But her noble nature was not destined20 to attain21 to that perfection of active benevolence22 which she more ardently24 yearned25 after in proportion as her physical powers grew less and less capable of performing their part in the grand work. Towards the middle of the summer, notwithstanding the prevalence of genial26 weather, Helen contracted a severe cold, followed by a cough which would yield to no degree of careful treatment. She herself surmised27 only too clearly the significance of this cough, and the physician she was ultimately persuaded to consult confirmed her in her fear. He had at first appeared timid and inclined to ease his patient’s mind by euphemistic expressions and consolatory28 predictions; but Helen at once told him that she had for some time suspected the truth, and begged that he would not think her so weak-minded as to be unable to face the future with all its consequences. The physician made close inquiry29 into her habits of life, and at once urged that she should cease at all events the severest parts of her work, in particular the work of the school. But to this Helen could on no account be brought to consent. She said that if her life was to be held on but brief tenure30, so much the more need that she should labour to the utmost while it lasted. Seldom chargeable with weaknesses distinctly feminine, in this matter Helen showed herself a true woman. She would listen to no argument. Her work, her work, that was her only thought.
Mr. Heatherley was a constant visitor at Holly31 Cottage, but Helen did her utmost to conceal32 from him the failure of her health. The increasing paleness of her cheek, the constant cough, these she could not prevent his observing, but any reference which he made to these signs of weakness was at once put aside and made light of. Moreover, Helen fancied she observed that the frequent visits of Mr. Heatherley were not entirely33 for her own sake, and it pleased her to think they were not. Able to sympathise as few could with poor Lucy’s quiet, self-restraining unexpectant devotion, she lost no opportunity of directing the clergyman’s attention to her companion’s many virtues34, and it afforded her keen pleasure when she thought she could observe Mr. Heatherley’s eyes more frequently resting upon the sweet face of the timid girl. Once or twice she had purposely allowed Mr. Heatherley to remain alone in the room with Lucy for half an hour; and after each such conversation she made herself happy in the belief that the clergyman’s face wore a happier look than usual. Yes, it was a true pleasure which her pure nature derived35 from the prospect36 of poor Lucy being requited37 for her long and patient love; but she would have been more than human had not the thought of so much happiness at times smitten38 as with the breath of a cold and deadly wind upon her heart, and forced into her eyes tears of bitterest anguish39.
Poor Helen! It seemed as though Fate had decreed she should pass through the deepest and darkest waters of suffering without the consolation40 of any hand clasped within her own. From the depths of her own heart could come her only comfort, and alas41! how often did it seem to her as though too constant draughts42 from the spring had at length exhausted43 its resources. It would be vain to endeavour to depict44 in mere words the suffering she endured even on her days of least depression. The unconquerable dread of being left alone with her thoughts, the fearful anticipation45 of what her life would become if she yielded to her feebleness or relinquished46 her work, this feeling had perhaps equal strength with pure devotion to principle in determining her to work on at all costs. Could she but have heard of or from Arthur from time to time, could she but have known that he was working on stoutly48 at his art — nay50, could she have received news of his death, anything would have been preferable to this losing sight of him entirely.
Often in the early summer dawns she awoke from a brief and troubled slumber51, crying “Arthur! Arthur!” In her dreams she was for ever seeking him, seeking him over wild, trackless deserts, amidst ghastly shapes and horrors unutterable. Often she saw his form afar off, always far off, beyond the sound of her voice which called upon him in tones of heartrending anguish; and, bitterest suffering of all, he generally appeared to her not alone, but with a vague shape by his side, the shape of a woman. Yes, that was Arthur’s wife. 0 God! To think that a wretched being, so unworthy of the least of Arthur’s smiles, so incapable53 of appreciating a word he uttered, of entering into the very humblest of his aspirations54, to think that such a one could boast herself his wife! Oh, it was unjust, cruelly unjust. In her bitterest moments she said in her heart that injustice55 was the beginning and the end of all things human.
Towards the end of August she was sitting one evening quietly in Lucy’s company, when the last post brought two letters, one addressed to herself, one to her companion.
“A letter for you, Lucy?” she said, smiling. “That is indeed an unusual thing.”
“Whoever can it be from?” exclaimed the other, scanning the direction closely. As she did so, a blush rose to her cheek. She looked timidly up at Helen, who was however already engaged in reading her own letter, then she broke open the envelope. Her first glance was at the last page, then, slightly averting56 her face, she began to read with an almost frightened countenance57, the paper rustling58 tremulously in her hand.
The contents of Helen’s letter appeared to be interesting. We will transcribe59 them —
“Versailles, “Aug. 18th, 1872.
“My Dear Helen, — “How well I can imagine your grave surprise on opening this letter and seeing the signature of a shameless runaway60. I cannot tell how much or how little you know of my story, which really I may some day be tempted62 to present to you in the familiar three volumes. I think it might go down excellently with the patrons of Mudie’s, especially if the character of the heroine were a trifle idealised; that, I am sure you will agree with me, would be absolutely necessary. But whether you know much or little, you have in all probability heard enough to convince you that I have suffered all sorts of horrors, and that I may fairly lay claim to your congratulations on the occasion of my once more becoming a free denizen63 of this tolerable world of ours.
“Yes, Helen; I made a mistake. In marrying Waghorn I knew that I was marrying a wealthy fool, if not something worse, but I had convinced myself that, beyond my change of name, I should be able to keep myself as distinct and separate from ‘my husband’ as though I had still been single. I married, in fact, for the sake of a position. Now-a-days an unmarried woman of more than one-and-twenty stands in an anomalous64 situation. Her maidenhood65 brings with it absolutely nothing but disadvantages. You will say that I might have made a better match. Well, I suppose I might; but, to tell you the truth, there was something of perversity66 in my act I had always a strange pleasure in doing and thinking differently from other people, in forcing circumstances to suit my own whims67 rather than in bending myself to circumstances. In this case I had resolved to have the delight of leading an agreeable life amid surroundings which would have driven any other woman crazy. Of course I had miscalculated my own powers. I found that I had to deal with quite an exceptional brute68, and at length I bitterly repented69 my folly70.
“Now this letter is meant to be a little reproachful. Among all my acquaintances in London there was one, and one alone, who ever had any power over those tenderer impulses of my nature which it is customary to call the better part of one. One acquaintance I had who, by continuing what she had once been to me, a frank friend, might often have lightened my suffering and guided me in the paths of prudence71 — that is the word I prefer to substitute for such high-flown terms as ‘virtue,’ ‘honour,’ or even ‘wisdom.’ But that acquaintance was too much disgusted with my lack of seriousness to long retain her interest in my doing or suffering. Even at the eleventh hour, when I had determined72 to leave ‘my husband’s’ house, but was as yet uncertain where to go, I called upon this acquaintance of mine; but, alas! she was too unwell to see me; and so — Never mind what followed. Can you guess who the acquaintance was?
“No, no, Helen; I am not, after all, writing to reproach you, but merely to let you know that I am once more comfortable, and probably in a fair way to be so for the rest of my life. What interest was it likely you could take in me and my affairs? We were pursuing such wholly different paths; both of us philosophers, but belonging to what different schools. You were a species of Stoic74, given up to the pursuit of intensely serious aims, which aims presupposed the sacrifice of your own pleasures. You could see nothing good in a life which was not wholly devoted to the benefit of others. You were preeminently sage76, in the French sense of the word. Who could imagine Helen Norman in love, to say nothing of being married? But I, for my part, was a sort of Epicurean; and yet I think not exactly an Epicurean, but that term is the closest my philosophical77 knowledge will supply. I looked upon the world with contempt, and made gratified egotism the sole end of my existence. How was it likely you could continue to be my friend?
“You will say that I must have seen that my philosophy is delusive78, and that consequently I have given it up. Pas du tout49, ma chère. I still pursue with intense avidity what I have ever considered the main object of this frivolous79 life. And shall I tell you to what it has brought me? I am on the point of being affianced to — to a Russian Prince! Yes; believe it or not, as you please. Poor fellow! He has been desperately80 in love with me for — can you believe it? — more than a month. Though I am not yet technically81 divorced, he persists in considering me so, and threatens to make me his property as soon as possible. Papa looks upon the undertaking82 with a quiet smile of — I know not what. All the reply I can get from him on this matter is, ‘Mais, cela ne me regarde pas; c’est une affaire à toi, ma fille.’
“Think of me occasionally, Helen; and, when you do so, picture me amid the horrors of a Russian winter, over the ears in bear skins. Are you happy, yourself? I will hope so, but I have my doubts. Depend upon it your philosophy is horribly unpractical. Think it over, there’s a good girl. Your Russian prince may even now be waiting for you, if only you knew it.
“Yours affectionately, dear Helen, “Maud.”
Helen laid aside the letter with a deep sigh, and for a few moments was sunk in her own reflections. When she at length looked up, she saw that Lucy’s eyes were fixed upon her, with a curiously83 mingled84 expression of pleasure and pain.
“Will — will you please to read this, Miss Norman?” asked Lucy, holding out the open letter, her face suffused85 with a deep blush.
Wondering much what the contents could be, Helen took it and read. It was a proposal from Mr. Heatherley, a manly86 letter, very characteristic of the writer. There was no rapturous declamation87, no exaggerated passion; merely the. offer of a deep and unwavering affection, of a share in all his future joys and sorrows, of active participation88 in his life’s work. Far from drawing imaginative pictures of a lover’s paradise, he clearly intimated that the duties of a clergyman’s wife were often laborious89, often distasteful, and she who would fulfil them duly must be distinguished90 by piety91, good sense, and infinite patience. Of all these he believed Lucy was possessed, for h had long watched her closely and every new discovery he had made had served to strengthen his affection by convincing him that it was based on reason. He urged her not to be hasty in her reply, but to write to him after several days’ consideration.
“And your answer, Lucy?” asked Helen, smiling, though with something of sadness.
The girl at once left her chair and seated herself on a low stool at Helen’s feet. As she spoke92 she looked up into the latter’s face, and her eyes were suffused with tears.
“I cannot leave you!” she whispered, whilst the tears slowly gathered and overflowed93. “I could never leave you!”
“Dear, affectionate child!” exclaimed Helen, passing her arm round Lucy, and looking down upon her with a calm tenderness which seemed to invest her pale Madonna-like face with a halo of sanctity. “Do you really mean that your love for me would overpower that you have so long felt for Mr. Heatherley?”
“Indeed — indeed I feel it does,” sobbed94 Lucy. “Now you have more need than ever of me, now that you are so weak and suffer so much. How could I leave you alone, or, still worse, bear to think that some one else was filling my place in your regard? I am sure Mr. Heatherley does not know how ill you are, or he could not wish to persuade me to leave you.”
“But it is hardly fair, dear,” replied Helen, “to make Mr. Heatherley’s chance of a wife depend upon the state of my health. Mr. Heatherley I am sure wishes me well, but to expect him to remain a bachelor for an indefinite period on my account would be rather too much.”
There was silence, during which Lucy sat with her face resting upon her hands.
“Do you love him well enough,” pursued Helen, still with the same calm smile upon her lips, “to take him as your husband? Are you undaunted by this formidable array of wifely duties?”
“No work could be too severe if he set it me,” replied Lucy, without uncovering her face.
“Then,” continued Helen, “much as you regret leaving me, Lucy, you must not let that influence your answer. Who am I that I should hold you back before such a prospect of happiness? We need not part for ever, dear.”
“Not yet, not yet!” exclaimed the other, her sobs96 breaking out afresh. “The winter is coming on, the time when you will need more care than ever. I could not leave you till the warm weather returns and you are quite strong and well again.”
“I am not sure that I shall be here through the winter, Lucy,” replied Helen, with a slight sigh. “The doctor has been warning me very seriously of late that it might be absolutely necessary to seek some warmer climate before the winter begins. I think he is too anxious, but still I must not endanger my possibilities of future work by neglecting a few precautions. And it would never do for me to take you into foreign countries. You might come back a Russian Catholic, and what would Mr. Heatherley say then? Promise me that you will answer this letter in the affirmative, and at once. I earnestly desire it. You will not refuse to please me?”
“I am so young,” urged Lucy. “I have so much to learn. In a year you would teach me so much. Let me wait one more year.”
“Mr. Heatherley will make a better instructor97 than I, Lucy,” said Helen.
There was something of yielding, of reluctance98 in her friend’s tone which strengthened Lucy’s purpose. Helen had often said to her that without her she would indeed feel lonely, and the affectionate girl could not bear that a reason she thought selfish should be the cause of her leaving Helen now that the latter was ill in health. Knowing, too, all that Helen had suffered from the destruction of her life’s hope she could not bear to set before her a picture of happiness which could only render her desolation more bitter. Armed with the strength of a pure unselfishness she spoke in a tone of decision which surprised her friend.
“Miss Norman, I must beg you to let me have my own way in this. I could not be happy if I left you at once and married Mr. Heatherley. And indeed I am too young; I have too little experience. It will be much better for him to wait another year.”
“With what terrible calmness you speak of a year, Lucy,” said Helen, half jestingly, half sadly. “Is it not presumption99 in you to look forward so far into time, and say: At the end of a year I will do such and such a thing? Especially in so grave a matter as this, delay may mean the sacrifice of a life’s happiness. You must not think that our parting will be so absolute, Lucy. Mr. Heatherley will not monopolise you. As soon as I get rid of this weakness and can go out again and attend to my work I shall often call at your house in the afternoon and ask you to let me sit in your parlour for half an hour. Then you will make me a cup of tea in your daintiest manner, and perhaps you will cut me thin slices of bread and butter, like you do now when you wish to coax100 me to eat. Oh, what chats we will have! Doesn’t the picture tempt61 you?”
Lucy shook her head.
“When you are quite well again, Miss Norman,” she said; “but not till then. I will tell Mr. Heatherley that if he will wait for me till next midsummer I will be his wife. But not till then.”
“And you will keep the promise, Lucy, whatever should happen to me — I mean,” she added quickly, “you will not let my state of health influence you then. In any case it shall be next midsummer? Promise me that solemnly, Lucy. It will be a great comfort to me.”
“I promise,” said Lucy, with a sigh.
“That’s right! Kiss me, dearest. Why, next midsummer will be here in no time. The secret of making time pass quickly, Lucy, is to have something to look forward to. Time has gone rather slowly with me of late; it may now be so good as to mend its pace.”
It will be seen from this conversation that Helen had at length been induced to reflect upon her condition and to allow some weight to prudent101 counsels. Her physician, an eminent75 practitioner102, who took the utmost personal interest in her case, had exerted all his powers of argument to induce her to cease her work, ultimately addressing her in a tone of kindly103 authoritativeness104 which it was impossible to resist. He had, moreover, given her to understand that it would be quite impossible for her to remain throughout the winter in England; under such circumstances he could not promise that she would live to see the spring. With a sad sigh and many a gloomy anticipation, Helen had at length yielded. Very hard had she begged to the last moment to be permitted to continue her school. The most that the physician would allow her to do was to receive some three or four of her most promising105 pupils at her own home during the evening.
A sad task remained before her, that of bidding farewell to her class. This now consisted of some five-and-twenty girls, at least half of whom had been receiving her lessons for more than a year. It was Saturday night that she chose to visit the school-room for the last time, for on that evening the attendance was always much fuller than on the other two. Mr. Heatherley was apprised106 of her intention, and promised to be present.
The knowledge of what was about to occur had somehow circulated among the girls, and it was with more than ordinary solemnity that they resumed their places on the evening in question, and, without opening their books, sat in expectation of Miss Norman’s rising. Mastering with difficulty a sob95 which rose in her throat, Helen stood up, and, after glancing for a moment over all the expectant faces, began to speak in a low and unequal voice —
“It is with the deepest sorrow that I have to tell my pupils to-night that I am compelled to bid them good-bye. I hope you feel sure that it is not a slight cause which would make me give up my position as your teacher, a position which I value beyond expression, which has been the means of affording me a long series of very, very happy hours. But I am warned by those whose sincerity107 I cannot doubt, that I could not with safety continue to give these lessons; my health would not allow it. I have consented to cease — but, I firmly hope and trust, only for a few months. That has been my principal inducement to relinquish47 the pleasure, the hope that I may in the meantime obtain a fresh supply of strength, and at length come back to you better able to exert myself for your advantage.
“For, believe me, my dear girls, I have your good sincerely at heart; I have no stronger wish than that you may have so far benefited by my teaching as to lead henceforth a happier, a higher, a more useful life. Will you forgive me if I ask your attention for a few minutes to a last short lesson, one which I hope will not be too hard for you to understand, which I hope you will endeavour to take to heart and think over long after I have ceased to speak to you. Though, as I have said, it is my firm hope that I may before long come back again and once more give lessons here, yet I fear it would be too much to hope that I should still have all of you for my pupils. In the interval108, short as it may be, many of you will have left your old homes, changed your employments, be scattered109 in many different directions upon the stern work of life. For many of you are already no strangers to the sternest work, young as you are; and I should like to give you a little advice which may perhaps render your hardships lighter110 to bear, and encourage you to endure all suffering with stronger and more hopeful hearts.
“Wherever you may be, then, whatever your work, however mean or ill-paid it may appear to you, never forget two things: first, to do the work as well as it lies in your power to do it; then, to aim at preparing yourself for something better. By the first, you all know very well what I mean; the second is not as difficult to carry out as you may think. An honest, brave-hearted girl has always the means of improving herself, if she will. Those of you who have only just made a beginning in learning to read and write, continue to persevere111 in what leisure moments you can find. If you cannot get on by your own exertions alone, you will always, I am convinced, find somebody able and willing to give you a little assistance. You that are more advanced will find it still easier to continue your work of self-improvement. But under no circumstance allow yourselves to lose courage. Some of you may say to yourselves, ‘Oh, what is the good of my trying to better myself? I shall never have a chance of showing what I know, and where will be the good?’ I earnestly beg of you never to admit such a thought! In the first place it will not be a true thought; believe me that very few people set themselves to the task of seriously bettering their minds without in consequence, sooner or later, greatly benefiting their condition in the world. And in the second place, even supposing that you should be so unhappy as to be utterly112 neglected, and still have to toil8 in a mean position, when you feel capable of better things; even under such unhappy circumstances there is a thought which, if you can try to get it firmly into your minds, will never cease to afford you consolation. It is this. No one can work hard for her own improvement without at the same time doing good to every one with whom she comes in contact, and to the whole world in general. I tell you with very great seriousness that every one of you who now listen to me has the power, if she choose to exert it, to make this world of ours better for her striving. There is hardly an evil from which we daily suffer which has not ignorance for its cause. If you strive to rise out of your ignorance, you will see every day more and more clearly how wise it is to be honest, and virtuous113, and good; how dreadfully foolish it is to be otherwise. You will see that your own happiness lies within your reach, if you are willing to take the trouble to climb to it. If I have succeeded in making one of you more thoughtful by my lessons, I shall myself be the happier for it all my life; and my parting request, nay, my prayer, to you is, that you will never forget these last words from your teacher, that for her sake, for your own sake, for the sake of the whole suffering world, you will endeavour to lead pure, patient, hopeful lives!”
Several of the girls sobbed as Helen ceased, and, herself very much overcome, resumed her seat. All showed signs of having been strongly impressed. After a brief pause Mr. Heatherley stood up and, in a few well-chosen words, addressed the pupils. After speaking in the highest terms of Helen’s exertions, and thanking her earnestly for all the work she had done, he went on to say that he should do his utmost to find some lady who would be willing to continue the classes. Then he dismissed them all with a few kind wishes and exhortations114 to them to remember what had been said. Each one of the girls as she went out passed by the teacher’s desk and curtseyed, and Helen gave her hand to all. She said no more than a single good-bye, lest she should appear to favour some above the others, but the expression of her eyes indicated those with whom she had been especially pleased.
For a little more than a month Helen continued to live at Holly Cottage, but towards the end of September her physician one day definitely declared that he could not allow her to pass October in England, so the sooner she thought of making her arrangements for departure the better. Helen assented115, though with grievous regrets. She could not hesitate as to the choice of her destination; the many tender and sad associations from her early years pointed116 at once to Mentone. Indeed the grief with which she resolved to relinquish her tasks and leave England was, in the end, somewhat mitigated117 by the prospect of once more seeing her dearly-remembered southern home. It was ultimately decided118 that Lucy Venning should accompany her. Lucy’s gentle companionship had become indispensable to her.
It was a fine autumn evening, the last which she spent in England. Helen had had no definite premonition of a visitor to-night, but she knew well that one would arrive. And about seven o’clock the door-bell rang, a well-known voice was heard enquiring119 for Miss Norman, and then Mr. Heatherley entered the room.
“I expected you,” said Helen, with a quiet smile, as they took seats. They were alone, for Mrs. Cumberbatch and Lucy were both out.
“This evening? Didn’t you rather expect me in the morning?”
“No. I knew you liked to say all you have to say without having the effect of it injured by undue120 hurry.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Are all your arrangements made?” then asked the clergyman.
“All. Mr. Gresham meets us at Dieppe, and accompanies us straight to our journey’s end.”
“Would it not have been more agreeable if Mr. Gresham had come as far as London?”
“Perhaps it would have spared us a little trouble; but Lucy and I must pluck up our courage. You know I am an old traveller.”
She laughed slightly, and there was a short silence, broken at length by a succession of short, tight coughs from Helen. The clergyman looked at her with a pained countenance.
“No better?” he asked, in a low voice.
She shook her head. Mr. Heatherley bent121 forward and took her hand in his own.
“We are about to say farewell to each other, Miss Norman,” he began, in a rather solemn tone, “and which of us can foresee what the next few months may bring about? You will forgive me if I speak seriously to you for a few minutes? You will consider that I speak in my character of clergyman, a privileged one?”
Helen drooped122 her eyes, and uttered a low “Yes.”
“During the whole time of our acquaintanceship,” continued the other, “I have studiously complied with your request, and have never spoken to you earnestly on those matters nearest my heart. I am not sure that I have acted rightly; my conscience reproaches me somewhat. Tell me, Miss Norman, in the spirit in which I ask — do you still hold the same opinions with regard to religious matters as formerly123?”
“The same, Mr. Heatherley.”
“In reflecting upon your position, amid such thoughts as I well know your state of health must often have brought into your mind, can you sincerely assure me that no longing73 for the comforts of Christ and His gospel has ever occupied your heart? Have you never even felt in your weakness the ardent23 longing to repose124 upon the succour of an almighty125 and all-merciful God?”
“It would be untrue,” returned Helen, “to say that I have never been so extremely impressed by the sense of my weakness as to long for the support of some stronger being. But to the consolations126 which religion offer I cannot say that I have ever been induced to turn my thoughts. My reason has always forbidden it.”
“You have no hopes of a future life; no hopes of anything beyond this world of misery127?”
“None. I do not deny that there may be such; but my reason is unable to conceive of it.”
There was a long silence, broken by a low exclamation128 from Mr. Heatherley.
“I pity you; from my soul I pity you!”
“But not condemn129?” asked Helen, regarding the other with a serious smile.
“No, not condemn,” returned the clergyman. “Did I not know your perfect truthfulness130 and loftiness of mind, Miss Norman, I should boldly say that I did not believe you; for hitherto I have scarcely believed in the possibility of such a noble life devoid131 of the knowledge of God. All I can do is to bow my head in humility132, and say that the Almighty has ways which are not our ways, thoughts not our thoughts.”
“Yet do not cease to pity me, Mr. Heatherley,” returned Helen, “for I am greatly worthy52 of your pity. Just as I am outgrowing133 the weakness of youth — just as my mind is becoming maturer, my experience widening, my power of usefulness expanding, just as I raise the cup to drink deeply of the sweet wine of life — the dark, shadowy hand is preparing to dash it from my lips. Do not think that I deceive myself as to my fate; I read it but too well. Let your thought of me be always one of pity. Oh, how much would I have done if I had had time! But the day proves too short, the sunlight fades, and the night cometh wherein no man can work.”
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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mere
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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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slough
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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vice
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appreciably
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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21
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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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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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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requited
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| v.报答( requite的过去式和过去分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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41
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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42
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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51
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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52
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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54
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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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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58
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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59
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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denizen
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| n.居民，外籍居民 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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65
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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67
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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69
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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71
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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72
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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73
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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74
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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75
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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76
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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77
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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78
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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79
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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80
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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81
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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82
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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83
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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84
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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85
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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87
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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88
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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89
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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90
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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91
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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92
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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93
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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94
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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95
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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96
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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97
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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98
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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99
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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100
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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101
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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102
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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103
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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104
authoritativeness
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| [法]权威 | |
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105
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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106
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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107
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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108
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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109
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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110
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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111
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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112
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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113
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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114
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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115
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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117
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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119
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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120
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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121
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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122
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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124
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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125
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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126
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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127
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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128
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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129
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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130
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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131
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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132
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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133
outgrowing
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的现在分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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