulation among his acquaintances. Possibly he did not himself possess much more real insight into his own nature than did these superficial observers.
“And whom do you think,” the letter went on, after describing vividly154 the horrors of Whitecross Street, “whom do you think I discovered in one of the foulest155 recesses156 of this Pandemonium157? No other than my once dear friend, Arthur Golding. Of course you remember him quite well, though I recollect158 he was not an intimate acquaintance of yours; he did not belong to your set at Balliol. He was a schoolfellow of mine to begin with, and we never lost sight of each other for more than a few weeks at a time during half a dozen years or so. Little did I imagine then that I should one day find him at the last gasp159 in a London garret. He had written to me, poor fellow, begging that I would come and see him, as he feared he was drawing to his end; but, by a piece of stupidity on the part of my housekeeper, the letter was not forwarded to me. I found him unconscious. After I had watched by his side for some time his senses appeared partially160 to return to him. Though he was unable to speak, he pointed161 to his child, a boy of some eight years, who lay by his side, and I console myself with the idea that rendered his last moments easier by showing that I understood his wish.
“Poor Golding! At his best he was, in appearance, the handsomest youth I ever knew; his beauty, indeed, was almost feminine, and, I suspect, indicated rather plainly the weak parts of his character. I had entirely lost sight of him for many years. Even when I last parted from him in those brighter days he was all but an habitual drunkard; I remember warning him with all the severity I was capable of — Heaven knows that is not saying much! — of the terrible path upon which he was entering. But I could little foresee the horrors through which his brief life would struggle to that pitiful end.
“I found in his pocket, after his death, a long letter, written in an almost illegible162 hand, and intended for myself; perhaps he meant me to receive it after his death, for it was ready addressed and stamped, though written more than a week before. In this he revealed to me a secret I could never have suspected. It seems that, shortly after the birth of the child, he fell into severe difficulties, in consequence of which he was ultimately compelled to obtain a clerkship of some kind. His salary, however, proved insufficient163 to his needs, and, in a fatal moment, he yielded to a terrible temptation, and robbed his employers. He was found out, and suffered the punishment for his crime. This was the blow that hopelessly shattered what little of energy and purpose his life had hitherto retained.
“You will wonder how it was that he never applied164 to me for some kind of assistance before his ruin had become irretrievable, for, with my means and connections, I might well have been expected to help him. Ah! that awakens165 sore memories, and necessitates166 the narrative167 of a part of my own history, which as yet I have never poured into even your friendly ears. You must have wondered who the wretched woman was who, as Golding’s wife, bore a share in this life-tragedy, and had vanished before the close of it.
“Do you remember ‘Laura,’ the laughing-eyed angel of whom I used to prate168 to you from morning to night; whom I told you I had loved from a child, for whose sake I learned by heart one of Petrarch’s sonnets169 every day of my life? It makes me miserable170 to think of her, and I must tell what I have to tell in very few words. Well, at the end of the last term we spent together at the University, Golding came to spend a few weeks with me amid the delights of my Warwickshire home. At that time, as I have said, he was a charming fellow, and a few days sufficed to make him as much at his ease with all my friends and acquaintances as I was myself. He saw Laura, could not but fall madly in love with her; in an evil hour persuaded her to reciprocate171 his passion, and — to cut the story short — eloped with her. At first I raved172 against him like a madman, feeling sure he had merely carried off the girl to ruin her. With all my energy I hunted him down, and, to my amazement173, found that the two were married. Of course we quarrelled violently, and there you have the explanation of our broken intimacy174.
“Now you will not wonder at my determining to adopt his child, whose name is also Arthur, for is he not her child, the child of that Laura who was once — alas175! alas! — more than the world to me? Oh, God! what she must have gone through! In his letter Golding did not mention her name; but I have had the courage to ask the boy what he knew of his mother, and he tells me she died in the hospital a long time ago. It was a relief to hear it.
“And so I shall bring the boy up as my own, to be a brother to Helen. Will he grow up imbued176 with his father’s vices177, and make me wish that I had left him to struggle for his bitter existence in the seething178 sewer179 out of which I have plucked him? Who knows? He seems rather a strange lad; I half think I shall like him, for it is certain he has something of his mother’s face, though most of his father’s. He is as gentle as a girl, and, I should imagine, of very tolerable natural abilities. Well, I must do all I can for his education, but of course his future lies in the lap of the gods. I will not fail to acquaint you with his progress — the reverse.”
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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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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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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ivy
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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21
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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22
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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23
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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24
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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25
bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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26
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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27
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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28
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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29
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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30
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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31
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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32
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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33
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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34
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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35
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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36
disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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37
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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38
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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39
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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40
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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41
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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42
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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43
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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44
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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45
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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46
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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47
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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48
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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49
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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50
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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51
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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52
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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53
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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54
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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55
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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56
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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57
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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59
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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60
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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61
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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62
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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63
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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64
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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65
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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66
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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67
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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68
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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69
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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70
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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71
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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72
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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73
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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74
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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75
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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76
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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77
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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78
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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79
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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80
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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81
noted
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|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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82
astronomical
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|
| adj.天文学的，（数字）极大的 | |
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83
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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84
maidens
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|
| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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85
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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86
preponderate
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|
| v.数目超过；占优势 | |
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87
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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88
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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89
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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90
delicacy
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|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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91
solitary
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|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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92
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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93
remonstrances
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|
| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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94
wont
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|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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95
pretext
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|
| n.借口，托词 | |
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96
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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97
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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98
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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99
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
bespoke
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|
| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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101
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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102
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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103
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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104
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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105
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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106
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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107
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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108
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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109
attenuated
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|
| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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110
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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111
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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112
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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113
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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114
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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115
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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116
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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117
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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118
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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119
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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120
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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121
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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122
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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123
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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124
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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125
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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126
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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127
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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128
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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129
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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130
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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131
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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132
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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133
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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134
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
immutability
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| n.不变(性) | |
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136
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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137
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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138
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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139
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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140
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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141
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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142
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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143
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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144
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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145
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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146
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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147
entrusted
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|
| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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149
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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150
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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151
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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152
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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153
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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154
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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155
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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156
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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157
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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158
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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159
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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160
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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161
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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162
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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163
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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164
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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165
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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166
necessitates
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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167
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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168
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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169
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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170
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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171
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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172
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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173
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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174
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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175
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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176
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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177
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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178
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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179
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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