The day was well suited for such consoling musing10; there was a balmy freshness in the air, a clearness in the atmosphere, in the cloudless expanse of azure11, stretching above and around; a warmth and glow in the sun, even as he approached the west, unusual to the season. And there was beauty, too, in the landscape; or the fountain of enjoyment12 which Nature had unsealed in our hearts, bathed the scene in its own bright colouring, as in those exquisite13 lines of Coleridge:—
* * * “We receive but what we give,
And in our hearts alone does Nature live;
Ours her wedding garment, and ours her shroud15,
And would we ought receive of higher worth
Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd?
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous16 cloud,
Enveloping17 the earth.”
The trees lifted up their graceful18 heads to the circling heaven; every branch and every spray clearly defined against the blue; so still, so moveless, they looked like pencil-sketches of exquisite delicacy19 and softness. Then often, as in beautiful relief, started up a gigantic holly20, every leaf green and glossy21 as in the richness of summer, with clusters of its bright scarlet22 berries standing23 out against the dark leaf, like sprays of coral. Ever and anon, a break in the hedge displayed towering hills and far-stretching meadows, green and glistening24 from the late rains; while bold crags, chained by the grey lichen26 and golden stonecrop, and patches of gloomy firs, frowning like grim shadows in the sunshine, proclaimed the mountainous district to which we were approaching, and heightened, by contrast, the beauty all around. There was something in the whole aspect of Nature so calm, so cheerful, bereft27 as she was of every flower and leaf, and all her rich summer hoards28, that made us compare her to one on whom affliction has fallen with a heavy hand, whose flowers of life are withered, but who can yet lift up heart and brow, with serene29 and placid30 faith, to that heaven where the vanished flowers wait her smile again.
The very sounds, too, were in unison31 with the scene. The sweet note of many an English bird, not in full chorus of melody, as in the warmth and luxury of summer, but one or two together, answered by others as they floated to and fro in the field of azure, or paused a moment on the quivering spray. Then came the twinkling gush32 of a silvery stream, seeming, by its blithesome33 voice, to rejoice in its increase of waters from previous heavy rains. Then, sparkling and leaping in the glittering rays, like a shower of silver, a rustic34 watermill became visible through the trees; the music of its splash and foam35 bringing forth the voice of memory yet more thrillingly than before, for it was a sound of home. We paused; when suddenly another sound floated on the air, of more mournful meaning. It was the solemn toll36 of a church bell, distinct though distant, possessing all that simple sanctity peculiar37 to the country—that voice of wailing38 which comes upon the heart as if the departed, whom it mourns, had had its dwelling39 there, claiming kindred alike with our sorrows and our joys. We hurried on, and just as we neared the ivy40-mantled church, the solemn chanting of a psalm41 by several young and most sweet voices sounded in the dim distance, and becoming nearer and more near, proclaimed the approach of the funeral train. The peculiar mode of tolling42 the bell, as is customary in those primitive43 districts of the north of England, had already betrayed the sex of the departed, and with foreboding spirits we listened for the age. We counted twenty-one of those mournful chimes, and then they sunk in silence solemn as their sound.
The church was situated44 midway on the ascent45 of a hill, or rather mount, guarded by a thick grove46 of yews47 and firs, their sad and pensive foliage48 assimilating well with the olden shrine49. The ivy had clambered over the slender buttress50, clustering round the old square belfry, decking age with beauty, and moss51 and lichen pressed forth in fantastic patches on the roof. The green earth was filled with lowly graves, thickly twined with evergreen52 shrubs53 and hardy54 flowering plants. Headstones and marble tombs there were; some so crusted over by the cold finger of Time, that even the briefest record of those who slept beneath was lost for ever; and others gleaming pure and white in the declining sun, seeming to whisper hope and faith in the very midst of desolation and death.
The clergyman stood at the churchyard gate, waiting the arrival of the corpse55. He was leaning against the stone pillar which held the hinges of the gate, his head buried in his hands, and his bowed and drooping56 aspect breathing a more than common love. His figure was so peculiarly youthful, we wondered at his full canonical57 costume.
The psalm continued; now low, as mourning the departed—now in solemn rejoicing that a ransomed58 soul was free. The snow-white pall59 which covered the coffin60, the white dresses and hoods61 of the bearers and the young girls, who, to the number of eight or ten, headed the train, confirmed the mournful tale which the bell had already told. A young girl of one-and-twenty summers was passing to her last long home. There were but few chief mourners, and these seemed struggling to subdue62 their grief to the composed and holy stillness meet for such an hour. As the train entered the last winding63 path of the ascent, the bell began again to toll, and the sound seemed to rouse the young minister from his all-absorbing grief. He started, with a visible shudder64, and the expression of agony that his face revealed haunted us for many a long day. There was a strong effort at control; and he turned to meet the corpse, repeating, as he did so, in low impressive tones, part of the burial service. He walked at the head of the train to the place appointed—the centre of a little cluster of yews; and there, in silent awe65, we watched the ceremony of the interment.
An aged66 minister had been among the train of mourners, and, as they entered the churchyard, had approached the officiating clergyman, evidently entreating67 to perform the melancholy office in his stead. The reply was merely a strong grasp of the hand and a mournful shake of the head; and the old man fell back to his place, his eyes still fixed68 on his young brother, and gradually they filled with large tears, which fell unconsciously, and seemed more for the living than the dead. Once only the service was wholly inarticulate, and the old man drew near hurriedly, as fearing the calm of mental torture must at length give way; but still he struggled on, though the tone in which the awful words—“earth to earth, and dust to dust,” now at length pronounced, was as if the very spirit had been wrung69 to give them voice. Never did the sound of filling in the grave fall with such cold and heavy weight on our hearts as at that moment; yet still, spell-bound, we lingered.
The early twilight70 of autumn had deepened the beautiful blue of the heavens, as the service concluded, and with low, subdued71 chant the mourning train departed. The slender forms of the young girls, in their snowy robes, gleaming strangely and fitfully through the darkening shadows of the winding paths; their sweet, young voices sounding almost like spirit music, as they faded, fainter and more faint in the far distance.
Still the young clergyman remained, pale, rigid72, moveless, gazing on the newly-turned earth, till he fancied he was alone with the homes of the dead; and then, with a low, smothered73 groan74 of anguish75, he flung himself on the damp grave, clasping it with his outstretched arms, pressing his cold lips upon it, his whole frame quivering with the effort to restrain his bursting sobs76. The old man hurried forwards and laid his trembling hand on his arm, the tears streaming down his furrowed77 face the while, and with faltering78 accents conjured80 him to take comfort, for his poor mother’s sake.
“I will, I will,” was the agonized82 reply. “Leave me, leave me to my God. He will bring peace. I see but the cold grave now; but faith will come again. She is free, rejoicing. She will know now how much, how faithfully—but leave me, leave me now.” And the old man turned sorrowingly away; and softly and sadly, for such grief might not bear a witness, we departed also—our last lingering glance revealing the youthful mourner kneeling in voiceless supplication83 on the sod.
To the aged minister so often mentioned we were indebted for that true English hospitality, still so warmly proffered84 in these “nooks of the world,” and in listening to the following sad and simple story, the evening hours sped on.
Lucy Lethvyn was the daughter of a rich merchant, in one of our large commercial cities of the north of England. The village of Elmsford had been the site alike of her childhood and happy school-days; and so associated was it with hours of peace and joyance, far removed from the strife85 and confusion around her city home, that her wonted summer visit to its shades and flowers was ever welcomed with delight.
At the Vicarage of Elmsford, then occupied by our venerable host, Mr. Evelyn, Mrs. Lethvyn and her daughters were constant visitors; and there it was that Nevil Herbert, the young clergyman who had so deeply interested us, again met Lucy after a lapse86 of seven years. Formerly87 they had been frequent companions, from the near relationship of their parents; and Nevil had been accustomed to think of Lucy as the gentle, artless, affectionate little girl of ten summers, he had last beheld88 her. Her occasional letters, breathing the same fresh, child-like spirit, increased this illusion. She had called him brother, and often wished he had indeed been such; and he had laughingly acknowledged and promised to value the relationship. In those seven years of separation, however, Nevil’s lot had changed. At eighteen he lost his father, and the same stroke cast him and his mother penniless on the cold world. A rich relation promised to give him a collegiate education, preparatory to his taking orders, a living being in his gift. The offer, benevolently89 made as it was, might not be rejected; though to Nevil, the parting with his mother, for her also to endure the miseries90 of dependence91, was fraught92 with such anguish, that he would willingly have worked for her in the meanest capacity, so that she might still feel free.
Mrs. Herbert was, however, much too unselfish to permit this; she soothed94, urged, and in part comforted him, by the anticipation95 of the time when they might be once again together, assuring him that to contribute to that joyful96 end, much more painful alternatives could be borne than the one that she had chosen.
On all that Nevil Herbert had to endure in college, we have no space to linger. Suffice it he was poor—he was dependent; and however lavish97 may be the kindness and benevolence98 bestowed99, it will not take away the sting contained in these two words, or permit the taking that station in the world for which such spirits pine. It is strange how often poverty will change to reserve, and bitterness, and pride, dispositions100 which in affluence101 would have been humble102, and loving, and open as the day. And sad, oh! how bitterly sad it is that the cold, heartless world should fling such scorn and contempt upon that word, and shrink from the children of poverty, noble-gifted though they be, as they would from crime, and, by a thousand nameless slights and petty provocations103, add a hundred-fold to the misery104 already theirs. Philosophy may preach, and religion soothe93; but while such things are, poverty must ever be regarded as a doom105 of horror and of dread106.
Nevil Herbert’s peculiarly sensitive nature caused him to feel these evils even more keenly than the multitude so situated; and therefore the rest and peace of the vicarage of Elmsford was, indeed, to him almost heaven upon earth. There nothing ever galled107 him, but all around breathed the balm of that true sympathy and appreciation108, which, raising the drooping spirit to its proper level, restores its self-esteem, and consequently its happiness.
Nevil was just two-and-twenty when his ideal of female loveliness and innocence109 burst upon him in most exquisite reality, through the child-like loveliness and artlessness of Lucy. Alike the favourites of the vicar, he rejoiced to see them together, and never dreamed that to his petted Nevil danger might thence accrue110. To him Lucy was still a child, as so she was to herself and all around her, but to one, and that one, unhappily, was Nevil. He guessed not her influence till he returned to his solitary111 studies, and then he felt, too keenly, that, despite his every resolution, he loved—and loved in vain; not only from their different stations, but that it was still only as a brother she regarded him.
The next recess112 found them again together, more closely than before, for Lucy was the old man’s guest equally with himself; but a change had come upon her—not towards Nevil, but in herself. The child had sprung into the woman—the incipient113 germs of thought and feeling burst into the full-blossomed flowers. There was a deeper tone in her sweet voice, a more intense light in her radiant eye, a fuller sentiment in her bright smile. Yet to Nevil’s eye alone these things were visible. None other, even of those who loved her best, saw the change; but Nevil read by the light of his own feelings, and they told him she, too, loved—and loved another.
It was even so, and from her own lips the artless tale was poured into his ear. She called and felt him brother, and claimed his sympathy as such; feeling that, did she conceal114 anything which concerned her happiness from one so true, and kind, and good as Nevil Herbert, she wronged him, and deserved to lose his friendship altogether; and even at such a moment Nevil’s martyr115 spirit did not forsake116 him. The hand, indeed, was cold and damp which pressed the fairy one held out to him, as she spoke117, but the lip did not quiver, nor the voice falter79, in which he assured her that her confidence was not misplaced—that her happiness and interest were dear to him as his own.
A few weeks brought Mr. and Mrs. Lethvyn and Mordaunt Lyndsey to the vicarage. Handsome, intelligent, and animated118, there was much in the latter to possess and win. He had been Lucy’s partner at her first ball, and by the magic charm of his varied119 conversation, the magnetic power which fascinates at a first interview, and calling forth the yearning120 to know more, gradually changes into earnest and lasting121 love, fixed that evening indelibly on her mind and heart.
It is in vain to argue either on the birth, the nature or the duration of love. It may spring into existence unconsciously; becoming so completely part of our being, that it remains122 unknown until some sudden shock of joy or grief awakens123 us from our rest, and dooms124 us to an almost overpowering sense of joy or an equal intensity125 of grief; or one little hour may reveal depths within the human heart, whose existence was never known before—will awaken9 restless, baseless imaginings, that linger, strengthening with every interview, till the earthly fate is fixed for ever. And how may we argue on this, how seek its explanation? Yet who, that hath once opened the wide, mysterious volume of the human heart, will deny that so it is?
It was so with Lucy. She who had remained free and child-like in her intercourse126 with Nevil Herbert (though her character assimilated with his far more than with Lyndsey’s), was chained and bound for ever beneath the magic of Mordaunt Lyndsey’s voice and smile. The spell of their first interview lingered to the second, and each day, each week strengthened Lucy’s love.
Mordaunt Lyndsey was an orphan127, and not rich enough to wed14 a portionless bride; but, unlike Nevil, as he knew not the privation and bitterness of dependence, so was he utterly128 ignorant of those finely organized feelings which could debar his association with the wealthier than himself. He made his way in the world, for he had good connections, well-sounding friends, and so was courted and received. It was some little time before Mr. Lethvyn could give his consent to their union, his ambition looking higher for his Lucy, but his paternal129 affection was stronger than his ambition; and perceiving how completely her happiness was bound up with Mordaunt’s, for whom he himself felt prepossessed, he not only gave unqualified approval, but settled on his darling a portion almost startling in its profuseness130, and promised his influence to get Mordaunt entered as partner in the firm. Lucy was still so young, that her parents prevailed on Lyndsey, though very much against his inclination132, to wait six months, and celebrate their nuptials133 with the completion of her eighteenth year.
It had been with perfect sincerity134 that Nevil Herbert had promised Lucy to comply with her artless entreaty135; and, like Mordaunt, not only for her dear sake, but from the same honourable136 and religious principles which actuated all his conduct. Why, he asked himself, should he hate and shun137 a fellow-creature because he was happier than himself? and could he have esteemed138 as he wished, and hoped to do, young Lyndsey, this principle would have been followed by a friendship as disinterested139 as was felt by man.
But this could not be. Rendered watchful140 and penetrative by his pure and most unselfish affection, a very, very brief interval141 of intimate association convinced him that Mordaunt was not a character worthy142 of one like Lucy. She would need, as a wife, tenderness as unvarying as it was exclusive, sympathy in all her high, pure feelings, as in detestation of all worldliness and art; encouragement in her simple duties and tastes; in a word, love as faithful, as clinging, as constant as her own, and this Nevil saw Mordaunt could not give. Even now, Lucy was not the world to him as he was to her, and Herbert could not argue that such difference was but in nature, that man could not love as woman; for his own aching spirit told him the creed143 was false.
Time passed. The Lethvyns and Mordaunt returned to their city homes, and Nevil to his solitary studies. Weeks sped on to months, the eventful day was near at hand, and Lucy’s bridal attire144 nearing its completion. The nuptials were to be on a scale almost princely; for as princes did Lethvyn’s ambitious spirit regard the merchants of England, forgetting, in his vast schemes and golden visions, that the wealth of yesterday may be poverty the morrow. The expected bridal was the talk of the city; anxiety for her child’s happiness the only thought of the mother; love for Mordaunt the sole existence of Lucy; and therefore it was not very strange that by these severally interested parties Lethvyn’s unusually harassed145 countenance146 and excited manner were unnoticed. Ten days before that appointed for the bridal, however, the blow fell—the firm failed. Lethvyn was utterly and irretrievably ruined, unable, by the dishonest conduct of one of the partners, even to pay one shilling in the pound.
The usual excitement which such events in provincial147 cities always create, was heightened by the universal sympathy for the principal sufferers. Lethvyn’s profuse131 benevolence and affability having made him generally beloved, many pressed forward eager to prove what they felt; but the unfortunate man turned from them with a heart-sickness, a loathing148 of himself and the whole world, which no human consolation149 could remove.
That her father should be so prostrated150 by his failure was a matter of grief, but scarcely of surprise, to Lucy; but that it could in any way affect Mordaunt, was a mystery she could not solve. Loving him, and him alone, with such love that she cared not how lowly was their dwelling—nay151, rejoicing that she could now prove her love in a hundred little caressing152 ways, which in a wealthier and more influential153 station would be denied her—how could the thought enter her pure mind, that in his affection her wealth had equal resting with herself?—that his ardent154 desire for the speedy celebration of their marriage originated as much to possess her dowry as herself? the insecure tenure155 of merchants’ wealth never having for one instant faded from his mind.
To Elmsford, at the earnest entreaty of Mr. Evelyn, the ruined family retired156; but vain were all exertions157 of his friends to rouse Mr. Lethvyn from his despondency; he drooped158 and drooped, and there were times when he would fix his eyes on his Lucy with such an expression of intense suffering, of foreboding misery, that she would fly to him, fold her arms about his neck, and weep, and then conjure81 him to tell her what he feared; and then he would fold her closer and closer, the big tears rolling down cheeks on which the furrows159 of age had been hollowed in a single week, but the cause of such emotion never found a voice.
Too soon, however, did the cause reveal itself. With every manifestation160 of strong feeling and real affection, Mordaunt Lyndsey confessed that to give Lucy the home and comforts which he felt she so deserved and needed, he had not the adequate means. They were both still young, and he would go abroad, seek his fortune in India, where a lucrative161 situation had been offered him; and if, indeed, his Lucy would love him still, through absence, and distance, and time, he would in a few brief years either send for her to join him, or return for her himself, as circumstances would permit.
Pale, rigid, almost breathless, Lucy sat while her lover spoke, her hands pressed tightly one over the other, and every feature still almost to sternness; but as he fixed the full glance of his eyes on hers—and they seemed to glisten25 in tears as he called her name in that accent of love which ever thrilled through her heart and frame—she fell upon his bosom162, and, with a passionate163 burst of weeping, besought164 him not to leave her. Were there not some sweet spots in England—oh! surely there were—where they might live, even with his moderate means, in comparative affluence? Solitude165, privation—all more welcome, rather than part with him.
“And so sacrifice your first bloom, your glowing youth my Lucy, and struggle on through life, wasting your best years, buried in a wild, amid rude boors166, who could neither understand nor love you.”
“What care I for others? Have I not you, dearest Mordaunt? Do I seek, ask for, need aught else?”
“For that very love I would not so sacrifice you, sweet one; and—and—oh! Lucy, forgive me—man is different to woman. My spirit is restless and ambitious. I could not live in the retirement167 of an English cottage, and restlessness might seem like irritability168; and then—then, Lucy, you would—you must cease to love me!”
She lifted up her sweet face, and, oh! the expression of unutterable sadness upon it. A chill had fallen on her yearning heart, stagnating169 its every bounding pulse—a sickness and dread, more agonizing170 than parting’s self; for, for the first time, she felt “he does not love as I love;” but she spoke no word, she uttered no sigh—it was but the shadow on that lovely face which betrayed the cloud that had buried the sunshine of her heart; and when with words of repentant171 agony, almost in tears, Mordaunt flung himself on his knees before her, covering her cold hand with kisses, and imploring172 her not to doubt his love, his truth, because he had thus spoken, she tried to smile, to forget herself for him, drawing from him with such sweet gentleness his plans and wishes, that his spirits returned, and he forgot even the fancy that he had given her pain, or that the word of a moment could break the fond dream of months.
Mordaunt Lyndsey went to India. We may not linger on that bitter parting, or on the feelings of either save to say, that with Mordaunt sorrow was so transient, that ere the long voyage was completed, new scenes, new hopes, new wishes had obtained such dominion173 there was scarcely a void remaining. With Lucy could this be? Alas174! she was a young and loving woman; and in those words we have our answer. Nor was she one who had ever so sought outward excitement and enjoyments175, as to find in them relief from anxiety, or rest from sorrow. The simple, trusting religion of her own heart—the refreshing176 and soothing177 influences of nature—the calm repose178 of seeking the happiness of others, of devotion to all who gave her the sweet meed of affection; these were her consolations179, and enabled her to meet her heart’s deep loneliness with cheerfulness and smiles. And when Mr. Lethvyn sunk gradually away, it seemed not only with individual and present sorrows, but with dim forebodings of his child’s future, it was Lucy who soothed and comforted her mother, and, by her meek180 and gentle influence, restored peace and serenity181 to their lowly cottage, and robbed even the memory of death of its lingering sting.
And towards Mordaunt, what were her feelings? Though the conviction that his love was not as hers never left her mind, her affection was too pure and true to know the shadow of a change. She thought it was but the diverse nature of man and woman; that the varied pursuits, the very strength of the one prevented the exclusiveness, the devotedness183 of the other, and her gentle spirit turned longingly184 to the time when she should be all his own; and, when, perhaps, tired of excitement and ambition, his heart would turn to his home and to herself for rest and peace, and she would be to him, indeed, almost as he had ever been to her.
His truth she never doubted. Deception185, fickleness186, or caprice, unkindness or neglect, were things unknown to her; and how then could she associate them with the earthly idol187 her soul enshrined? She had carried the guilelessness, the innocence, the freshness of the child into the deeper feelings, the clinging devotedness of the woman. Her being was wrapt in the beautiful halo her fancy had flung round another, and did a storm disperse188 that halo, it would have crushed her in the same destroying blast.
It was this child-like confiding189 spirit, the rays of her own heart, which shed such warmth and glow over Mordaunt’s letters; for by spirits more exacting190 and suspicious, the vital spark from the heart, giving life to the words of the head, would have been found wanting.
In the second year of their separation, Mr. Evelyn was raised to a deanery in one of the adjoining counties, and his former living became the property of Nevil Herbert, who had just received his ordination191. Again, therefore, was this noble-hearted young man thrown into the closest intimacy192 with the gentle object of his ill-fated attachment193, and in circumstances which could not fail to strengthen its endurance and its force. The barrier between wealth and poverty had been shivered—Lucy was now but his equal; nay, circumstances had rather placed him above her. An unexpected legacy194, and some recovered debts of his late father, had given him not only independence, but competence195; and he could now have offered her the home, the simple comforts and enjoyments which the more he knew her, the more he felt were all she needed for her happiness. Her friendship, the regard of her poor widowed mother, the delight with which ever the young Margaret welcomed his visits, the consciousness that he was of use to them, all prevented his keeping aloof196, as perhaps would have been better for his peace: besides, how could he do so without some cause?—he, whose adversity their prosperity had soothed and blessed! No, better the torture of lingering in her presence, feeling she was the property of another, and that other, one who loved not, valued not as he did, than be, even in seeming, one of the butterfly crowd, who sport in the sunshine to fly from the storm. And though repeatedly alone together, though thrown in constant association, intimate and affectionate, in very truth as a brother with a sister, never once in those eighteen months did Nevil Herbert, by sign or word, betray to Lucy or to any other, even to his much-loved mother, the dread secret which bowed his heart and paled his cheek, and dashed his youth with the calm seriousness—the quiet hush197 of age.
It was three years after Mordaunt Lyndsey’s departure that the longed-for summons came. He could not return for her himself, his situation would not permit his absence for so long a time; but if, indeed, she loved him still sufficiently198 to encounter the miseries of a long voyage, of a life in India, the banishment199 from mother, sister, friends—all for him alone, the sooner their term of suffering and separation closed, the happier for them both; but if time had cooled the enthusiasm of her love—if one feeling of regret, however faint, bound her to England—one emotion of dread accompanied the idea of the voyage, or the thought of dwelling in a strange and dangerous land—he released her from her engagement. She was free. He besought her to think well ere she decided200; that he could not, dared not, urge her to make such a weighty sacrifice for him. He did not dilate201 on his own feelings, but if Lucy marked the omission202, she believed he had done so purposely, that no thought of him should bias203 her decision. Yet even what appeared to her guileless spirit his unselfish resignation of personal happiness for her sake, could not remove the bitter anguish it was to feel, that even now, tried as she had been through absence and time, he did not, could not, understand the might, the devotedness of her love.
“I will go to him—he shall learn how much I love him, if he know it not now,” was her inward ejaculation; and at that moment Nevil Herbert entered the room. She welcomed him gladly, for she needed him even more than usual; and in agitated204 accents entered at once on the subject which engrossed205 her, pausing, in sudden fear, as she beheld Nevil’s very lips grow white, and the damp drops standing like beads206 on his high forehead.
“Nevil, dear—dear Nevil, you are ill; and I, selfish as I am, prevent your going home to rest. You are more than tired. Pray let me get something for you.”
She laid both hands on his arms as she spoke, looking up in his agitated face with an expression of such anxious affection, that it was with difficulty Nevil could restrain himself from snatching her to his bosom, and pouring forth the agony which at that moment well-nigh prostrated mind and frame; but he did not. Even at that moment religion and virtue207 were triumphant208; he conquered the wild impulse of passion, assured her it was but passing faintness, which a glass of water would remove; and when she flew to fetch it, he bowed his head upon his hands in prayer, and, on her return, received it with his own meek, soul-felt smile.
With all the artless confidence of her nature, Lucy imparted every feeling which that letter caused, except its pain, for that would seem reproach on Mordaunt. She would depart herself for answer—to write first would be but waste of time. The term of parting known, it was better for her mother as for herself to be spared the suffering of anticipation; besides, her uncle only waited for her to set sail for India;—his wife went with him, and such an opportunity might not occur again.
And what could Nevil Herbert answer? Could he reiterate209 Mordaunt’s own counsel, and beseech210 her to ponder well ere her final decision? A chill for her had fallen on his heart. He bade her repeat again and again that part of Lyndsey’s letter which she had confided211 to him; and each time confirmed the dread conviction, that it was in no spirit of self-sacrifice Mordaunt had written, but that the engagement hung upon him as a weight and chain, from which he longed to be released, yet shrunk from the dishonour212 of breaking it himself. In vain Nevil struggled with the idea; it would force itself upon his mind, regard it which way he would. Could he but have believed she was going to happiness, he would not have paused till all in his power was done to forward it; but, as it was, the chaos213 of that fond and faithful heart no words are adequate to describe. He felt she was going to misery, which he was denied all power, all possibility of averting—nay, which he was compelled, by a stern peremptory214 destiny, to advise and forward.
A few words must suffice to narrate215 Lucy’s departure from her native shores, and uneventful voyage. Doting216 as she did upon her mother, yet so strong, so omnipotent217, was that young girl’s love for her betrothed218, that even this pang219 was assuaged220 by the intense delight which even to think of gazing on his face, of listening to his voice again, never, never more on earth to be divided, emanated221 over her whole being. The long weary months of the voyage were beguiled222 by such fond visions; they told of dangers, of hovering223 storms, and she smiled, as if love could guard her even from these; and the fond fancy was realized, for she reached India in safety.
To Mrs. Lethvyn and Margaret, Lucy’s departure was indeed desolation; and as Nevil tried to soothe and comfort by the anticipation of her happiness—oh! what a storm of contending feelings crushed his very heart. He heard her mother bewail that love had not sprung up between her Lucy and himself; that two beings, each so fitted to form the happiness of the other, fate had so divided; and, though his very spirit trembled, he smiled, and with gentle monition, soothed the momentary225 irritability by a reference to that wiser, kinder Providence226, from whom all things, even the darkest, have their source in love.
From a return ship, which had met the Syren about two hundred miles from her destined227 port, the anxious friends of Lucy received intelligence of her safety thus far; and Nevil nerved his heart and frame to receive, without any visible emotion, the intelligence expected in her next—her arrival and her marriage.
The time seemed unusually long before the Indian mail came in; and when he saw by the papers that it had, and the postman passed the vicarage, evidently on his way to the widow’s cottage, Nevil felt as if all physical power had departed from him. How long he thus sat he knew not;—the papers on which he had been writing notes for his next sermon were before him, and his mother fancied he was still busied with them. A hurried step aroused him, and Margaret Lethvyn rushed into the parlour, every feature betraying agitation228.
“Oh! Mr. Herbert, come—pray come with me to poor mamma. Lucy, our own dear, injured Lucy! That wretch229—that villain230 Mordaunt! Oh! that I were but a man, that I could but seek revenge!”
“Margaret!” exclaimed Nevil, springing from his seat, and convulsively grasping her arm, his face livid as death, while that of the young, high-spirited Margaret glowed like crimson231; “revenge! for what? on whom?—what of—of—speak, for God’s sake!”
“He has deceived, has dealt falsely and foully232 with her—our own Lucy; who left friends, home—all, all for him; and loved him with such love! Oh! Mr. Herbert, do not chide233 me for the sinful feelings, but I must hate him—must pray for vengeance234 on him. He has deceived her. Even when he sent for her, he was MARRIED—MARRIED to another!”
Nevil Herbert sunk back on his seat with a groan so deep, a shudder so convulsive, that his mother and Margaret flew to his side in terror. It was long ere he could rouse himself; his forebodings all were realized; the blow had fallen; and for Lucy—who may tell the agony of Nevil’s heart, when he thought of its effect on her?
It was but too true. Incapable235 of any strong or enduring emotion, still seeking and loving worldly aggrandizement236 above all other consideration, Mordaunt Lyndsey had not been a year in India before he felt his engagement with Lucy as a heavy chain, which he longed to cast aside. He found himself courted and followed; and could he but have stifled237 the voice of conscience, would have married before the termination of eighteen months. A nature heartless as his own could neither appreciate nor understand the depth of Lucy’s. He purposely became colder and colder in his letters, but the warmth and trust of her own heart prevented her perceiving it. He magnified the miseries, the dangers of an Indian life, particularly to a female so thoroughly238 English as Lucy; but all was in vain;—every post brought him letters full of love and confidence, as at first. His feeble affections had been transferred to a wealthy heiress, caught by the diamonds which had sparkled in her ball costume. Dazzled into forgetfulness of all the past, conscience became drowned in the mad excitement and hilarity239 with which he pursued his advantage, and not till he was irretrievably engaged, did he remember he was the betrothed of another.
In one part of her statement Margaret was wrong. Mordaunt was not actually married when he last wrote to Lucy. In vain even his heartless nature struggled to write those words which could separate her from him for ever. For the first time the full extent of her love seemed to rush upon him, and he started up, and cursed his evil stars for making him such a wretch. For a moment, the idea of dissolving his present engagement entered his mind; but ere he reached the door, a vision of gold and gems240, of untold241 wealth, came upon him, and the demon242 triumphed. His better angel fled; and he wrote to Lucy, as we have seen, believing, with pertinacious243 self-delusion244, that his meaning would be so evident that she would break off the engagement herself—she must read that he was changed. At least she would write again ere she decided on leaving England, and then it would be easy for him to prevent it; and confiding in this, not a month after his letter had been despatched, the heiress became Mordaunt Lyndsey’s wife.
Our tale is well-nigh done, for to breathe one word of Lucy’s feelings would be profanation245. In vain her aunt and uncle conjured her to remain with them in India, and prove how little Mordaunt’s baseness had affected246 her, by a speedy marriage with another, above him alike in birth, wealth, and station; for such unions in India were easily accomplished247. By some, perhaps, the proposal would have been seized with avidity, and a broken heart effectually concealed248 beneath an outward show of prosperity and pride. With Lucy this could not be. The storm had burst, the halo was dissipated; its beauty and its sunshine, its purity and truth, vanished like falling stars in the dark abyss of fathomless249 space; and the gentle spirit, folded in the glowing halo, lay shrined ’neath the shock. Her yearnings were now for home, for a mother’s tenderness, a sister’s caressing love, a brother’s supporting friendship, which would lead her failing heart up to the only fount of peace. And, after a long and weary interval—a voyage, whose many dangers, delays, and all but shipwreck250, were, it seemed, as unfelt as unnoticed—those yearnings were at length fulfilled.
Again was Lucy Lethvyn an inmate251 of her mother’s lowly roof; but oh! how unspeakably changed, yet still so exquisitely252, so radiantly lovely, that the eye turned again and again upon her, first in delight, and then with such a strange quivering of the lip and eyelid253, betraying that tears were nigh. The smile—oh! what a history gleamed from it, of a woman’s heart broken, yet even from its every shivered fragment reflecting the quickness and confidence—aye, and deep heavenly love, which had descended254 on it from above. Not a bitter word, not an unkind reflection, not a selfish murmur255 ever escaped those lips. Those who loved and tended her alone occupied her thoughts and deeds. There were times, indeed, when a paroxysm of mental agony came upon her, bowing her fragile frame even to the dust; but of these intervals256 no earthly eye was witness. They were only marked by a rapid increase of exhaustion257, and all the fatal evidences of decline and death; and so months passed. And Nevil, may we write of him, as day by day he watched over the fading form of one so long, so secretly, so unchangeably beloved. Alas! for him, even as for Lucy, silence is the most eloquent258. We do not give such feelings words.
Autumn had come with a mildness and beauty unusual and most soothing. Lucy’s couch had been drawn259 to the window at her own request, and her eyes wandered over the landscape with a pleased and quiet smile. Nevil Herbert was alone beside her; he had been reading from that blessed book which had given comfort and strength to both, but had paused, seeing her inclined to speak.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, the fervour of her spirit flushing her cheek with sudden crimson, “yes! His words and works alike proclaim Him Love! Oh, Nevil! God has heard my prayer. He has spared me till I could realize the beauty and goodness, and the glory of this world. There was a time when, outward and inward—all was dark. Not a ray illumined the sluggish260 depths of misery and despair. Beauty had vanished with truth. I prayed for death; and once, as I stood alone upon the deck, the dread temptation was upon me to end misery and life together. It was but one plunge261, one little moment’s resolution, and all would be over. All! Oh, what a flash of bewildering and awful light burst upon my mental darkness, sent as an angel of mercy to my soul! I had loved a mortal, and not God! The world was beautiful with human love—not with His, from whom it sprang;—and the light of human love was quenched262, to teach me other things: and then it was I prayed, in the deep agony of remorse263, my God would spare me, even in suffering, till even this world were lovely to my heart once more; till I could feel His love more deep, more precious, than the love of man. And he has done this, Nevil, dearest Nevil. A few, a very few hours, and I shall be with Him whose all is joy, and loveliness, and love, for ever and ever.”
There was no answer, and Lucy turned with difficulty towards him. His face was buried in his hands, and his whole frame shaken as with convulsion.
“Nevil,” she said, softly, “dearest Nevil, you are in sorrow, and I can do nothing to relieve it; I—to whom you have been such a true consoling friend. I have long feared you had some secret grief; not in the selfishness of my joy, but since—since I have returned. Oh, that I could be to you what you have been to me!”
It was too much for Nevil. In the passionate emotion of that moment, he flung himself on his knees beside the couch, poured forth the torrent264 of that overwhelming love—how it had lingered with him through years of hopelessness and misery; and he besought her, in agony, to say that she would live—live to bless him yet; and, as he spoke, the pious265, the strong-hearted Nevil Herbert wept, till, as an infant, his very soul seemed powerless within him.
“And you have loved me thus!—you, the good, the noble, the exalted266! Oh! I thought human love was all an idle dream—a vain delusion; but it is not—it is not. Even this may be beautiful and true,” murmured Lucy, raising herself with difficulty till her head rested on the bosom of Nevil. “Do not—do not weep, Nevil! Our Father will bring peace and love. And, oh! if the pure and ransomed spirits may hover224 beside those still lingering on this earth, be it mine the blessed task of bringing you the comfort I would give you now. I was never worthy of such love—and from you, dearest Nevil!—how much less worthy now, that even, were life granted, I could give but a broken heart, whose all of life and energy had been devoted182 to another. You must not weep for me, Nevil! You must not let my memory blight267 your path of holiness and good. Think of all you have been to me, have done for me; and—and if that will comfort you, oh! believe all—all of love this aching heart may yet give to earth, Nevil, dearest Nevil! is your own!”
She raised that sweet face, which had become suddenly pale and dim, as if a shadow had stolen over it. Nevil clasped her convulsively to his heart, and struggled vainly to speak; his white and quivering lips pressed hers with a long, lingering kiss, and she shrunk not from them. It was his first and last; for sleep stole upon her, and bowed her head more heavily, more caressingly268 upon his bosom. And Nevil stilled his heart’s full beating, and hushed his very breath, lest that calm slumber269 should be broken. He yearned270 to look once more in those lovely eyes, to drink in once, but once again, the gushing271 music of that thrilling voice; but vain those mortal yearnings. Human love, the purest, mightiest272, has no power to chain the heaven-born spirit from its soaring flight. She never woke again!
And Mordaunt Lyndsey—was there no vengeance, no retribution for him? Did justice indeed so slumber? Long years rolled on ere aught could be distinguished273 to mark his prosperous path from that of his fellows; but some twenty years after our “Autumn Walk” in the lovely vales of Westmoreland, we learned that the hand of Heaven had dashed his lot with poison. A blooming family had sprung up around him; but each more or less touched by the malady274 of their mother. He had wedded275 madness!
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
emblems
|
|
| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
pensive
|
|
| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
immortality
|
|
| n.不死，不朽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
derives
|
|
| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
nourishment
|
|
| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
awaken
|
|
| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
musing
|
|
| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
azure
|
|
| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
wed
|
|
| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
shroud
|
|
| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
luminous
|
|
| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
enveloping
|
|
| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
holly
|
|
| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
glossy
|
|
| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
scarlet
|
|
| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
glistening
|
|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
glisten
|
|
| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
lichen
|
|
| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
bereft
|
|
| adj.被剥夺的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
hoards
|
|
| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
placid
|
|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
unison
|
|
| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
gush
|
|
| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
blithesome
|
|
| adj.欢乐的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
rustic
|
|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
foam
|
|
| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
toll
|
|
| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
wailing
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
ivy
|
|
| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
psalm
|
|
| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
tolling
|
|
| [财]来料加工 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
primitive
|
|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
situated
|
|
| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
ascent
|
|
| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
grove
|
|
| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
yews
|
|
| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
foliage
|
|
| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
shrine
|
|
| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
buttress
|
|
| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
moss
|
|
| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
evergreen
|
|
| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
shrubs
|
|
| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
hardy
|
|
| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
corpse
|
|
| n.尸体，死尸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
drooping
|
|
| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
canonical
|
|
| n.权威的；典型的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
ransomed
|
|
| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
pall
|
|
| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
coffin
|
|
| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
hoods
|
|
| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
subdue
|
|
| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
shudder
|
|
| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
awe
|
|
| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
aged
|
|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
entreating
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
wrung
|
|
| 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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
subdued
|
|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
rigid
|
|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
smothered
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
groan
|
|
| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
sobs
|
|
| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
furrowed
|
|
| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
faltering
|
|
| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
falter
|
|
| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
conjured
|
|
| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
conjure
|
|
| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
agonized
|
|
| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
supplication
|
|
| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
proffered
|
|
| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
strife
|
|
| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
lapse
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
beheld
|
|
| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
benevolently
|
|
| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
miseries
|
|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
dependence
|
|
| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
fraught
|
|
| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
soothe
|
|
| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
soothed
|
|
| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
anticipation
|
|
| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
joyful
|
|
| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
lavish
|
|
| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
benevolence
|
|
| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
bestowed
|
|
| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
dispositions
|
|
| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
affluence
|
|
| n.充裕，富足 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
provocations
|
|
| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
doom
|
|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
galled
|
|
| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
appreciation
|
|
| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
innocence
|
|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
accrue
|
|
| v.(利息等)增大，增多 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
recess
|
|
| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
incipient
|
|
| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
martyr
|
|
| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
forsake
|
|
| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
animated
|
|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
varied
|
|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
lasting
|
|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
awakens
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
dooms
|
|
| v.注定( doom的第三人称单数 )；判定；使…的失败（或灭亡、毁灭、坏结局）成为必然；宣判 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
intercourse
|
|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
orphan
|
|
| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
paternal
|
|
| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
profuseness
|
|
| n.挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
profuse
|
|
| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
inclination
|
|
| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
nuptials
|
|
| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
sincerity
|
|
| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
entreaty
|
|
| n.恳求，哀求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
honourable
|
|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
shun
|
|
| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
esteemed
|
|
| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
disinterested
|
|
| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
watchful
|
|
| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
creed
|
|
| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
attire
|
|
| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
harassed
|
|
| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
provincial
|
|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
loathing
|
|
| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
prostrated
|
|
| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
caressing
|
|
| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
influential
|
|
| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
tenure
|
|
| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
exertions
|
|
| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
drooped
|
|
| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
furrows
|
|
| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
manifestation
|
|
| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
lucrative
|
|
| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
besought
|
|
| 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) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
boors
|
|
| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
retirement
|
|
| n.退休，退职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
irritability
|
|
| n.易怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
stagnating
|
|
| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
agonizing
|
|
| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
repentant
|
|
| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
imploring
|
|
| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
dominion
|
|
| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
enjoyments
|
|
| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
refreshing
|
|
| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
soothing
|
|
| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
repose
|
|
| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
consolations
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
meek
|
|
| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
serenity
|
|
| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
devotedness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
longingly
|
|
| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
deception
|
|
| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
fickleness
|
|
| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
idol
|
|
| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
disperse
|
|
| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
confiding
|
|
| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
exacting
|
|
| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
ordination
|
|
| n.授任圣职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
193
attachment
|
|
| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
legacy
|
|
| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
competence
|
|
| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
aloof
|
|
| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
197
hush
|
|
| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
198
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
199
banishment
|
|
| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
200
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
201
dilate
|
|
| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
202
omission
|
|
| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
203
bias
|
|
| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
204
agitated
|
|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
205
engrossed
|
|
| adj.全神贯注的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
206
beads
|
|
| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
207
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
208
triumphant
|
|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
209
reiterate
|
|
| v.重申，反复地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
210
beseech
|
|
| v.祈求，恳求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
211
confided
|
|
| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
212
dishonour
|
|
| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
213
chaos
|
|
| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
214
peremptory
|
|
| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
215
narrate
|
|
| v.讲，叙述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
216
doting
|
|
| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
217
omnipotent
|
|
| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
218
betrothed
|
|
| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
219
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
220
assuaged
|
|
| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
221
emanated
|
|
| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
222
beguiled
|
|
| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
223
hovering
|
|
| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
224
hover
|
|
| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
225
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
226
providence
|
|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
227
destined
|
|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
228
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
229
wretch
|
|
| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
230
villain
|
|
| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
231
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
232
foully
|
|
| ad.卑鄙地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
233
chide
|
|
| v.叱责；谴责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
234
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
235
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
236
aggrandizement
|
|
| n.增大，强化，扩大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
237
stifled
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
238
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
239
hilarity
|
|
| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
240
gems
|
|
| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
241
untold
|
|
| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
242
demon
|
|
| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
243
pertinacious
|
|
| adj.顽固的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
244
delusion
|
|
| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
245
profanation
|
|
| n.亵渎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
246
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
247
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
248
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
249
fathomless
|
|
| a.深不可测的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
250
shipwreck
|
|
| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
251
inmate
|
|
| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
252
exquisitely
|
|
| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
253
eyelid
|
|
| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
254
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
255
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
256
intervals
|
|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
257
exhaustion
|
|
| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
258
eloquent
|
|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
259
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
260
sluggish
|
|
| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
261
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
262
quenched
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
263
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
264
torrent
|
|
| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
265
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
266
exalted
|
|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
267
blight
|
|
| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
268
caressingly
|
|
| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
269
slumber
|
|
| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
270
yearned
|
|
| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
271
gushing
|
|
| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
272
mightiest
|
|
| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
273
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
274
malady
|
|
| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
275
wedded
|
|
| 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 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |