Its bleak1 shade alike o’er our joys and our woes2,
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,
For which joy has no balm, and affliction no sting!”
—Moore.
A gorgeous scene of kingly pride is the prospect5 now before us!—the offspring of art, the nursling of nature—where can the eye rest on a landscape more deliciously lovely than the fair expanse of Virginia Water, now an open mirror to the sky, now shaded by umbrageous6 banks, which wind into dark recesses8, or are rounded into soft promontories9? Looking down on it, now that the sun is low in the west, the eye is dazzled, the soul oppressed, by excess of beauty. Earth, water, air drink to overflowing10 the radiance that streams from yonder well of light; the foliage11 of the trees seems dripping with the golden flood; while the lake, filled with no earthly dew, appears but an imbasining of the sun-tinctured atmosphere; and trees and gay pavilion float in its depth, more dear, more distinct than their twins in the upper air. Nor is the scene silent: strains more sweet than those that lull12 Venus to her balmy rest, more inspiring than the song of Tiresias which awoke Alexander to the deed of ruin, more solemn than the chantings of St. Cecilia, float along the waves and mingle13 with the lagging breeze, which ruffles14 not the lake. Strange, that a few dark scores should be the key to this fountain of sound; the unconscious link between unregarded noise and harmonies which unclose paradise to our entranced senses!
The sun touches the extreme boundary, and a softer, milder light mingles15 a roseate tinge16 with the fiery17 glow. Our boat has floated long on the broad expanse; now let it approach the umbrageous bank. The green tresses of the graceful18 willow19 dip into the waters, which are checked by them into a ripple20. The startled teal dart21 from their recess7, skimming the waves with splashing wing. The stately swans float onward22; while innumerable waterfowl cluster together out of the way of the oars23. The twilight24 is blotted26 by no dark shades; it is one subdued27, equal receding28 of the great tide of day. We may disembark, and wander yet amid the glades29, long before the thickening shadows speak of night. The plantations30 are formed of every English tree, with an old oak or two standing31 out in the walks. There the glancing foliage obscures heaven, as the silken texture32 of a veil a woman’s lovely features. Beneath such fretwork we may indulge in light-hearted thoughts; or, if sadder meditations33 lead us to seek darker shades, we may pass the cascade34 towards the large groves35 of pine, with their vast undergrowth of laurel, reaching up to the Belvidere; or, on the opposite side of the water, sit under the shadow of the silver-stemmed birch, or beneath the leafy pavilions of those fine old beeches36, whose high fantastic roots seem formed in nature’s sport; and the near jungle of sweet-smelling myrica leaves no sense unvisited by pleasant ministration.
Now this splendid scene is reserved for the royal possessor; but in past years; while the lodge37 was called the Regent’s Cottage, or before, when the under-ranger inhabited it, the mazy paths of Chapel38 Wood were open, and the iron gates enclosing the plantations and Virginia Water were guarded by no Cerebus untamable by sops39. It was here, on a summer’s evening, that Horace Neville and his two fair cousins floated idly on the placid40 lake,
“In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.”
Neville had been eloquent41 in praise of English scenery. “In distant climes,” he said, “we may find landscapes grand in barbaric wildness, or rich in the luxuriant vegetation of the south, or sublime42 in Alpine43 magnificence. We may lament44, though it is ungrateful to say so on such a night as this, the want of a more genial45 sky; but where find scenery to be compared to the verdant46, well-wooded, well-watered groves of our native land; the clustering cottages, shadowed by fine old elms; each garden blooming with early flowers, each lattice gay with geraniums and roses; the blue-eyed child devouring48 his white bread, while he drives a cow to graze; the hedge redolent with summer blooms; the enclosed cornfields, seas of golden grain, weltering in the breeze; the stile, the track across the meadow, leading through the copse, under which the path winds, and the meeting branches overhead, which give, by their dimming tracery, a cathedral-like solemnity to the scene; the river, winding49 ‘with sweet inland murmur;’ and, as additional graces, spots like these—oases of taste—gardens of Eden—the works of wealth, which evince at once the greatest power and the greatest will to create beauty?
“And yet,” continued Neville, “it was with difficulty that I persuaded myself to reap the best fruits of my uncle’s will, and to inhabit this spot, familiar to my boyhood, associated with unavailing regrets and recollected50 pain.”
Horace Neville was a man of birth—of wealth; but he could hardly be termed a man of the world. There was in his nature a gentleness, a sweetness, a winning sensibility, allied51 to talent and personal distinction, that gave weight to his simplest expressions, and excited sympathy for all his emotions. His younger cousin, his junior by several years, was attached to him by the tenderest sentiments—secret long—but they were now betrothed52 to each other—a lovely, happy pair. She looked inquiringly, but he turned away. “No more of this,” he said, and, giving a swifter impulse to their boat, they speedily reached the shore, landed, and walked through the long extent of Chapel Wood. It was dark night before they met their carriage at Bishopsgate.
A week or two after, Horace received letters to call him to a distant part of the country. A few days before his departure, he requested his cousin to walk with him. They bent53 their steps across several meadows to Old Windsor Churchyard. At first he did not deviate54 from the usual path; and as they went they talked cheerfully—gaily55. The beauteous sunny day might well exhilarate them; the dancing waves sped onwards at their feet; the country church lifted its rustic56 spire57 into the bright pure sky. There was nothing in their conversation that could induce his cousin to think that Neville had led her hither for any saddening purpose; but when they were about to quit the churchyard, Horace, as if he had suddenly recollected himself, turned from the path, crossed the greensward, and paused beside a grave near the river. No stone was there to commemorate58 the being who reposed59 beneath—it was thickly grown with grass, starred by a luxuriant growth of humble61 daisies: a few dead leaves, a broken bramble twig63, defaced its neatness. Neville removed these, and then said, “Juliet, I commit this sacred spot to your keeping while I am away.”
“There is no monument,” he continued; “for her commands were implicitly64 obeyed by the two beings to whom she addressed them. One day another may lie near, and his name will be her epitaph. I do not mean myself,” he said, half-smiling at the terror his cousin’s countenance65 expressed; “but promise me, Juliet, to preserve this grave from every violation66. I do not wish to sadden you by the story; yet, if I have excited your interest, I will satisfy it; but not now—not here.”
It was not till the following day, when, in company with her sister, they again visited Virginia Water, that, seated under the shadow of its pines, whose melodious67 swinging in the wind breathed unearthly harmony, Neville, unasked, commenced his story.
“I was sent to Eton at eleven years of age. I will not dwell upon my sufferings there; I would hardly refer to them, did they not make a part of my present narration68. I was a fag to a hard taskmaster; every labour he could invent—and the youthful tyrant70 was ingenious—he devised for my annoyance71; early and late, I was forced to be in attendance, to the neglect of my school duties, so incurring72 punishment. There were worse things to bear than these: it was his delight to put me to shame, and, finding that I had too much of my mother in my blood,—to endeavour to compel me to acts of cruelty from which my nature revolted,—I refused to obey. Speak of West Indian slavery! I hope things may be better now; in my days, the tender years of aristocratic childhood were yielded up to a capricious, unrelenting, cruel bondage73, far beyond the measured despotism of Jamaica.
“One day—I had been two years at school, and was nearly thirteen—my tyrant, I will give him no other name, issued a command, in the wantonness of power, for me to destroy a poor little bullfinch I had tamed and caged. In a hapless hour he found it in my room, and was indignant that I should dare to appropriate a single pleasure. I refused, stubbornly, dauntlessly, though the consequence of my disobedience was immediate75 and terrible. At this moment a message came from my tormentor76’s tutor—his father had arrived. ‘Well, old lad,’ he cried, ‘I shall pay you off some day!’ Seizing my pet at the same time, he wrung77 its neck, threw it at my feet, and, with a laugh of derision, quitted the room.
“Never before—never may I again feel the same swelling78, boiling fury in my bursting heart;—the sight of my nursling expiring at my feet—my desire of vengeance—my impotence, created a Vesuvius within me, that no tears flowed to quench79. Could I have uttered—acted—my passion, it would have been less torturous80: it was so when I burst into a torrent81 of abuse and imprecation. My vocabulary—it must have been a choice collection—was supplied by him against whom it was levelled. But words were air. I desired to give more substantial proof of my resentment—I destroyed everything in the room belonging to him; I tore them to pieces, I stamped on them, crushed them with more than childish strength. My last act was to seize a timepiece, on which my tyrant infinitely82 prided himself, and to dash it to the ground. The sight of this, as it lay shattered at my feet, recalled me to my senses, and something like an emotion of fear allayed83 the tumult84 in my heart. I began to meditate85 an escape: I got out of the house, ran down a lane, and across some meadows, far out of bounds, above Eton. I was seen by an elder boy, a friend of my tormentor. He called to me, thinking at first that I was performing some errand for him; but seeing that I shirked, he repeated his ‘Come up!’ in an authoritative86 voice. It put wings to my heels; he did not deem it necessary to pursue. But I grow tedious, my dear Juliet; enough that fears the most intense, of punishment both from my masters and the upper boys, made me resolve to run away. I reached the banks of the Thames, tied my clothes over my head, swam across, and, traversing several fields, entered Windsor Forest, with a vague childish feeling of being able to hide myself for ever in the unexplored obscurity of its immeasurable wilds. It was early autumn; the weather was mild, even warm; the forest oaks yet showed no sign of winter change, though the fern beneath wore a yellowy tinge. I got within Chapel Wood; I fed upon chestnuts87 and beechnuts; I continued to hide myself from the gamekeepers and woodmen. I lived thus two days.
“But chestnuts and beechnuts were sorry fare to a growing lad of thirteen years old. A day’s rain occurred, and I began to think myself the most unfortunate boy on record. I had a distant, obscure idea of starvation: I thought of the Children in the Wood, of their leafy shroud88, gift of the pious89 robin90; this brought my poor bullfinch to my mind, and tears streamed in torrents91 down my cheeks. I thought of my father and mother; of you, then my little baby cousin and playmate; and I cried with renewed fervour, till, quite exhausted92, I curled myself up under a huge oak among some dry leaves, the relics93 of a hundred summers, and fell asleep.
“I ramble62 on in my narration as if I had a story to tell; yet I have little except a portrait—a sketch—to present, for your amusement or interest. When I awoke, the first object that met my opening eyes was a little foot, delicately clad in silk and soft kid. I looked up in dismay, expecting to behold94 some gaily dressed appendage95 to this indication of high-bred elegance96; but I saw a girl, perhaps seventeen, simply clad in a dark cotton dress, her face shaded by a large, very coarse straw hat; she was pale even to marmoreal whiteness; her chestnut-coloured hair was parted in plain tresses across a brow which wore traces of extreme suffering; her eyes were blue, full, large, melancholy97, often even suffused98 with tears; but her mouth had an infantine sweetness and innocence99 in its expression, that softened100 the otherwise sad expression of her countenance.
“She spoke101 to me. I was too hungry, too exhausted, too unhappy, to resist her kindness, and gladly permitted her to lead me to her home. We passed out of the wood by some broken palings on to Bishopsgate Heath, and after no long walk arrived at her habitation. It was a solitary102, dreary-looking cottage; the palings were in disrepair, the garden waste, the lattices unadorned by flowers or creepers; within, all was neat, but sombre, and even mean. The diminutiveness104 of a cottage requires an appearance of cheerfulness and elegance to make it pleasing; the bare floor,—clean, it is true,—the rush chairs, deal table, checked curtains of this cot, were beneath even a peasant’s rusticity105; yet it was the dwelling106 of my lovely guide, whose little white hand, delicately gloved, contrasted with her unadorned attire107, as did her gentle self with the clumsy appurtenances of her too humble dwelling.
“Poor child! she had meant entirely108 to hide her origin, to degrade herself to a peasant’s state, and little thought that she for ever betrayed herself by the strangest incongruities109. Thus, the arrangements of her table were mean, her fare meagre for a hermit110; but the linen111 was matchlessly fine, and wax lights stood in candlesticks which a beggar would almost have disdained112 to own. But I talk of circumstances I observed afterwards; then I was chiefly aware of the plentiful113 breakfast she caused her single attendant, a young girl, to place before me, and of the sweet soothing114 voice of my hostess, which spoke a kindness with which lately I had been little conversant115. When my hunger was appeased116, she drew my story from me, encouraged me to write to my father, and kept me at her abode117 till, after a few days, I returned to school pardoned. No long time elapsed before I got into the upper forms, and my woful slavery ended.
“Whenever I was able, I visited my disguised nymph. I no longer associated with my schoolfellows; their diversions, their pursuits appeared vulgar and stupid to me; I had but one object in view—to accomplish my lessons, and to steal to the cottage of Ellen Burnet.
“Do not look grave, love! true, others as young as I then was have loved, and I might also; but not Ellen. Her profound, her intense melancholy, sister to despair—her serious, sad discourse—her mind, estranged119 from all worldly concerns, forbade that; but there was an enchantment121 in her sorrow, a fascination122 in her converse123, that lifted me above commonplace existence; she created a magic circle, which I entered as holy ground: it was not akin124 to heaven, for grief was the presiding spirit; but there was an exaltation of sentiment, an enthusiasm, a view beyond the grave, which made it unearthly, singular, wild, enthralling125. You have often observed that I strangely differ from all other men; I mingle with them, make one in their occupations and diversions, but I have a portion of my being sacred from them:—a living well, sealed up from their contamination, lies deep in my heart—it is of little use, but there it is; Ellen opened the spring, and it has flowed ever since.
“Of what did she talk? She recited no past adventures, alluded126 to no past intercourse127 with friend or relative; she spoke of the various woes that wait on humanity, on the intricate mazes128 of life, on the miseries129 of passion, of love, remorse130, and death, and that which we may hope or fear beyond the tomb; she spoke of the sensation of wretchedness alive in her own broken heart, and then she grew fearfully eloquent, till, suddenly pausing, she reproached herself for making me familiar with such wordless misery131. ‘I do you harm,’ she often said; ‘I unfit you for society; I have tried, seeing you thrown upon yonder distorted miniature of a bad world, to estrange120 you from its evil contagion132; I fear that I shall be the cause of greater harm to you than could spring from association with your fellow-creatures in the ordinary course of things. This is not well—avoid the stricken deer.’
“There were darker shades in the picture than those which I have already developed. Ellen was more miserable133 than the imagination of one like you, dear girl, unacquainted with woe3, can portray134. Sometimes she gave words to her despair—it was so great as to confuse the boundary between physical and mental sensation—and every pulsation135 of her heart was a throb136 of pain. She has suddenly broken off in talking of her sorrows, with a cry of agony—bidding me leave her—hiding her face on her arms, shivering with the anguish137 some thought awoke. The idea that chiefly haunted her, though she earnestly endeavoured to put it aside, was self-destruction—to snap the silver cord that bound together so much grace, wisdom, and sweetness—to rob the world of a creation made to be its ornament138. Sometimes her piety139 checked her; oftener a sense of unendurable suffering made her brood with pleasure over the dread140 resolve. She spoke of it to me as being wicked; yet I often fancied this was done rather to prevent her example from being of ill effect to me, than from any conviction that the Father of all would regard angrily the last act of His miserable child. Once she had prepared the mortal beverage141; it was on the table before her when I entered; she did not deny its nature, she did not attempt to justify142 herself; she only besought143 me not to hate her, and to soothe144 by my kindness her last moments.—‘I cannot live!’ was all her explanation, all her excuse; and it was spoken with such fervent145 wretchedness that it seemed wrong to attempt to persuade her to prolong the sense of pain. I did not act like a boy; I wonder I did not; I made one simple request, to which she instantly acceded146, that she should walk with me to this Belvidere. It was a glorious sunset; beauty and the spirit of love breathed in the wind, and hovered147 over the softened hues148 of the landscape. ‘Look, Ellen,’ I cried, ‘if only such loveliness of nature existed, it were worth living for!’
“‘True, if a latent feeling did not blot25 this glorious scene with murky149 shadows. Beauty is as we see it—my eyes view all things deformed150 and evil.’ She closed them as she said this; but, young and sensitive, the visitings of the soft breeze already began to minister consolation151. ‘Dearest Ellen,’ I continued, ‘what do I not owe to you? I am your boy, your pupil; I might have gone on blindly as others do, but you opened my eyes; you have given me a sense of the just, the good, the beautiful—and have you done this merely for my misfortune? If you leave me, what can become of me?’ The last words came from my heart, and tears gushed153 from my eyes. ‘Do not leave me, Ellen,’ I said; ‘I cannot live without you—and I cannot die, for I have a mother—a father.’ She turned quickly round, saying, ‘You are blessed sufficiently154.’ Her voice struck me as unnatural155; she grew deadly pale as she spoke, and was obliged to sit down. Still I clung to her, prayed, cried; till she—I had never seen her shed a tear before—burst into passionate156 weeping. After this she seemed to forget her resolve. We returned by moonlight, and our talk was even more calm and cheerful than usual. When in her cottage, I poured away the fatal draught157. Her ‘good-night’ bore with it no traces of her late agitation158; and the next day she said, ‘I have thoughtlessly, even wickedly, created a new duty to myself, even at a time when I had forsworn all; but I will be true to it. Pardon me for making you familiar with emotions and scenes so dire159; I will behave better—I will preserve myself if I can, till the link between us is loosened, or broken, and I am free again.’
“One little incident alone occurred during our intercourse that appeared at all to connect her with the world. Sometimes I brought her a newspaper, for those were stirring times; and though, before I knew her, she had forgotten all except the world her own heart enclosed, yet, to please me, she would talk of Napoleon—Russia, from whence the emperor now returned overthrown—and the prospect of his final defeat. The paper lay one day on her table; some words caught her eye; she bent eagerly down to read them, and her bosom160 heaved with violent palpitation; but she subdued herself, and after a few moments told me to take the paper away. Then, indeed, I did feel an emotion of even impertinent inquisitiveness161; I found nothing to satisfy it—though afterwards I became aware that it contained a singular advertisement, saying, ‘If these lines meet the eye of any one of the passengers who were on board the St. Mary, bound for Liverpool from Barbadoes, which sailed on the third of May last, and was destroyed by fire in the high seas, a part of the crew only having been saved by his Majesty’s frigate162 the Bellerophon, they are entreated163 to communicate with the advertiser; and if any one be acquainted with the particulars of the Hon. Miss Eversham’s fate and present abode, they are earnestly requested to disclose them, directing to L. E., Stratton Street, Park Lane.’
“It was after this event, as winter came on, that symptoms of decided164 ill-health declared themselves in the delicate frame of my poor Ellen. I have often suspected that, without positively165 attempting her life, she did many things that tended to abridge166 it and to produce mortal disease. Now, when really ill, she refused all medical attendance; but she got better again, and I thought her nearly well when I saw her for the last time, before going home for the Christmas holidays. Her manner was full of affection: she relied, she said, on the continuation of my friendship; she made me promise never to forget her, though she refused to write to me, and forbade any letters from me.
“Even now I see her standing at her humble doorway167. If an appearance of illness and suffering can ever he termed lovely, it was in her. Still she was to be viewed as the wreck168 of beauty. What must she not have been in happier days, with her angel expression of face, her nymph-like figure, her voice, whose tones were music? ‘So young—so lost!’ was the sentiment that burst even from me, a young lad, as I waved my hand to her as a last adieu. She hardly looked more than fifteen, but none could doubt that her very soul was impressed by the sad lines of sorrow that rested so unceasingly on her fair brow. Away from her, her figure for ever floated before my eyes;—I put my hands before them, still she was there: my day, my night dreams were filled by my recollections of her.
“During the winter holidays, on a fine soft day, I went out to hunt: you, dear Juliet, will remember the sad catastrophe169; I fell and broke my leg. The only person who saw me fall was a young man who rode one of the most beautiful horses I ever saw, and I believe it was by watching him as he took a leap, that I incurred170 my disaster: he dismounted, and was at my side in a minute. My own animal had fled; he called his; it obeyed his voice; with ease he lifted my light figure on to the saddle, contriving171 to support my leg, and so conducted me a short distance to a lodge situated172 in the woody recesses of Elmore Park, the seat of the Earl of D——, whose second son my preserver was. He was my sole nurse for a day or two, and during the whole of my illness passed many hours of each day by my bedside. As I lay gazing on him, while he read to me, or talked, narrating173 a thousand stranger adventures which had occurred during his service in the Peninsula, I thought—is it for ever to be my fate to fall in with the highly gifted and excessively unhappy?
“The immediate neighbour of Lewis’ family was Lord Eversham. He had married in very early youth, and became a widower174 young. After this misfortune, which passed like a deadly blight175 over his prospects176 and possessions, leaving the gay view utterly177 sterile178 and bare, he left his surviving infant daughter under the care of Lewis’ mother, and travelled for many years in far distant lands. He returned when Clarice was about ten, a lovely sweet child, the pride and delight of all connected with her. Lord Eversham, on his return—he was then hardly more than thirty—devoted179 himself to her education. They were never separate: he was a good musician, and she became a proficient180 under his tutoring. They rode—walked—read together. When a father is all that a father may be, the sentiments of filial piety, entire dependence181, and perfect confidence being united, the love of a daughter is one of the deepest and strongest, as it is the purest passion of which our natures are capable. Clarice worshipped her parent, who came, during the transition from mere152 childhood to the period when reflection and observation awaken182, to adorn103 a commonplace existence with all the brilliant adjuncts which enlightened and devoted affection can bestow183. He appeared to her like an especial gift of Providence184, a guardian185 angel—but far dearer, as being akin to her own nature. She grew, under his eye, in loveliness and refinement186 both of intellect and heart. These feelings were not divided—almost strengthened, by the engagement that had taken place between her and Lewis:—Lewis was destined187 for the army, and, after a few years’ service, they were to be united.
“It is hard, when all is fair and tranquil188, when the world, opening before the ardent189 gaze of youth, looks like a well-kept demesne190, unencumbered by let or hindrance191 for the annoyance of the young traveller, that we should voluntarily stray into desert wilds and tempest-visited districts. Lewis Elmore was ordered to Spain; and, at the same time, Lord Eversham found it necessary to visit some estates he possessed192 in Barbadoes. He was not sorry to revisit a scene, which had dwelt in his memory as an earthly paradise, nor to show to his daughter a new and strange world, so to form her understanding and enlarge her mind. They were to return in three months, and departed as on a summer tour. Clarice was glad that, while her lover gathered experience and knowledge in a distant land, she should not remain in idleness; she was glad that there would be some diversion for her anxiety during his perilous193 absence; and in every way she enjoyed the idea of travelling with her beloved father, who would fill every hour, and adorn every new scene, with pleasure and delight. They sailed. Clarice wrote home, with enthusiastic expressions of rapture194 and delight, from Madeira:—yet, without her father, she said, the fair scene had been blank to her. More than half her letter was filled by the expressions of her gratitude195 and affection for her adored and revered196 parent. While he, in his, with fewer words, perhaps, but with no less energy, spoke of his satisfaction in her improvement, his pride in her beauty, and his grateful sense of her love and kindness.
“Such were they, a matchless example of happiness in the dearest connection in life, as resulting from the exercise of their reciprocal duties and affections. A father and daughter; the one all care, gentleness, and sympathy, consecrating197 his life for her happiness; the other fond, duteous, grateful:—such had they been,—and where were they now,—the noble, kind, respected parent, and the beloved and loving child! They had departed from England as on a pleasure voyage down an inland stream; but the ruthless car of destiny had overtaken them on their unsuspecting way, crushing them under its heavy wheels—scattering love, hope, and joy as the bellowing198 avalanche199 overwhelms and grinds to mere spray the streamlet of the valley. They were gone; but whither? Mystery hung over the fate of the most helpless victim; and my friend’s anxiety was, to penetrate200 the clouds that hid poor Clarice from his sight.
“After an absence of a few months, they had written, fixing their departure in the St. Mary, to sail from Barbadoes in a few days. Lewis, at the same time, returned from Spain: he was invalided201, in his very first action, by a bad wound in his side. He arrived, and each day expected to hear of the landing of his friends, when that common messenger, the newspaper, brought him tidings to fill him with more than anxiety—with fear and agonizing202 doubt. The St. Mary had caught fire, and had burned in the open sea. A frigate, the Bellerophon, had saved a part of the crew. In spite of illness and a physician’s commands, Lewis set out the same day for London to ascertain203 as speedily as possible the fate of her he loved. There he heard that the frigate was expected in the Downs. Without alighting from his travelling chaise, he posted thither204, arriving in a burning fever. He went on board, saw the commander, and spoke with the crew. They could give him few particulars as to whom they had saved; they had touched at Liverpool, and left there most of the persons, including all the passengers rescued from the St. Mary. Physical suffering for awhile disabled Mr. Elmore; he was confined by his wound and consequent fever, and only recovered to give himself up to his exertions205 to discover the fate of his friends;—they did not appear nor write; and all Lewis’ inquiries206 only tended to confirm his worst fears; yet still he hoped, and still continued indefatigable207 in his perquisitions. He visited Liverpool and Ireland, whither some of the passengers had gone, and learnt only scattered208, incongruous details of the fearful tragedy, that told nothing of Miss Eversham’s present abode, though much that confirmed his suspicion that she still lived.
“The fire on board the St. Mary had raged long and fearfully before the Bellerophon hove in sight, and boats came off for the rescue of the crew. The women were to be first embarked209; but Clarice clung to her father, and refused to go till he should accompany her. Some fearful presentiment210 that, if she were saved, he would remain and die, gave such energy to her resolve, that not the entreaties211 of her father, nor the angry expostulations of the captain, could shake it. Lewis saw this man, after the lapse118 of two or three months, and he threw most light on the dark scene. He well remembered that, transported with anger by her obstinacy212, he had said to her, ‘You will cause your father’s death—and be as much a parricide213 as if you put poison into his cup; you are not the first girl who has murdered her father in her wilful214 mood.’ Still Clarice passionately215 refused to go—there was no time for long parley—the point was yielded, and she remained pale, but firm, near her parent, whose arm was around her, supporting her during the awful interval216. It was no period for regular action and calm order; a tempest was rising, the scorching217 waves blew this way and that, making a fearful day of the night which veiled all except the burning ship. The boats returned with difficulty, and one only could contrive218 to approach; it was nearly full; Lord Eversham and his daughter advanced to the deck’s edge to get in. ‘We can only take one of you,’ vociferated the sailors; ‘keep back on your life! throw the girl to us—we will come back for you if we can.’ Lord Eversham cast with a strong arm his daughter, who had now entirely lost her self-possession, into the boat; she was alive again in a minute; she called to her father, held out her arms to him, and would have thrown herself into the sea, but was held back by the sailors. Meanwhile Lord Eversham, feeling that no boat could again approach the lost vessel219, contrived220 to heave a spar overboard, and threw himself into the sea, clinging to it. The boat, tossed by the huge waves, with difficulty made its way to the frigate; and as it rose from the trough of the sea, Clarice saw her father struggling with his fate—battling with the death that at last became the victor; the spar floated by, his arms had fallen from it; were those his pallid221 features? She neither wept nor fainted, but her limbs grew rigid222, her face colourless, and she was lifted as a log on to the deck of the frigate.
“The captain allowed that on her homeward voyage the people had rather a horror of her, as having caused her father’s death; her own servants had perished, few people remembered who she was; but they talked together with no careful voices as they passed her, and a hundred times she must have heard herself accused of having destroyed her parent. She spoke to no one, or only in brief reply when addressed; to avoid the rough remonstrances223 of those around, she appeared at table, ate as well as she could; but there was a settled wretchedness in her face that never changed. When they landed at Liverpool, the captain conducted her to an hotel; he left her, meaning to return, but an opportunity of sailing that night for the Downs occurred, of which he availed himself, without again visiting her. He knew, he said, and truly, that she was in her native country, where she had but to write a letter to gather crowds of friends about her; and where can greater civility be found than at an English hotel, if it is known that you are perfectly224 able to pay your bill?
“This was all that Mr. Elmore could learn, and it took many months to gather together these few particulars. He went to the hotel at Liverpool. It seemed that as soon as there appeared some hope of rescue from the frigate, Lord Eversham had given his pocket-book to his daughter’s care, containing bills on a banking-house at Liverpool to the amount of a few hundred pounds. On the second day after Clarice’s arrival there, she had sent for the master of the hotel, and showed him these. He got the cash for her; and the next day she quitted Liverpool in a little coasting vessel. In vain Lewis endeavoured to trace her. Apparently225 she had crossed to Ireland; but whatever she had done, wherever she had gone, she had taken infinite pains to conceal226 herself, and all due was speedily lost.
“Lewis had not yet despaired; he was even now perpetually making journeys, sending emissaries, employing every possible means for her discovery. From the moment he told me this story, we talked of nothing else. I became deeply interested, and we ceaselessly discussed the probabilities of the case, and where she might be concealed227. That she did not meditate suicide was evident from her having possessed herself of money; yet, unused to the world, young, lovely, and inexperienced, what could be her plan? What might not have been her fate?
“Meanwhile I continued for nearly three months confined by the fracture of my limb; before the lapse of that time, I had begun to crawl about the ground, and now I considered myself as nearly recovered. It had been settled that I should not return to Eton, but be entered at Oxford228; and this leap from boyhood to man’s estate elated me considerably229. Yet still I thought of my poor Ellen, and was angry at her obstinate230 silence. Once or twice I had, disobeying her command, written to her, mentioning my accident, and the kind attentions of Mr. Elmore. Still she wrote not; and I began to fear that her illness might have had a fatal termination. She had made me vow231 so solemnly never to mention her name, never to inquire about her during my absence, that, considering obedience74 the first duty of a young inexperienced boy to one older than himself, I resisted each suggestion of my affection or my fears to transgress232 her orders.
“And now spring came, with its gift of opening buds, odoriferous flowers, and sunny genial days. I returned home, and found my family on the eve of their departure for London; my long confinement233 had weakened me; it was deemed inadvisable for me to encounter the bad air and fatigues234 of the metropolis235, and I remained to rusticate236. I rode and hunted, and thought of Ellen; missing the excitement of her conversation, and feeling a vacancy237 in my heart which she had filled. I began to think of riding across the country from Shropshire to Berks for the purpose of seeing her. The whole landscape haunted my imagination—the fields round Eton—the silver Thames—the majestic238 forest—this lovely scene of Virginia Water—the heath and her desolate239 cottage—she herself pale, slightly bending from weakness of health, awakening240 from dark abstraction to bestow on me a kind smile of welcome. It grew into a passionate desire of my heart to behold her, to cheer her as I might by my affectionate attentions, to hear her, and to hang upon her accents of inconsolable despair as if it had been celestial241 harmony. As I meditated242 on these things, a voice seemed for ever to repeat, Now go, or it will be too late; while another yet more mournful tone responded, You can never see her more!
“I was occupied by these thoughts, as, on a summer moonlight night, I loitered in the shrubbery, unable to quit a scene of entrancing beauty, when I was startled at hearing myself called by Mr. Elmore. He came on his way to the coast; he had received a letter from Ireland, which made him think that Miss Eversham was residing near Enniscorthy,—a strange place for her to select, but as concealment243 was evidently her object, not an improbable one. Yet his hopes were not high; on the contrary, he performed this journey more from the resolve to leave nothing undone244, than in expectation of a happy result. He asked me if I would accompany him; I was delighted with the offer, and we departed together on the following morning.
“We arrived at Milford Haven245, where we were to take our passage. The packet was to sail early in the morning—we walked on the beach, and beguiled246 the time by talk. I had never mentioned Ellen to Lewis; I felt now strongly inclined to break my vow, and to relate my whole adventure with her; but restrained myself, and we spoke only of the unhappy Clarice—of the despair that must have been hers, of her remorse and unavailing regret.
“We retired247 to rest; and early in the morning I was called to prepare for going on board. I got ready, and then knocked at Lewis’ door; he admitted me, for he was dressed, though a few of his things were still unpacked248, and scattered about the room. The morocco case of a miniature was on his table; I took it up. ‘Did I never show you that?’ said Elmore; ‘poor dear Clarice! she was very happy when that was painted!’
“I opened it;—rich, luxuriant curls clustered on her brow and the snow-white throat; there was a light zephyr249 appearance in the figure; an expression of unalloyed exuberant250 happiness in the countenance; but those large dove’s eyes, the innocence that dwelt on her mouth, could not be mistaken, and the name of Ellen Burnet burst from my lips.
“There was no doubt: why had I ever doubted? the thing was so plain! Who but the survivor251 of such a parent, and she the apparent cause of his death, could be so miserable as Ellen? A torrent of explanation followed, and a thousand minute circumstances, forgotten before, now assured us that my sad hermitess was the beloved of Elmore. No more sea voyage—not a second of delay—our chaise, the horses’ heads tamed to the east, rolled on with lightning rapidity, yet far too slowly to satisfy our impatience252. It was not until we arrived at Worcester that the tide of expectation, flowing all one way, ebbed253. Suddenly, even while I was telling Elmore some anecdote254 to prove that, in spite of all, she would be accessible to consolation, I remembered her ill-health and my fears. Lewis saw the change my countenance underwent; for some time I could not command my voice; and when at last I spoke, my gloomy anticipations255 passed like an electric shock into my friend’s soul.
“When we arrived at Oxford we halted for an hour or two, unable to proceed; yet we did not converse on the subject so near our hearts, nor until we arrived in sight of Windsor did a word pass between us; then Elmore said, ‘To-morrow morning, dear Neville, you shall visit Clarice; we must not be too precipitate256.’
“The morrow came. I arose with that intolerable weight at my breast, which it is grief’s worst heritage to feel. A sunny day it was; yet the atmosphere looked black to me; my heart was dead within me. We sat at the breakfast-table, but neither ate, and after some restless indecision, we left our inn, and (to protract257 the interval) walked to Bishopsgate. Our conversation belied258 our feelings: we spoke as if we expected all to be well; we felt that there was no hope. We crossed the heath along the accustomed path. On one side was the luxuriant foliage of the forest, on the other the widespread moor4; her cottage was situated at one extremity259, and could hardly be distinguished260, until we should arrive close to it. When we drew near, Lewis bade me go on alone; he would wait my return. I obeyed, and reluctantly approached the confirmation261 of my fears. At length it stood before me, the lonely cot and desolate garden; the unfastened wicket swung in the breeze; every shutter262 was closed.
“To stand motionless and gaze on these symbols of my worst forebodings was all that I could do. My heart seemed to me to call aloud for Ellen,—for such was she to me,—her other name might be a fiction—but silent as her own life-deserted263 lips were mine. Lewis grew impatient, and advanced. My stay had occasioned a transient ray of hope to enter his mind; it vanished when he saw me and her deserted dwelling. Slowly we turned away, and were directing our steps back again, when my name was called by a child. A little girl came running across some fields towards us, whom at last I recognised as having seen before with Ellen. ‘Mr. Neville, there is a letter for you!’ cried the child. ‘A letter; where?—who?’ ‘The lady left a letter for you. You must go to Old Windsor, to Mr. Cooke’s; he has got it for you.’
“She had left a letter: was she then departed on an earthly journey? ‘I will go for it immediately. Mr. Cooke! Old Windsor! where shall I find him? who is he?’
“‘Oh, sir, everybody knows him,’ said the child; ‘he lives close to the churchyard; he is the sexton. After the burial, Nancy gave him the letter to take care of.’
“Had we hoped? had we for a moment indulged the expectation of ever again seeing our miserable friend? Never! O never! Our hearts had told us that the sufferer was at peace—the unhappy orphan264 with her father in the abode of spirits! Why, then, were we here? Why had a smile dwelt on our lips, now wreathed into the expression of anguish? Our full hearts demanded one consolation—to weep upon her grave; her sole link now with us, her mourners. There at last my boy’s grief found vent69 in tears, in lamentation265. You saw the spot; the grassy266 mound267 rests lightly on the bosom of fair Clarice, of my own poor Ellen. Stretched upon this, kissing the scarcely springing turf; for many hours no thought visited me but the wretched one, that she had lived, and was lost to me for ever!
“If Lewis had ever doubted the identity of my friend with her he loved, the letter put into our hands undeceived him; the handwriting was Miss Eversham’s, it was directed to me, and contained words like these:—
“‘April 11.
“‘I have vowed268 never to mention certain beloved names, never to communicate with beings who cherished me once, to whom my deepest gratitude is due; and, as well as poor bankrupt can, is paid. Perhaps it is a mere prevarication269 to write to you, dear Horace, concerning them; but Heaven pardon me! my disrobed spirit would not repose60, I fear, if I did not thus imperfectly bid them a last farewell.
“‘You know him, Neville; and know that he for ever laments270 her whom he has lost. Describe your poor Ellen to him, and he will speedily see that she died on the waves of the murderous Atlantic. Ellen had nothing in common with her, save love for, and interest in him. Tell him it had been well for him, perhaps, to have united himself to the child of prosperity, the nursling of deep love; but it had been destruction, even could he have meditated such an act, to wed47 the parrici—.
“‘I will not write that word. Sickness and near death have taken the sting from my despair. The agony of woe which you witnessed is melted into tender affliction and pious hope. I am not miserable now. Now! When you read these words, the hand that writes, the eye that sees, will be a little dust, becoming one with the earth around it. You, perhaps he, will visit my quiet retreat, bestow a few tears on my fate, but let them be secret; they may make green my grave, but do not let a misplaced feeling adorn it with any other tribute. It is my last request; let no stone, no name, mark that spot.
“‘Farewell, dear Horace! Farewell to one other whom I may not name. May the God to whom I am about to resign my spirit in confidence and hope, bless your earthly career! Blindly, perhaps, you will regret me for your own sakes; but for mine, you will be grateful to the Providence which has snapt the heavy chain binding271 me to unutterable sorrow, and which permits me from my lowly grass-grown tomb to say to you, I am at peace.
“‘Ellen.’”
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1
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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2
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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4
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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6
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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7
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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10
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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11
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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12
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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13
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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21
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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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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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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39
sops
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| n.用以慰藉或讨好某人的事物( sop的名词复数 )；泡湿的面包片等v.将（面包等）在液体中蘸或浸泡( sop的第三人称单数 )；用海绵、布等吸起（液体等） | |
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40
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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41
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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42
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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43
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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44
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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45
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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46
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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47
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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48
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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49
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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50
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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52
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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54
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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55
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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56
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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57
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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58
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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59
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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61
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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62
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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63
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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64
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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65
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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66
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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67
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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68
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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69
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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70
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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71
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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72
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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73
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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74
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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75
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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76
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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77
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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78
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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79
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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80
torturous
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| adj. 痛苦的 | |
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81
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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82
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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83
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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85
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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86
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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87
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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88
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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89
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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90
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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91
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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92
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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93
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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94
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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95
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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96
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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97
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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98
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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99
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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100
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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101
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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102
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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103
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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104
diminutiveness
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| n.微小；昵称，爱称 | |
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105
rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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106
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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107
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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108
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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109
incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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110
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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111
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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112
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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113
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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114
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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115
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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116
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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117
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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118
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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119
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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120
estrange
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| v.使疏远，离间，使离开 | |
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121
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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122
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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123
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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124
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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125
enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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126
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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128
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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129
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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130
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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131
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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132
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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133
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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134
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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135
pulsation
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| n.脉搏，悸动，脉动；搏动性 | |
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136
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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137
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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138
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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139
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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140
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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141
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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142
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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143
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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144
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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145
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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146
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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147
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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148
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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149
murky
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|
| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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150
deformed
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|
| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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151
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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152
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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153
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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154
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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155
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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156
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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157
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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158
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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159
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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160
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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161
inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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162
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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163
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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165
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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166
abridge
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| v.删减，删节，节略，缩短 | |
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167
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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168
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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169
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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170
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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171
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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172
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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173
narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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174
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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175
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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176
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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177
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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178
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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179
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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180
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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181
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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182
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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183
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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184
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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185
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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186
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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187
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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188
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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189
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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190
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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191
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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192
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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193
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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194
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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195
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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196
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
consecrating
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| v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的现在分词 )；奉献 | |
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198
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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199
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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200
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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201
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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202
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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203
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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204
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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205
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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206
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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207
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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208
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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209
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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210
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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211
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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212
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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213
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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214
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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215
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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216
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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217
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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218
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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220
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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221
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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222
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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223
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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224
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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225
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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226
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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227
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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228
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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229
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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230
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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231
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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232
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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233
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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234
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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235
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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236
rusticate
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| v.暂时停学离校；n.被罚休学，定居农村 | |
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237
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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238
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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239
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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240
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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241
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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242
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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243
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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244
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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245
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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246
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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247
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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248
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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249
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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250
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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251
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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252
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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253
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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254
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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255
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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256
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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257
protract
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| v.延长，拖长 | |
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258
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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259
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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260
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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261
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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262
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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263
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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264
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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265
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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266
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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267
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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268
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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269
prevarication
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| n.支吾；搪塞；说谎；有枝有叶 | |
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270
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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271
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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