Rambling27 about a country nearly uninhabited, having lost my way, and being overtaken by a shower, I had lighted on this dreary-looking tenement28, which seemed to rock in the blast, and to be hung up there as the very symbol of desolation. I was gazing wistfully and cursing inwardly my stars which led me to a ruin that could afford no shelter, though the storm began to pelt30 more seriously than before, when I saw an old woman’s head popped out from a kind of loophole, and as suddenly withdrawn;—a minute after a feminine voice called to me from within, and penetrating32 a little brambly maze33 that screened a door, which I had not before observed, so skilfully34 had the planter succeeded in concealing35 art with nature, I found the good dame36 standing37 on the threshold and inviting38 me to take refuge within. “I had just come up from our cot hard by,” she said, “to look after the things, as I do every day, when the rain came on—will ye walk up till it is over?” I was about to observe that the cot hard by, at the venture of a few rain drops, was better than a ruined tower, and to ask my kind hostess whether “the things” were pigeons or crows that she was come to look after, when the matting of the floor and the carpeting of the staircase struck my eye. I was still more surprised when I saw the room above; and beyond all, the picture and its singular inscription39, naming her invisible, whom the painter had coloured forth40 into very agreeable visibility, awakened41 my most lively curiosity; the result of this, of my exceeding politeness towards the old woman, and her own natural garrulity42, was a kind of garbled43 narrative which my imagination eked44 out, and future inquiries45 rectified46, till it assumed the following form.
Some years before, in the afternoon of a September day, which, though tolerably fair, gave many tokens of a tempestuous47 night, a gentleman arrived at a little coast town about ten miles from this place; he expressed his desire to hire a boat to carry him to the town of —— about fifteen miles farther on the coast. The menaces which the sky held forth made the fishermen loathe48 to venture, till at length two, one the father of a numerous family, bribed49 by the bountiful reward the stranger promised, the other, the son of my hostess, induced by youthful daring, agreed to undertake the voyage. The wind was fair, and they hoped to make good way before nightfall, and to get into port ere the rising of the storm. They pushed off with good cheer, at least the fishermen did; as for the stranger, the deep mourning which he wore was not half so black as the melancholy50 that wrapt his mind. He looked as if he had never smiled—as if some unutterable thought, dark as night and bitter as death, had built its nest within his bosom51, and brooded therein eternally; he did not mention his name; but one of the villagers recognised him as Henry Vernon, the son of a baronet who possessed52 a mansion53 about three miles distant from the town for which he was bound. This mansion was almost abandoned by the family; but Henry had, in a romantic fit, visited it about three years before, and Sir Peter had been down there during the previous spring for about a couple of months.
The boat did not make so much way as was expected; the breeze failed them as they got out to sea, and they were fain with oar54 as well as sail to try to weather the promontory that jutted55 out between them and the spot they desired to reach. They were yet far distant when the shifting wind began to exert its strength, and to blow with violent though unequal blasts. Night came on pitchy dark, and the howling waves rose and broke with frightful56 violence, menacing to overwhelm the tiny bark that dared resist their fury. They were forced to lower every sail, and take to their oars57; one man was obliged to bale out the water, and Vernon himself took an oar, and rowing with desperate energy, equalled the force of the more practised boatmen. There had been much talk between the sailors before the tempest came on; now, except a brief command, all were silent. One thought of his wife and children, and silently cursed the caprice of the stranger that endangered in its effects, not only his life, but their welfare; the other feared less, for he was a daring lad, but he worked hard, and had no time for speech; while Vernon bitterly regretting the thoughtlessness which had made him cause others to share a peril58, unimportant as far as he himself was concerned, now tried to cheer them with a voice full of animation59 and courage, and now pulled yet more strongly at the oar he held. The only person who did not seem wholly intent on the work he was about, was the man who baled; every now and then he gazed intently round, as if the sea held afar off, on its tumultuous waste, some object that he strained his eyes to discern. But all was blank, except as the crests61 of the high waves showed themselves, or far out on the verge62 of the horizon, a kind of lifting of the clouds betokened greater violence for the blast. At length he exclaimed, “Yes, I see it!—the larboard oar!—now! if we can make yonder light, we are saved!” Both the rowers instinctively63 turned their heads,—but cheerless darkness answered their gaze.
“You cannot see it,” cried their companion, “but we are nearing it; and, please God, we shall outlive this night.” Soon he took the oar from Vernon’s hand, who, quite exhausted65, was failing in his strokes. He rose and looked for the beacon66 which promised them safety;—it glimmered68 with so faint a ray, that now he said, “I see it;” and again, “it is nothing:” still, as they made way, it dawned upon his sight, growing more steady and distinct as it beamed across the lurid69 waters, which themselves became smoother, so that safety seemed to arise from the bosom of the ocean under the influence of that flickering70 gleam.
“What beacon is it that helps us at our need?” asked Vernon, as the men, now able to manage their oars with greater ease, found breath to answer his question.
“A fairy one, I believe,” replied the elder sailor, “yet no less a true: it burns in an old tumble-down tower, built on the top of a rock which looks over the sea. We never saw it before this summer; and now each night it is to be seen,—at least when it is looked for, for we cannot see it from our village;—and it is such an out-of-the-way place that no one has need to go near it, except through a chance like this. Some say it is burnt by witches, some say by smugglers; but this I know, two parties have been to search, and found nothing but the bare walls of the tower. All is deserted71 by day, and dark by night; for no light was to be seen while we were there, though it burned sprightly72 enough when we were out at sea.”
“I have heard say,” observed the younger sailor, “it is burnt by the ghost of a maiden73 who lost her sweetheart in these parts; he being wrecked74, and his body found at the foot of the tower: she goes by the name among us of the ‘Invisible Girl.’”
The voyagers had now reached the landing-place at the foot of the tower. Vernon cast a glance upward,—the light was still burning. With some difficulty, struggling with the breakers, and blinded by night, they contrived75 to get their little bark to shore, and to draw her up on the beach. They then scrambled76 up the precipitous pathway, overgrown by weeds and underwood, and, guided by the more experienced fisherman, they found the entrance to the tower; door or gate there was none, and all was dark as the tomb, and silent and almost as cold as death.
“This will never do,” said Vernon; “surely our hostess will show her light, if not herself, and guide our darkling steps by some sign of life and comfort.”
“We will get to the upper chamber,” said the sailor, “if I can but hit upon the broken-down steps; but you will find no trace of the Invisible Girl nor her light either, I warrant.”
“Truly a romantic adventure of the most disagreeable kind,” muttered Vernon, as he stumbled over the unequal ground; “she of the beacon-light must be both ugly and old, or she would not be so peevish77 and inhospitable.”
With considerable difficulty, and after divers79 knocks and bruises80, the adventurers at length succeeded in reaching the upper storey; but all was blank and bare, and they were fain to stretch themselves on the hard floor, when weariness, both of mind and body, conduced to steep their senses in sleep.
Long and sound were the slumbers81 of the mariners82. Vernon but forgot himself for an hour; then throwing off drowsiness83, and finding his rough couch uncongenial to repose84, he got up and placed himself at the hole that served for a window—for glass there was none, and there being not even a rough bench, he leant his back against the embrasure, as the only rest he could find. He had forgotten his danger, the mysterious beacon, and its invisible guardian85: his thoughts were occupied on the horrors of his own fate, and the unspeakable wretchedness that sat like a nightmare on his heart.
It would require a good-sized volume to relate the causes which had changed the once happy Vernon into the most woful mourner that ever clung to the outer trappings of grief, as slight though cherished symbols of the wretchedness within. Henry was the only child of Sir Peter Vernon, and as much spoiled by his father’s idolatry as the old baronet’s violent and tyrannical temper would permit. A young orphan86 was educated in his father’s house, who in the same way was treated with generosity87 and kindness, and yet who lived in deep awe88 of Sir Peter’s authority, who was a widower89; and these two children were all he had to exert his power over, or to whom to extend his affection. Rosina was a cheerful-tempered girl, a little timid, and careful to avoid displeasing90 her protector; but so docile91, so kind-hearted, and so affectionate, that she felt even less than Henry the discordant92 spirit of his parent. It is a tale often told; they were playmates and companions in childhood, and lovers in after days. Rosina was frightened to imagine that this secret affection, and the vows93 they pledged, might be disapproved94 of by Sir Peter. But sometimes she consoled herself by thinking that perhaps she was in reality her Henry’s destined95 bride, brought up with him under the design of their future union; and Henry, while he felt that this was not the case, resolved to wait only until he was of age to declare and accomplish his wishes in making the sweet Rosina his wife. Meanwhile he was careful to avoid premature96 discovery of his intentions, so to secure his beloved girl from persecution97 and insult. The old gentleman was very conveniently blind; he lived always in the country, and the lovers spent their lives together, unrebuked and uncontrolled. It was enough that Rosina played on her mandoline, and sang Sir Peter to sleep every day after dinner; she was the sole female in the house above the rank of a servant, and had her own way in the disposal of her time. Even when Sir Peter frowned, her innocent caresses98 and sweet voice were powerful to smooth the rough current of his temper. If ever human spirit lived in an earthly paradise, Rosina did at this time: her pure love was made happy by Henry’s constant presence; and the confidence they felt in each other, and the security with which they looked forward to the future, rendered their path one of roses under a cloudless sky. Sir Peter was the slight drawback that only rendered their tête-à-tête more delightful99, and gave value to the sympathy they each bestowed100 on the other. All at once an ominous101 personage made its appearance in Vernon Place, in the shape of a widow sister of Sir Peter, who, having succeeded in killing102 her husband and children with the effects of her vile103 temper, came, like a harpy, greedy for new prey104, under her brother’s roof. She too soon detected the attachment105 of the unsuspicious pair. She made all speed to impart her discovery to her brother, and at once to restrain and inflame106 his rage. Through her contrivance Henry was suddenly despatched on his travels abroad, that the coast might be clear for the persecution of Rosina; and then the richest of the lovely girl’s many admirers, whom, under Sir Peter’s single reign107, she was allowed, nay108, almost commanded, to dismiss, so desirous was he of keeping her for his own comfort, was selected, and she was ordered to marry him. The scenes of violence to which she was now exposed, the bitter taunts109 of the odious110 Mrs. Bainbridge, and the reckless fury of Sir Peter, were the more frightful and overwhelming from their novelty. To all she could only oppose a silent, tearful, but immutable111 steadiness of purpose: no threats, no rage could extort112 from her more than a touching113 prayer that they would not hate her, because she could not obey.
“There must be something we don’t see under all this,” said Mrs. Bainbridge; “take my word for it, brother, she corresponds secretly with Henry. Let us take her down to your seat in Wales, where she will have no pensioned beggars to assist her; and we shall see if her spirit be not bent114 to our purpose.”
Sir Peter consented, and they all three took up their abode115 in the solitary116 and dreary-looking house before alluded117 to as belonging to the family. Here poor Rosina’s sufferings grew intolerable. Before, surrounded by well-known scenes, and in perpetual intercourse118 with kind and familiar faces, she had not despaired in the end of conquering by her patience the cruelty of her persecutors;—nor had she written to Henry, for his name had not been mentioned by his relatives, nor their attachment alluded to, and she felt an instinctive64 wish to escape the dangers about her without his being annoyed, or the sacred secret of her love being laid bare, and wronged by the vulgar abuse of his aunt or the bitter curses of his father. But when she was taken to Wales, and made a prisoner in her apartment, when the flinty mountains about her seemed feebly to imitate the stony119 hearts she had to deal with, her courage began to fail. The only attendant permitted to approach her was Mrs. Bainbridge’s maid; and under the tutelage of her fiend-like mistress, this woman was used as a decoy to entice120 the poor prisoner into confidence, and then to be betrayed. The simple, kind-hearted Rosina was a facile dupe, and at last, in the excess of her despair, wrote to Henry, and gave the letter to this woman to be forwarded. The letter in itself would have softened121 marble; it did not speak of their mutual122 vows, it but asked him to intercede123 with his father, that he would restore her to the place she had formerly124 held in his affections, and cease from a cruelty that would destroy her. “For I may die,” wrote the hapless girl, “but marry another—never!” That single word, indeed, had sufficed to betray her secret, had it not been already discovered; as it was, it gave increased fury to Sir Peter, as his sister triumphantly125 pointed126 it out to him, for it need hardly be said that while the ink of the address was yet wet, and the seal still warm, Rosina’s letter was carried to this lady. The culprit was summoned before them. What ensued none could tell; for their own sakes the cruel pair tried to palliate their part. Voices were high, and the soft murmur127 of Rosina’s tone was lost in the howling of Sir Peter and the snarling128 of his sister. “Out of doors you shall go,” roared the old man; “under my roof you shall not spend another night.” And the words infamous129 seductress, and worse, such as had never met the poor girl’s ear before, were caught by listening servants; and to each angry speech of the baronet, Mrs. Bainbridge added an envenomed point worse than all.
More dead then alive, Rosina was at last dismissed. Whether guided by despair, whether she took Sir Peter’s threats literally130, or whether his sister’s orders were more decisive, none knew, but Rosina left the house; a servant saw her cross the park, weeping, and wringing131 her hands as she went. What became of her none could tell; her disappearance132 was not disclosed to Sir Peter till the following day, and then he showed by his anxiety to trace her steps and to find her, that his words had been but idle threats. The truth was, that though Sir Peter went to frightful lengths to prevent the marriage of the heir of his house with the portionless orphan, the object of his charity, yet in his heart he loved Rosina, and half his violence to her rose from anger at himself for treating her so ill. Now remorse133 began to sting him, as messenger after messenger came back without tidings of his victim. He dared not confess his worst fears to himself; and when his inhuman134 sister, trying to harden her conscience by angry words, cried, “The vile hussy has too surely made away with herself out of revenge to us,” an oath the most tremendous, and a look sufficient to make even her tremble, commanded her silence. Her conjecture135, however, appeared too true: a dark and rushing stream that flowed at the extremity136 of the park had doubtless received the lovely form, and quenched137 the life of this unfortunate girl. Sir Peter, when his endeavours to find her proved fruitless, returned to town, haunted by the image of his victim, and forced to acknowledge in his own heart that he would willingly lay down his life, could he see her again, even though it were as the bride of his son—his son, before whose questioning he quailed138 like the veriest coward; for when Henry was told of the death of Rosina, he suddenly returned from abroad to ask the cause—to visit her grave, and mourn her loss in the groves139 and valleys which had been the scenes of their mutual happiness. He made a thousand inquiries, and an ominous silence alone replied. Growing more earnest and more anxious, at length he drew from servants and dependents, and his odious aunt herself, the whole dreadful truth. From that moment despair struck his heart, and misery140 named him her own. He fled from his father’s presence; and the recollection that one whom he ought to revere141 was guilty of so dark a crime, haunted him, as of old the Eumenides tormented142 the souls of men given up to their torturings. His first, his only wish, was to visit Wales, and to learn if any new discovery had been made, and whether it were possible to recover the mortal remains143 of the lost Rosina, so to satisfy the unquiet longings144 of his miserable145 heart. On this expedition was he bound when he made his appearance at the village before named; and now, in the deserted tower, his thoughts were busy with images of despair and death, and what his beloved one had suffered before her gentle nature had been goaded146 to such a deed of woe147.
While immersed in gloomy reverie, to which the monotonous148 roaring of the sea made fit accompaniment, hours flew on, and Vernon was at last aware that the light of morning was creeping from out its eastern retreat, and dawning over the wild ocean, which still broke in furious tumult60 on the rocky beach. His companions now roused themselves, and prepared to depart. The food they had brought with them was damaged by sea-water, and their hunger, after hard labour and many hours’ fasting, had become ravenous149. It was impossible to put to sea in their shattered boat; but there stood a fisher’s cot about two miles off, in a recess150 in the bay, of which the promontory on which the tower stood formed one side; and to this they hastened to repair. They did not spend a second thought on the light which had saved them, nor its cause, but left the ruin in search of a more hospitable78 asylum151. Vernon cast his eyes round as he quitted it, but no vestige152 of an inhabitant met his eye, and he began to persuade himself that the beacon had been a creation of fancy merely. Arriving at the cottage in question, which was inhabited by a fisherman and his family, they made a homely153 breakfast, and then prepared to return to the tower, to refit their boat, and, if possible, bring her round. Vernon accompanied them, together with their host and his son. Several questions were asked concerning the Invisible Girl and her light, each agreeing that the apparition154 was novel, and not one being able to give even an explanation of how the name had become affixed155 to the unknown cause of this singular appearance; though both of the men of the cottage affirmed that once or twice they had seen a female figure in the adjacent wood, and that now and then a stranger girl made her appearance at another cot a mile off, on the other side of the promontory, and bought bread; they suspected both these to be the same, but could not tell. The inhabitants of the cot, indeed, appeared too stupid even to feel curiosity, and had never made any attempt at discovery. The whole day was spent by the sailors in repairing the boat; and the sound of hammers, and the voices of the men at work, resounded156 along the coast, mingled with the dashing of the waves. This was no time to explore the ruin for one who, whether human or supernatural, so evidently withdrew herself from intercourse with every living being. Vernon, however, went over the tower, and searched every nook in vain. The dingy157 bare walls bore no token of serving as a shelter; and even a little recess in the wall of the staircase, which he had not before observed, was equally empty and desolate158. Quitting the tower, he wandered in the pine wood that surrounded it, and, giving up all thought of solving the mystery, was soon engrossed159 by thoughts that touched his heart more nearly, when suddenly there appeared on the ground at his feet the vision of a slipper160. Since Cinderella so tiny a slipper had never been seen; as plain as shoe could speak, it told a tale of elegance161, loveliness, and youth. Vernon picked it up. He had often admired Rosina’s singularly small foot, and his first thought was a question whether this little slipper would have fitted it. It was very strange!—it must belong to the Invisible Girl. Then there was a fairy form that kindled162 that light—a form of such material substance that its foot needed to be shod; and yet how shod?—with kid so fine, and of shape so exquisite163, that it exactly resembled such as Rosina wore! Again the recurrence164 of the image of the beloved dead came forcibly across him; and a thousand home-felt associations, childish yet sweet, and lover-like though trifling165, so filled Vernon’s heart, that he threw himself his length on the ground, and wept more bitterly than ever the miserable fate of the sweet orphan.
In the evening the men quitted their work, and Vernon returned with them to the cot where they were to sleep, intending to pursue their voyage, weather permitting, the following morning. Vernon said nothing of his slipper, but returned with his rough associates. Often he looked back; but the tower rose darkly over the dim waves, and no light appeared. Preparations had been made in the cot for their accommodation, and the only bed in it was offered Vernon; but he refused to deprive his hostess, and, spreading his cloak on a heap of dry leaves, endeavoured to give himself up to repose. He slept for some hours; and when he awoke, all was still, save that the hard breathing of the sleepers166 in the same room with him interrupted the silence. He rose, and, going to the window, looked out over the now placid167 sea towards the mystic tower. The light was burning there, sending its slender rays across the waves. Congratulating himself on a circumstance he had not anticipated, Vernon softly left the cottage, and, wrapping his cloak round him, walked with a swift pace round the bay towards the tower. He reached it; still the light was burning. To enter and restore the maiden her shoe, would be but an act of courtesy; and Vernon intended to do this with such caution as to come unaware168, before its wearer could, with her accustomed arts, withdraw herself from his eyes; but, unluckily, while yet making his way up the narrow pathway, his foot dislodged a loose fragment, that fell with crash and sound down the precipice169. He sprung forward, on this, to retrieve170 by speed the advantage he had lost by this unlucky accident. He reached the door; he entered: all was silent, but also all was dark. He paused in the room below; he felt sure that a slight sound met his ear. He ascended171 the steps, and entered the upper chamber; but blank obscurity met his penetrating gaze, the starless night admitted not even a twilight172 glimmer67 through the only aperture173. He closed his eyes, to try, on opening them again, to be able to catch some faint, wandering ray on the visual nerve; but it was in vain. He groped round the room; he stood still, and held his breath; and then, listening intently, he felt sure that another occupied the chamber with him, and that its atmosphere was slightly agitated174 by another’s respiration175. He remembered the recess in the staircase; but before he approached it he spoke176;—he hesitated a moment what to say. “I must believe,” he said, “that misfortune alone can cause your seclusion177; and if the assistance of a man—of a gentleman”—
An exclamation178 interrupted him; a voice from the grave spoke his name—the accents of Rosina syllabled179, “Henry!—is it indeed Henry whom I hear?”
He rushed forward, directed by the sound, and clasped in his arms the living form of his own lamented180 girl—his own Invisible Girl he called her; for even yet, as he felt her heart beat near his, and as he entwined her waist with his arm, supporting her as she almost sank to the ground with agitation181, he could not see her; and, as her sobs182 prevented her speech, no sense but the instinctive one that filled his heart with tumultuous gladness, told him that the slender, wasted form he pressed so fondly was the living shadow of the Hebe beauty he had adored.
The morning saw this pair thus strangely restored to each other on the tranquil183 sea, sailing with a fair wind for L——, whence they were to proceed to Sir Peter’s seat, which, three months before, Rosina had quitted in such agony and terror. The morning light dispelled184 the shadows that had veiled her, and disclosed the fair person of the Invisible Girl. Altered indeed she was by suffering and woe, but still the same sweet smile played on her lips, and the tender light of her soft blue eyes were all her own. Vernon drew out the slipper, and showed the cause that had occasioned him to resolve to discover the guardian of the mystic beacon; even now he dared not inquire how she had existed in that desolate spot, or wherefore she had so sedulously185 avoided observation, when the right thing to have been done was to have sought him immediately, under whose care, protected by whose love, no danger need be feared. But Rosina shrunk from him as he spoke, and a deathlike pallor came over her cheek, as she faintly whispered, “Your father’s curse—your father’s dreadful threats!” It appeared, indeed, that Sir Peter’s violence, and the cruelty of Mrs. Bainbridge, had succeeded in impressing Rosina with wild and unvanquishable terror. She had fled from their house without plan or forethought—driven by frantic186 horror and overwhelming fear, she had left it with scarcely any money, and there seemed to her no possibility of either returning or proceeding187 onward188. She had no friend except Henry in the wide world; whither could she go?—to have sought Henry would have sealed their fates to misery; for, with an oath, Sir Peter had declared he would rather see them both in their coffins189 than married. After wandering about, hiding by day, and only venturing forth at night, she had come to this deserted tower, which seemed a place of refuge. How she had lived since then she could hardly tell: she had lingered in the woods by day, or slept in the vault190 of the tower, an asylum none were acquainted with or had discovered: by night she burned the pinecones of the wood, and night was her dearest time; for it seemed to her as if security came with darkness. She was unaware that Sir Peter had left that part of the country, and was terrified lest her hiding-place should be revealed to him. Her only hope was that Henry would return—that Henry would never rest till he had found her. She confessed that the long interval191 and the approach of winter had visited her with dismay; she feared that, as her strength was failing, and her form wasting to a skeleton, that she might die, and never see her own Henry more.
An illness, indeed, in spite of all his care, followed her restoration to security and the comforts of civilised life; many months went by before the bloom revisiting her cheeks, and her limbs regaining192 their roundness, she resembled once more the picture drawn31 of her in her days of bliss193 before any visitation of sorrow. It was a copy of this portrait that decorated the tower, the scene of her suffering, in which I had found shelter. Sir Peter, overjoyed to be relieved from the pangs194 of remorse, and delighted again to see his orphan ward29, whom he really loved, was now as eager as before he had been averse195 to bless her union with his son. Mrs. Bainbridge they never saw again. But each year they spent a few months in their Welsh mansion, the scene of their early wedded196 happiness, and the spot where again poor Rosina had awoke to life and joy after her cruel persecutions. Henry’s fond care had fitted up the tower, and decorated it as I saw; and often did he come over, with his “Invisible Girl,” to renew, in the very scene of its occurrence, the remembrance of all the incidents which had led to their meeting again, during the shades of night, in that sequestered197 ruin.
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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22
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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23
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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24
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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25
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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26
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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27
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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28
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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29
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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30
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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31
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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32
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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33
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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34
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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35
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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36
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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37
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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38
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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39
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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40
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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41
awakened
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|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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42
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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43
garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
eked
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|
| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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45
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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46
rectified
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| [医]矫正的，调整的 | |
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47
tempestuous
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|
| adj.狂暴的 | |
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48
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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49
bribed
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|
| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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50
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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51
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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52
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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53
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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54
oar
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|
| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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55
jutted
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|
| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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56
frightful
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|
| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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57
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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58
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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59
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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60
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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61
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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62
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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63
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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64
instinctive
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|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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65
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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66
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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67
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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68
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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70
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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71
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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72
sprightly
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|
| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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73
maiden
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|
| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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74
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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75
contrived
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|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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76
scrambled
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|
| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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77
peevish
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|
| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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78
hospitable
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|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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79
divers
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|
| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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80
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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81
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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82
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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83
drowsiness
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|
| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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84
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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85
guardian
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|
| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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86
orphan
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|
| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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87
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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88
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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89
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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90
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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91
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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92
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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93
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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94
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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96
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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97
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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98
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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99
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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100
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
ominous
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|
| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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102
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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103
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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104
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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105
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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106
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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107
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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108
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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109
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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110
odious
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|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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111
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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112
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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113
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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114
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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115
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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116
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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117
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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119
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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120
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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121
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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122
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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123
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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124
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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125
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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126
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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127
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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128
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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129
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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130
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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131
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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132
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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133
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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134
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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135
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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136
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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137
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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138
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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140
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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141
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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142
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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143
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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144
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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145
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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146
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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147
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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148
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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149
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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150
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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151
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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152
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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153
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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154
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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156
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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157
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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158
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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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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160
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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161
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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166
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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167
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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169
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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170
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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173
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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174
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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177
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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178
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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179
syllabled
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| 有…音节的 | |
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180
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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182
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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183
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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186
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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187
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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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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189
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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192
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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194
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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195
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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196
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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