The subject of his meditation4 was Maud herself. That last remark of hers in reference to her future husband had, he scarcely knew why, jarred most unpleasantly upon his ear. For the first time he asked himself seriously whether this marriage of his daughter with Mr. Waghorn was a prudent5 one, or likely to be a happy one. In vain he represented to himself that Waghorn was undoubtedly6 a highly respectable man — a railway director, to boot — and that Maud had exhibited no repugnance7 whatever for the match; indeed that she had been left to her own will entirely8 in the matter. He could not restore his mind to that state of calm indifferentism which it was his habit to pursue. He reflected upon his own marriage. It had been a happy one, he thought; yes, he certainly thought so; for the truth of the matter was, that his wife had been a helpless, good-hearted, inoffensive child, with whom scarcely most refractory9 husband could have had the brutality10 to quarrel.
In all probability, he thought, Maud had no particular affection for her intended husband; but what matter, so long as she did not absolutely dislike him? It was a highly respectable match.
“Pooh, pooh!” exclaimed Mr. Gresham, at length, and went to dinner. The mood had passed away.
Mr. Gresham had been more favourably11 impressed with Arthur Golding than, in accordance with his usual habit, he had seen fit to declare. He looked forward with some pleasure to his return on the ensuing evening, and, when he arrived, was awaiting him in the studio. Arthur had a large portfolio12 under his arm.
“You have brought me some drawings to look at?” said the artist. “Let me see.”
He took the portfolio, laid it open upon the table, and proceeded to examine the contents, whilst Arthur stood regarding the pictures on the wall, from time to time stealing a glance at Mr. Gresham in an endeavour to observe the effect the drawings were producing upon him.
“Some of these are by no means bad,” said the latter, at length, “considering the circumstances under which they were produced. Well, did you discuss the matter with Mr. Tollady?”
Arthur replied that he had done so. He did not say, however, that in doing so, he had made no mention of the pecuniary13 circumstances, and had merely spoken of Mr. Gresham’s offer to give him lessons for an hour or two each day.
“And what was the result?” asked the artist.
“We fear that it would be impossible for me to cease working in the office altogether; but Mr. Tollady. is very anxious that I should accept your kind offer to direct me in my studies.”
“Well, I will tell you, Mr. Golding,” said the artist, “precisely my opinion on this affair. I have carefully examined your drawings, and I feel sure that you possess ability, which, if rightly directed, will make you an eminent17 and successful artist. But you no doubt understand that ability alone is of little good without careful training. Your drawings are very clever, there is no denying it; but, if I chose, I could pick holes in them after a manner you wouldn’t thank me for. And this merely because your taste has not been trained properly. Now if I undertake to instruct you in these things you lack, you understand it would be with the intention of making an artist of you. That to become an artist, you must be able to devote all your time to your art. Now, what is to be done?”
“Then I am sorry, sir,” replied Arthur, “but I fear it is useless for me to think of becoming an artist. My duty must come before my inclinations18.”
“But is it not one’s first duty to consider one’s own future?” asked Mr. Gresham, looking at Arthur from under his eyebrows19.
“Not in such a manner as to inflict20 injury upon others,” replied Arthur, firmly.
“And you would be content to resign the glories of a successful artist’s life merely because your preparation for such would give Mr. Tollady a little inconvenience?”
“You do not know Mr. Tollady, sir,” replied Arthur, with a touch of indignation in his tone. “He would gladly submit to any inconvenience if he thought it for my benefit; but I could not accept such a sacrifice. It would not merely be inconvenience to him if I were to desert his business now, it would be a serious loss; for circumstances have made me very useful to him. I must not think of taking such a step; I could not.”
“You are young, Mr. Golding,” said the artist, with his peculiar21 smile. “If you live another twenty years your views of life will change.”
“Never, I trust, in this particular!” exclaimed Arthur.
“I see a number of drawings from casts here,” said Mr. Gresham, turning suddenly round to the portfolio. “Did you purchase the models?”
“Mr. Tollady has bought me them from time to time, sir.”
“And when do you work at them?”
“In the evenings and early in the morning.”
“When do you usually rise?”
“At five, sir.”
“And go to bed?”
“Generally a little before midnight.”
“Have you any design upon your life, Mr. Golding?”
“Habit has made those hours easy to me,” replied Arthur, with a smile.
“Yesterday,” resumed the artist, after a short pause, “I referred to a legacy22 of Mr. Norman’s. I think it is time to speak of it in detail. Mr. Norman left you in his will the sum of five thousand pounds.”
Arthur kept his eyes fixed23 upon the floor, and made no reply.
“The money,” pursued Mr. Gresham, “is invested in Three per cent. Consols, and produces accordingly a hundred and fifty pounds a year. You could almost live on that, Mr. Golding?”
Probably Mr. Gresham had no intention of looking fiendish when he spoke15 these words; but an observer could scarcely have helped associating his expression of face with that of a diabolical24 tempter.
Arthur still held his eyes down and made no reply.
“Discretion is left to me in the will,” pursued the artist, “with regard to the disposal of this money till you reach your twenty-first year. If you think it desirable, I will direct that the half-yearly dividends25 shall be paid to you henceforth.”
Still Arthur made no reply.
“Perhaps I am taking you at an unfair advantage,” said Mr. Gresham, after watching the young man with an amused face for several minutes. “Suppose you were to ask my advice on this point. I am in a certain sense, you see, your guardian27.”
“I should gladly listen to your advice, sir,” said Arthur, raising a pale and anxious face to his questioner.
“It shall be sincere, then. Listen! As you conceive that to give up your printing would be an unjustifiable injury to Mr. Tollady, suppose you reconcile your doubts in this way. Say to Mr. Tollady: ‘I find it is very desirable that I should have all my time to devote to my art studies. In place, therefore, of working myself in the business for the future, I will become a sleeping partner, advancing towards our joint28 expenses of every kind the sum of a hundred and fifty pounds a year. With this we shall be able to employ another man in my stead, and I shall esteem29 my board and lodging30 as quite adequate interest upon my money.’ I am well aware that this would be a peculiar arrangement under ordinary circumstances, but between yourself and Mr. Tollady it might possibly exist.”
“Nothing would please me so much as to use my money for Mr. Tollady’s advantage,” replied Arthur: “but I very much fear he could not be brought to accept it.”
“Mr. Tollady has, probably, maturer views of life than yourself, Mr. Golding,” said Mr. Gresham, smiling.
“I am sure, sir,” replied Arthur, “it is quite impossible for any man to be more nobly disinterested31 in all his views. Had he been of a less benevolent32 nature he would be a far richer man than he is.”
“Do you mean he employs much money in charity?”
“More than he can afford to. I know his life would be valueless to him if he lost the means of relieving suffering.”
“I fear there are not many such men,” said the artist, with concealed33 irony34.
“It is impossible there should be,” replied Arthur. “The world would not be so miserable35 as it is.”
“Do you find it miserable? On the whole, it appears to me a sufficiently36 agreeable spot.”
“You view it as a wealthy man, sir,” replied Arthur, surprised at his own boldness, but feeling impelled37 to speak. “You see only the bright side of life; into the darkness which envelopes the majority of mankind you never penetrate38, the scorn or disgust which it excites in you is too strong. Could you view a tenth of the hopeless depravity, the unspeakable wretchedness, which we who live in a poor quarter have daily before our eyes, it would render you unhappy for the rest of your life.”
“I must not detract from your estimation of my humanity,” replied Mr. Gresham. “But let us stick to the matter in hand. Do you think it would be of any use if I saw Mr. Tollady personally, and endeavoured to bring him round to our plans?”
“But I beg,” interposed Arthur, “that you will not consider me to have given my absolute consent. In any case I must necessarily have a few hours of leisure time during each day, and you would not object to my employing these in Mr. Tollady’s affairs?”
“That will, of course, be your own business. I think we shall find a way out of the difficulty. In the meantime, will you do me the favour of dining with me? Then we will go together and see Mr. Tollady after dinner.”
Arthur started at the unexpected invitation, and was on the point of making a hurried and awkward excuse, when Mr. Gresham, who was by no means deficient39 in agreeable tact40, when he chose to exercise it, perceiving his embarrassment41, hastened to reassure42 him.
“My daughter and myself are alone to-night, and dinner under such circumstances is apt to lack conversation. You have no pressing engagement?”
Arthur could not allege43 that he had, and Mr. Gresham turned to show the way from the room.
“Bye-the-by,” he remarked, as they passed out of the studio, “do you remember Miss Norman, the little girl at the Rectory, as she was in those days?”
“I remember her distinctly,” replied Arthur. “One circumstance has especially fixed itself in my memory, that of our having once looked over a book of engravings together, which gave me great delight.”
“You were an artist even then?” returned Mr. Gresham. “Miss Norman will be with us in a short time. She has been studying in Germany for a couple of years.”
As he spoke they entered the dining-room, where Maud awaited them. Arthur was duly presented, and got through the business in a very creditable manner. His natural grace of demeanour never suffered him to be absolutely awkward in his movements, but the deep blush upon his features told how keenly he felt the unwonted nature of his position.
“How delightfully45 you have altered papa’s picture!” exclaimed Maud, as they assumed their seats at table, the wonted expression of the corners of her lips rendering46 it uncertain how she meant the remark to be interpreted. “I really scarcely recognised it in your beautiful little water-colour.”
“The alterations47 were due to my not having seen the original picture,” replied Arthur, in his tone of manly48 modesty49. “I made the copy from an engraving44, and had to trust to my imagination for the colouring.”
“Our imaginations are wonderfully useful; are they not, papa?” proceeded Miss Gresham. “Life would be scarcely tolerable without them.”
“I thought, Miss Gresham,” said her father, “you rather prided yourself upon your actuality.”
“Very possibly,” replied Maud, “but that does not exclude a very useful employment for my imagination. By means of it I gauge50 the sufferings of those whose imagination is too powerful, and derive51 consolation52 from the contrast.”
Conversation was maintained with more or less vivacity53 till the dessert was being laid, when a servant announced that Mr. Waghorn had called.
“Oh, ask him to come in here,” said Mr. Gresham. “He is just in time for dessert. Mr. Waghorn is one of our especial friends, Mr. Golding.”
Mr. John Waghorn entered. He was rather a tall man, partly bald, and, to judge from his features, about thirty-six or thirty-seven. The appearance was intensely respectable, from the scanty54 locks carefully brushed forward on each side of the forehead, down to the immaculate boots which made no sound upon the carpet. He was in evening dress, and wore an exceedingly massive gold chain, supporting a wonderable number of valuable seals. In body he showed a tendency to stoutness55, and one observed that his fingers were short and chubby56. He had a very full beard, but no moustache. The outlines of his face could hardly be called agreeable; and there was an expression in the dull eye and the rather thick lips which denoted a sensual temperament57; whilst the narrow and retreating forehead was suggestive of no very liberal supply of brains. For all that, Mr. Waghorn’s appearance was intensely respectable. He bore the stamp of a wealthy man on every part of his person. A certain habit he had of drawing in the lips and suddenly shooting them out again somehow conveyed an impression of the aftertaste of good dinners. Stepping up to the table with an astonishingly polite air, he shook hands with Mr. and Miss Gresham, and bowed to Arthur Golding, then assumed the seat indicated by Mr. Gresham, which was over against Arthur.
Why did this man’s face appear familiar to Arthur? He felt sure that he did not now see it for the first time, but, though he racked his brains to discover when he and Mr. Waghorn could by any possibility have met, the effort was quite in vain. The countenance58 excited in him feelings of intense repulsion, though he had no idea why. He felt instinctively59 that beneath that smooth outside of immaculate respectability lay hidden secret depths of foulness60 and all impurity61. He felt uncomfortable in the man’s presence, and when he discerned, as he soon did, that closer relation than mere14 acquaintanceship existed between him and Miss Gresham, he experienced, involuntarily, a keen sensation of pity for the young lady.
Mr. Waghorn’s conversation was, like his appearance, eminently62 respectable. His object in looking in this evening, he said, had been to request his friends’ company in his box at the opera. “Lucia di Lammermuir” was to be played, he informed them, and thereupon gave utterance63 to a number of most respectable criticisms of the piece, such as may be heard in the mouth of any respectable gentleman during the opera season. Here Miss Gresham made a diversion by asking Mr. Golding if he liked Scott, and upon Arthur replying that he read Scott with exceeding pleasure, Mr. Waghorn broke in, if so boisterous64 an expression may be applied65 to his velvety-tongued discourse66, with the remark that he supposed his hearers knew that the Waverley Novels had remained for a long time anonymous67, and how very curious it was that such should have been the case. Upon Mr. Gresham’s entertaining the company with a few rather more interesting remarks in reference to the same subject, Mr.. Waghorn said that he had heard on very good authority that Lord So-and-So had just completed a novel, which he seriously thought of publishing; and upon Maud’s observing, somewhat satirically, that she was glad his lordship was reflecting upon the point before coming to his ultimate decision, Mr. Waghorn replied that he echoed Miss Gresham’s sentiments, for the reading public were so deplorably inappreciative now-a-days. And so the conversation continued to the end of dessert, when, Mr. Gresham excusing himself from the opera, Maud proposed that she should despatch68 a note to a friend a few doors off, begging her to make up the trio. This was accordingly done, the friend yielded her gracious assent69, and she, Miss Gresham, and Mr. Waghorn drove off in the latter’s carriage to the opera.
Mr. Gresham and Arthur Golding then set out to walk to Charlotte Place, where they found Mr. Tollady standing1 in the doorway70 of his shop, awaiting Arthur, whose long absence somewhat surprised him. All retired71 to the back-parlour, and there discussed the proposition which Mr. Gresham brought forward. Mr. Tollady would not at first listen to the proposal that Arthur should surrender his money to him, but on the latter and Mr. Gresham’s representing to him that it was in reality an investment in the business which Arthur wished to make, in return for which he obtained the necessaries of life in any case, and, perhaps, some share of subsequent profits, the printer, though reluctantly, ceased his opposition72. He showed to Mr. Gresham that, considering the modesty of Arthur’s wants, the hundred and fifty pounds a year would quite suffice to supply them all and to pay for the services of a new assistant as well, and would only consent to the arrangement in case Arthur would make a definite stipulation73 to accept a certain percentage upon the profits that might result. In this way, at length, the matter was settled, and Mr. Gresham, after bidding Arthur to visit him in Portland Place at ten o’clock on the following morning, took his leave.
“I don’t like it, Arthur; I don’t like it,” said Mr. Tollady, after pacing the little room for some time in silence. “I shall become a dead-weight upon you, holding you back from no one knows what advantages. You will regret having thus disposed of your money; I fear you will, Arthur.”
“Never,” exclaimed the young man. “You know well, Mr. Tollady, how often we have said that a little capital in our business was what we chiefly wanted. It will be a gain in every way. Do not think that I shall desert you, even when you get the new man. I shall find many an hour to look after office work; and you have often said that I had good ideas in business matters. And then I shall every day be making progress in my art. I feel like a new man today! Oh, how I will work, work, work! When shall I have my first picture in the Academy? It shall not be long, I assure you. Why, have I not already begun to earn money for my pictures? Here, Mr. Tollady, take these five shillings you gave me today. Take them and do anything you like with them; I beg you to! I will make a resolution that all the money I henceforth earn by my paintings I will put into your hands, to be used as you think best. I could not dispose of it better!”
“Stop, stop, my dear boy!” cried Mr. Tollady, with a smile, at once pleased and pained. “Why, Arthur, you will never get on in the world if you give away all your money in that fashion. You would always be miserably74 poor, and if there is any curse which I would fervently75 hope and trust may be averted76 from you, it is that of a weary, grinding, life-long poverty. Besides, you speak as if I should live for ever. You forget that I am close upon my sixtieth year, and that I cannot hope to share your hopes and your triumphs for very much longer.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Arthur, who was in wonderfully high spirits. “You shall live to see me R. A. yet! Don’t shake your head, Mr. Tollady; I tell you, you shall!”
“Arthur,” began the old man, in a grave voice, the smile dying away from his worn features. He seemed on the point of communicating something which lay upon his mind, but suddenly he ceased, and shook his head.
“What were you going to say?” asked Arthur.
“Nothing, my dear boy, except that I am heartily77 glad of this piece of good fortune that has befallen you. I feel sure it will only be the prologue78 to a series of such scenes, each brighter and happier than the other. No, Arthur, I shall not live to see your richest rewards; but I can imagine them, and the rest of my days will be the more peaceful for the prospect79. Make a good use of your fortune, Arthur. If you ever become wealthy, do not let your wealth pervert80 you. It is a furnace through which few can pass unscathed; but if youth holds forth26 any promise of manhood, I think you may be one of those. For my own part I am getting a little tired of life, though I hold with the old philosophers that no man should desert his post till Fate calls him from it. Life has not been over kind to me, on the whole, though in the sight of your happiness, Arthur, in the hope of your future I find rich amends81 for all I have suffered. Still I am tired, and I am not sorry to feel that Fate is preparing the summons. I feel that any day I may fall into my last sleep, and from that I hope and believe that no one will ever wake me.
Arthur could not reply in words, for the solemn pathos82 of the old man’s last words affected83 him too strongly. But he caught his friend’s right hand in both his own, and pressed it fervently. Then, according to his habit, he went upstairs into the printing office and worked an hour at case, till Mr. Tollady called him down to share his supper. It was eleven o’clock when they parted for the night, and for several hours after this Arthur paced his room, unable to go to rest. His forehead was hot and feverish84 with the ardent85 thoughts which wrought86 tumultuously in his mind. Now for the first time, in the dead stillness of the night, he seemed fully16 to realise the extent of his good fortune. He possessed87 for the future a yearly income amply sufficient for all his moderate wants, if Mr. Tollady’s sad forebodings should prove true, and he should find himself dependent on his own resources. A hundred and fifty pounds a year represent nearly three pounds a week, a fortune to one brought up among the hard-working classes of London life. How many have to live and support a family on not more than a third of that sum. And, in addition, all his thoughts arose before a background of calm delight, the consciousness that henceforth it would be possible to devote himself entirely to his art. Not for the present Was his mind disturbed by those uneasy conflicts between the varying elements of his nature which we have already described. Tonight he was all artist; the thought of living for anything but art never occurred to him during these hours of enraptured88 reverie.
Strange that in the midst of his thoughts an old recollection should come back with startling vividness, and he should see himself as a child in Bloomford Rectory, sitting by the side of another child, a little girl, and gazing with delight at a large volume of pictures. Then he remembered what Mr. Gresham had said to him with regard to Helen Norman, and immediately his mind began to picture her as she must appear now that she was grown up. He retained, of course, no recollection of her face as a child, but he had never ceased to associate with her memory a distinct consciousness of wonder, partaking of reverence89, from which he concluded that she had been, in all probability, a beautiful child. Should he ever see her at Mr. Gresham’s? If he did, would she pay any attention to him, or show any sign of remembering his name? There was but little chance of her doing so, and yet he felt he should very much like to see her, to know what she had become in the years since he had sat by her side. Doubtless she was now a tall, handsome, proud young lady, whom the recollection of such an incident would cause to blush and be annoyed.
As the clock at the Middlesex Hospital sounded two he put out his lamp and threw himself, still dressed, upon the bed. He never had felt more wakeful; sleep was altogether impossible for him. For half-an-hour he made vain endeavours to rest, and then once more rose and relit his lamp. Over his bed hung a small book-shelf, on which were ranged the few favourite books which he had been able to buy, and one of these he now took down and began to read. Tiring of this, he took up his drawing-board, and, having fixed the light in a suitable position, commenced to work at a crayon copy of a cast which he had hung for the purpose against the wall. And at this be worked with desperate energy till at length the change in the position of the light and shade on his model told him that daylight was beginning to make its way into the room. Putting aside his work, he washed and made some alterations in his dress, stole gently downstairs, and took a brisk walk till the hour for fetching the newspapers arrived, when he opened the shop and made the preparations for the day’s work in the usual way.
For a couple of hours each morning after this, he worked in Mr. Gresham’s studio, and the greater part of the rest of the day he spent in studies which the former suggested, working with an energy begotten90 of the intense love he had for the work. Several hours, also, he continued to devote to Mr. Tollady’s service, disregarding all the latter’s remonstrances91 and his earnest entreaties92 that he would have more regard to his health. In the course of the following month he executed two little water-colours, the fruit of two days spent in excursions to spots some miles up the Thames, and these being placed by Mr. Gresham’s recommendation in the window of a picture shop in Oxford93 Street, were very shortly sold for prices which Arthur laughed at as extravagant94.
One morning Arthur had gone as usual to Portland Place, and, on being admitted, had ascended95 to the studio. It was Mr. Gresham’s habit to enter the room some ten minutes after his pupil’s arrival, so that the latter always opened the door and went in without the precaution of a knock. This morning, on doing so, he found that the studio was not empty. Standing before one of the large easels, examining a picture which was still incomplete, he saw a young lady, tall and graceful96 in figure, robed in a morning-dress of dark material, which fitted tightly round her perfect shape, her hair gathered into a simple knot behind her head, around her neck a plain collar and a narrow violet coloured tie, which made a small bow in front, but with that exception devoid97 of ornaments98. So easy, and yet so naturally dignified99, was the attitude in which she stood, so marvellous was the chaste100 beauty of her countenance, lighted up with a look of pleasure as she gazed at the picture, so impressive was the extreme simplicity101 of her attire102, that the first glance almost persuaded Arthur that he had before him the real person of one of the goddesses whose forms made beautiful his day-dreams and flitted in ghost-like silence across the vacancy103 of his sleep. So intensely was his artistic104 sense impressed by the beauty of the vision that he with difficulty suppressed an exclamation105 of delight which had risen to his lips. The next moment, the lady’s clear, deep eye had turned upon him, and his sunk before its gaze.
For a moment there was silence, during which both stood still. The lady was the first to speak.
“Mr. Golding, is it not?” she said; and the voice thrilled upon every nerve in the hearer’s body, so wonderfully sweet did it sound to him.
Arthur bowed, but could find no words.
“I had forgotten the time,” pursued Helen Norman, “and must request you to pardon my intrusion. I knew that you came at ten, but the delight of looking at these pictures has kept me here too long.”
“Pray do not let me disturb you, Miss Norman,” said Arthur, venturing at length to raise his eyes.
“You know who I am, then?” said Helen, speaking in the absolutely natural and unaffected manner which had always been characteristic of her, containing as little of self-consciousness as her beauty did of the commonplace. “I scarcely thought we should need a formal introduction.”
Arthur’s heart swelled106 with a mingled107 pain and delight at the kind tones in which he heard himself addressed. The pain might be partly excess of pleasure, partly it was caused by the recollection of how very different his relations to this beautiful girl might have been had Fate suffered him to grow up at Bloomford Rectory. Almost in spite of himself an expression of these thoughts rose to his lips.
“I should scarcely have thought you would have remembered my name, Miss Norman. My childish folly108 and ingratitude109 certainly rendered me unworthy of recollection.”
“It is not my habit, Mr. Golding,” replied Helen, “to judge the motives111 of others. One’s own are often scarcely to be understood. My father never ceased to speak of you.”
“My thoughts have often turned in gratitude110 to Mr. Norman,” said Arthur, with sincerity112 in his voice. “It pains me that I was not able to see him again and express the feelings with which I remembered his kindness to me as a child.”
“My guardian speaks to me in high terms of your talent as an artist,” said Helen; “I hope I may soon have the pleasure of seeing one of your pictures. But I am keeping you from your work. Good morning, Mr. Golding.”
She bowed and passed out of the room; and though by looking up to the ceiling of the room the summer sunshine could be seen playing athwart the blue vault113 of heaven, it seemed to Arthur as though she had left the room in darkness.
“She is indeed a goddess!” he exclaimed to himself, as, for the first time in his life, perhaps, he began with reluctance114 to work. “And she is as far superior to me as a ‘Madonna’ of Raphael is to this miserable smudge which I call a picture!”
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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repugnance
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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refractory
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brutality
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favourably
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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pecuniary
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mere
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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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fully
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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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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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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25
dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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29
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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30
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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31
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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32
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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33
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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34
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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35
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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36
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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37
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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38
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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39
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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40
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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41
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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42
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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43
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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44
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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46
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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47
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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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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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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51
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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52
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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53
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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54
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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stoutness
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| 坚固，刚毅 | |
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56
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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57
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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58
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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59
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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60
foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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61
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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63
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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68
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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69
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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70
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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73
stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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74
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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76
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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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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78
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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79
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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80
pervert
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| n.堕落者，反常者；vt.误用，滥用；使人堕落，使入邪路 | |
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81
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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82
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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83
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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84
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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85
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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86
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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87
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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88
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
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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90
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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91
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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92
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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93
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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94
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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95
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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97
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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98
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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99
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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100
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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101
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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102
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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103
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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104
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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105
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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106
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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107
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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108
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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109
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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110
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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111
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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112
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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113
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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114
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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