They held meetings, they made speeches, they got up petitions to extort11 this boon12; on what terms it was made they cared not.
All men, taken singly, are more or less selfish; and taken in bodies, they are intensely so. The British merchant is no exception to this rule: the mercantile classes illustrate13 it strikingly. These classes certainly think too exclusively of making money; they are too oblivious14 of every national consideration but that of extending England's—that is, their own—commerce. Chivalrous15 feeling, disinterestedness16, pride in honour, is too dead in their hearts. A land ruled by them alone would too often make ignominious17 submission18—not at all from the motives19 Christ teaches, but rather from those Mammon instils20. During the late war,148 the tradesmen of England would have endured buffets21 from the French on the right cheek and on the left; their cloak they would have given to Napoleon, and then have politely offered him their coat also, nor would they have withheld22 their waistcoat if urged; they would have prayed permission only to retain their one other garment, for the sake of the purse in its pocket. Not one spark of spirit, not one symptom of resistance, would they have shown till the hand of the Corsican bandit had grasped that beloved purse; then, perhaps, transfigured at once into British bulldogs, they would have sprung at the robber's throat, and there they would have fastened, and there hung, inveterate23, insatiable, till the treasure had been restored. Tradesmen, when they speak against war, always profess24 to hate it because it is a bloody25 and barbarous proceeding26. You would think, to hear them talk, that they are peculiarly civilized—especially gentle and kindly28 of disposition29 to their fellow-men. This is not the case. Many of them are extremely narrow and cold-hearted; have no good feeling for any class but their own; are distant, even hostile, to all others; call them useless; seem to question their right to exist; seem to grudge30 them the very air they breathe, and to think the circumstance of their eating, drinking, and living in decent houses quite unjustifiable. They do not know what others do in the way of helping31, pleasing, or teaching their race; they will not trouble themselves to inquire. Whoever is not in trade is accused of eating the bread of idleness, of passing a useless existence. Long may it be ere England really becomes a nation of shop-keepers!
We have already said that Moore was no self-sacrificing patriot32, and we have also explained what circumstances rendered him specially27 prone33 to confine his attention and efforts to the furtherance of his individual interest; accordingly, when he felt himself urged a second time to the brink34 of ruin, none struggled harder than he against the influences which would have thrust him over. What he could do towards stirring agitation35 in the north against the war he did, and he instigated36 others whose money and connections gave them more power than he possessed37. Sometimes, by flashes, he felt there was little reason in the demands his party made on Government. When he heard of all Europe threatened by Bonaparte, and of all Europe arming to resist him; when he saw Russia menaced, and beheld149 Russia rising, incensed39 and stern, to defend her frozen soil, her wild provinces of serfs, her dark native despotism, from the tread, the yoke40, the tyranny of a foreign victor—he knew that England, a free realm, could not then depute her sons to make concessions42 and propose terms to the unjust, grasping French leader. When news came from time to time of the movements of that man then representing England in the Peninsula, of his advance from success to success—that advance so deliberate but so unswerving, so circumspect43 but so certain, so "unhasting" but so "unresting;" when he read Lord Wellington's own dispatches in the columns of the newspapers, documents written by modesty44 to the dictation of truth—Moore confessed at heart that a power was with the troops of Britain, of that vigilant45, enduring, genuine, unostentatious sort, which must win victory to the side it led, in the end. In the end! But that end, he thought, was yet far off; and meantime he, Moore, as an individual, would be crushed, his hopes ground to dust. It was himself he had to care for, his hopes he had to pursue; and he would fulfil his destiny.
He fulfilled it so vigorously that ere long he came to a decisive rupture46 with his old Tory friend the rector. They quarrelled at a public meeting, and afterwards exchanged some pungent47 letters in the newspapers. Mr. Helstone denounced Moore as a Jacobin, ceased to see him, would not even speak to him when they met. He intimated also to his niece, very distinctly, that her communications with Hollow's Cottage must for the present cease; she must give up taking French lessons. The language, he observed, was a bad and frivolous48 one at the best, and most of the works it boasted were bad and frivolous, highly injurious in their tendency to weak female minds. He wondered (he remarked parenthetically) what noodle first made it the fashion to teach women French. Nothing was more improper49 for them. It was like feeding a rickety child on chalk and water gruel50. Caroline must give it up, and give up her cousins too. They were dangerous people.
Mr. Helstone quite expected opposition51 to this order; he expected tears. Seldom did he trouble himself about Caroline's movements, but a vague idea possessed him that she was fond of going to Hollow's Cottage; also he suspected that she liked Robert Moore's occasional presence at the rectory. The Cossack had perceived that whereas if Malone stepped in of an evening to make himself sociable52 and charming,150 by pinching the ears of an aged53 black cat, which usually shared with Miss Helstone's feet the accommodation of her footstool, or by borrowing a fowling-piece, and banging away at a tool shed door in the garden while enough of daylight remained to show that conspicuous54 mark, keeping the passage and sitting-room55 doors meantime uncomfortably open for the convenience of running in and out to announce his failures and successes with noisy brusquerie—he had observed that under such entertaining circumstances Caroline had a trick of disappearing, tripping noiselessly upstairs, and remaining invisible till called down to supper. On the other hand, when Robert Moore was the guest, though he elicited56 no vivacities from the cat, did nothing to it, indeed, beyond occasionally coaxing57 it from the stool to his knee, and there letting it purr, climb to his shoulder, and rub its head against his cheek; though there was no ear-splitting cracking off of firearms, no diffusion58 of sulphurous gunpowder59 perfume, no noise, no boasting during his stay—that still Caroline sat in the room, and seemed to find wondrous60 content in the stitching of Jew-basket pin-cushions and the knitting of missionary-basket socks.
She was very quiet, and Robert paid her little attention, scarcely ever addressing his discourse61 to her; but Mr. Helstone, not being one of those elderly gentlemen who are easily blinded—on the contrary, finding himself on all occasions extremely wide-awake—had watched them when they bade each other good-night. He had just seen their eyes meet once—only once. Some natures would have taken pleasure in the glance then surprised, because there was no harm and some delight in it. It was by no means a glance of mutual62 intelligence, for mutual love secrets existed not between them. There was nothing then of craft and concealment63 to offend: only Mr. Moore's eyes, looking into Caroline's, felt they were clear and gentle; and Caroline's eyes, encountering Mr. Moore's, confessed they were manly64 and searching. Each acknowledged the charm in his or her own way. Moore smiled slightly, and Caroline coloured as slightly. Mr. Helstone could, on the spot, have rated them both. They annoyed him. Why? Impossible to say. If you had asked him what Moore merited at that moment, he would have said a "horsewhip;" if you had inquired into Caroline's deserts, he would have adjudged her a box on the ear; if you had further demanded the reason of such chastisements, he would have stormed151 against flirtation65 and love-making, and vowed66 he would have no such folly67 going on under his roof.
These private considerations, combined with political reasons, fixed68 his resolution of separating the cousins. He announced his will to Caroline one evening as she was sitting at work near the drawing-room window. Her face was turned towards him, and the light fell full upon it. It had struck him a few minutes before that she was looking paler and quieter than she used to look. It had not escaped him either that Robert Moore's name had never, for some three weeks past, dropped from her lips; nor during the same space of time had that personage made his appearance at the rectory. Some suspicion of clandestine69 meetings haunted his mind. Having but an indifferent opinion of women, he always suspected them. He thought they needed constant watching. It was in a tone dryly significant he desired her to cease her daily visits to the Hollow. He expected a start, a look of depreciation70. The start he saw, but it was a very slight one; no look whatever was directed to him.
"Do you hear me?" he asked.
"Yes, uncle."
"Of course you mean to attend to what I say?"
"Yes, certainly."
"And there must be no letter-scribbling to your cousin Hortense—no intercourse71 whatever. I do not approve of the principles of the family. They are Jacobinical."
"Very well," said Caroline quietly. She acquiesced72 then. There was no vexed73 flushing of the face, no gathering74 tears; the shadowy thoughtfulness which had covered her features ere Mr. Helstone spoke75 remained undisturbed; she was obedient.
Yes, perfectly76; because the mandate77 coincided with her own previous judgment78; because it was now become pain to her to go to Hollow's Cottage; nothing met her there but disappointment. Hope and love had quitted that little tenement79, for Robert seemed to have deserted80 its precincts. Whenever she asked after him—which she very seldom did, since the mere81 utterance82 of his name made her face grow hot—the answer was, he was from home, or he was quite taken up with business. Hortense feared he was killing83 himself by application. He scarcely ever took a meal in the house; he lived in the counting-house.
At church only Caroline had the chance of seeing him, and there she rarely looked at him. It was both too much152 pain and too much pleasure to look—it excited too much emotion; and that it was all wasted emotion she had learned well to comprehend.
Once, on a dark, wet Sunday, when there were few people at church, and when especially certain ladies were absent, of whose observant faculties84 and tomahawk tongues Caroline stood in awe85, she had allowed her eye to seek Robert's pew, and to rest awhile on its occupant. He was there alone. Hortense had been kept at home by prudent86 considerations relative to the rain and a new spring chapeau. During the sermon he sat with folded arms and eyes cast down, looking very sad and abstracted. When depressed87, the very hue88 of his face seemed more dusk than when he smiled, and to-day cheek and forehead wore their most tintless and sober olive. By instinct Caroline knew, as she examined that clouded countenance91, that his thoughts were running in no familiar or kindly channel; that they were far away, not merely from her, but from all which she could comprehend, or in which she could sympathize. Nothing that they had ever talked of together was now in his mind: he was wrapt from her by interests and responsibilities in which it was deemed such as she could have no part.
Caroline meditated92 in her own way on the subject; speculated on his feelings, on his life, on his fears, on his fate; mused93 over the mystery of "business," tried to comprehend more about it than had ever been told her—to understand its perplexities, liabilities, duties, exactions; endeavoured to realize the state of mind of a "man of business," to enter into it, feel what he would feel, aspire94 to what he would aspire. Her earnest wish was to see things as they were, and not to be romantic. By dint95 of effort she contrived96 to get a glimpse of the light of truth here and there, and hoped that scant97 ray might suffice to guide her.
"Different, indeed," she concluded, "is Robert's mental condition to mine. I think only of him; he has no room, no leisure, to think of me. The feeling called love is and has been for two years the predominant emotion of my heart—always there, always awake, always astir. Quite other feelings absorb his reflections and govern his faculties. He is rising now, going to leave the church, for service is over. Will he turn his head towards this pew? No, not once. He has not one look for me. That is hard. A kind glance would have made me happy till to-morrow. I153 have not got it; he would not give it; he is gone. Strange that grief should now almost choke me, because another human being's eye has failed to greet mine."
That Sunday evening, Mr. Malone coming, as usual, to pass it with his rector, Caroline withdrew after tea to her chamber98. Fanny, knowing her habits, had lit her a cheerful little fire, as the weather was so gusty99 and chill. Closeted there, silent and solitary100, what could she do but think? She noiselessly paced to and fro the carpeted floor, her head drooped101, her hands folded. It was irksome to sit; the current of reflection ran rapidly through her mind; to-night she was mutely excited.
Mute was the room, mute the house. The double door of the study muffled102 the voices of the gentlemen. The servants were quiet in the kitchen, engaged with books their young mistress had lent them—books which she had told them were "fit for Sunday reading." And she herself had another of the same sort open on the table, but she could not read it. Its theology was incomprehensible to her, and her own mind was too busy, teeming103, wandering, to listen to the language of another mind.
Then, too, her imagination was full of pictures—images of Moore, scenes where he and she had been together; winter fireside sketches105; a glowing landscape of a hot summer afternoon passed with him in the bosom106 of Nunnely Wood; divine vignettes of mild spring or mellow107 autumn moments, when she had sat at his side in Hollow's Copse, listening to the call of the May cuckoo, or sharing the September treasure of nuts and ripe blackberries—a wild dessert which it was her morning's pleasure to collect in a little basket, and cover with green leaves and fresh blossoms, and her afternoon's delight to administer to Moore, berry by berry, and nut by nut, like a bird feeding its fledgling.
Robert's features and form were with her; the sound of his voice was quite distinct in her ear; his few caresses108 seemed renewed. But these joys, being hollow, were, ere long, crushed in. The pictures faded, the voice failed, the visionary clasp melted chill from her hand, and where the warm seal of lips had made impress on her forehead, it felt now as if a sleety109 rain-drop had fallen. She returned from an enchanted110 region to the real world: for Nunnely Wood in June she saw her narrow chamber; for the songs of birds in alleys111 she heard the rain on her casement112; for the sigh of the south wind came the sob90 of the mournful east; and154 for Moore's manly companionship she had the thin illusion of her own dim shadow on the wall. Turning from the pale phantom113 which reflected herself in its outline, and her reverie in the drooped attitude of its dim head and colourless tresses, she sat down—inaction would suit the frame of mind into which she was now declining—she said to herself, "I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years. As far as I know, I have good health; half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it? What am I to do to fill the interval6 of time which spreads between me and the grave?"
She reflected.
"I shall not be married, it appears," she continued. "I suppose, as Robert does not care for me, I shall never have a husband to love, nor little children to take care of. Till lately I had reckoned securely on the duties and affections of wife and mother to occupy my existence. I considered, somehow, as a matter of course, that I was growing up to the ordinary destiny, and never troubled myself to seek any other; but now I perceive plainly I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an old maid. I shall live to see Robert married to some one else, some rich lady. I shall never marry. What was I created for, I wonder? Where is my place in the world?"
She mused again.
"Ah! I see," she pursued presently; "that is the question which most old maids are puzzled to solve. Other people solve it for them by saying, 'Your place is to do good to others, to be helpful whenever help is wanted.' That is right in some measure, and a very convenient doctrine114 for the people who hold it; but I perceive that certain sets of human beings are very apt to maintain that other sets should give up their lives to them and their service, and then they requite115 them by praise; they call them devoted116 and virtuous117. Is this enough? Is it to live? Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want, craving118, in that existence which is given away to others, for want of something of your own to bestow119 it on? I suspect there is. Does virtue120 lie in abnegation of self? I do not believe it. Undue121 humility122 makes tyranny; weak concession41 creates selfishness. The Romish religion especially teaches renunciation of self, submission to others, and nowhere are found so many grasping tyrants123 as in the ranks of the Romish priesthood. Each human being has his share of rights. I suspect it would conduce to the happiness and155 welfare of all if each knew his allotment, and held to it as tenaciously124 as the martyr125 to his creed126. Queer thoughts these that surge in my mind. Are they right thoughts? I am not certain.
"Well, life is short at the best. Seventy years, they say, pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awaketh; and every path trod by human feet terminates in one bourne—the grave, the little chink in the surface of this great globe, the furrow127 where the mighty128 husbandman with the scythe129 deposits the seed he has shaken from the ripe stem; and there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the body. The soul meantime wings its long flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing down through the burning clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the Christian's triple Godhead—the sovereign Father, the mediating130 Son, the Creator Spirit. Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is inexpressible, to describe what baffles description. The soul's real hereafter who shall guess?"
Her fire was decayed to its last cinder131; Malone had departed; and now the study bell rang for prayers.
The next day Caroline had to spend altogether alone, her uncle being gone to dine with his friend Dr. Boultby, vicar of Whinbury. The whole time she was talking inwardly in the same strain—looking forwards, asking what she was to do with life. Fanny, as she passed in and out of the room occasionally, intent on housemaid errands, perceived that her young mistress sat very still. She was always in the same place, always bent132 industriously133 over a piece of work. She did not lift her head to speak to Fanny, as her custom was; and when the latter remarked that the day was fine, and she ought to take a walk, she only said, "It is cold."
"You are very diligent134 at that sewing, Miss Caroline," continued the girl, approaching her little table.
"I am tired of it, Fanny."
"Then why do you go on with it? Put it down. Read, or do something to amuse you."
"It is solitary in this house, Fanny. Don't you think so?"
"I don't find it so, miss. Me and Eliza are company for one another; but you are quite too still. You should visit more. Now, be persuaded: go upstairs and dress156 yourself smart, and go and take tea, in a friendly way, with Miss Mann or Miss Ainley. I am certain either of those ladies would be delighted to see you."
"But their houses are dismal135: they are both old maids. I am certain old maids are a very unhappy race."
"Not they, miss. They can't be unhappy; they take such care of themselves. They are all selfish."
"Miss Ainley is not selfish, Fanny. She is always doing good. How devotedly136 kind she was to her step-mother as long as the old lady lived; and now when she is quite alone in the world, without brother or sister, or any one to care for her, how charitable she is to the poor, as far as her means permit! Still nobody thinks much of her, or has pleasure in going to see her; and how gentlemen always sneer137 at her!"
"They shouldn't, miss. I believe she is a good woman. But gentlemen think only of ladies' looks."
"I'll go and see her," exclaimed Caroline, starting up; "and if she asks me to stay to tea, I'll stay. How wrong it is to neglect people because they are not pretty, and young, and merry! And I will certainly call to see Miss Mann too. She may not be amiable138, but what has made her unamiable? What has life been to her?"
Fanny helped Miss Helstone to put away her work, and afterwards assisted her to dress.
"You'll not be an old maid, Miss Caroline," she said, as she tied the sash of her brown silk frock, having previously139 smoothed her soft, full, and shining curls; "there are no signs of an old maid about you."
Caroline looked at the little mirror before her, and she thought there were some signs. She could see that she was altered within the last month; that the hues140 of her complexion141 were paler, her eyes changed—a wan104 shade seemed to circle them; her countenance was dejected—she was not, in short, so pretty or so fresh as she used to be. She distantly hinted this to Fanny, from whom she got no direct answer, only a remark that people did vary in their looks, but that at her age a little falling away signified nothing; she would soon come round again, and be plumper and rosier142 than ever. Having given this assurance, Fanny showed singular zeal143 in wrapping her up in warm shawls and handkerchiefs, till Caroline, nearly smothered144 with the weight, was fain to resist further additions.
She paid her visits—first to Miss Mann, for this was the most difficult point. Miss Mann was certainly not quite a lovable person. Till now, Caroline had always unhesitatingly declared she disliked her, and more than once she had joined her cousin Robert in laughing at some of her peculiarities145. Moore was not habitually146 given to sarcasm147, especially on anything humbler or weaker than himself; but he had once or twice happened to be in the room when Miss Mann had made a call on his sister, and after listening to her conversation and viewing her features for a time, he had gone out into the garden where his little cousin was tending some of his favourite flowers, and while standing149 near and watching her he had amused himself with comparing fair youth, delicate and attractive, with shrivelled eld, livid and loveless, and in jestingly repeating to a smiling girl the vinegar discourse of a cankered old maid. Once on such an occasion Caroline had said to him, looking up from the luxuriant creeper she was binding150 to its frame, "Ah! Robert, you do not like old maids. I, too, should come under the lash38 of your sarcasm if I were an old maid."
"You an old maid!" he had replied. "A piquant151 notion suggested by lips of that tint89 and form. I can fancy you, though, at forty, quietly dressed, pale and sunk, but still with that straight nose, white forehead, and those soft eyes. I suppose, too, you will keep your voice, which has another 'timbre152' than that hard, deep organ of Miss Mann's. Courage, Cary! Even at fifty you will not be repulsive153."
"Nature made her in the mood in which she makes her briars and thorns; whereas for the creation of some women she reserves the May morning hours, when with light and dew she wooes the primrose156 from the turf and the lily from the wood-moss."
Ushered157 into Miss Mann's little parlour, Caroline found her, as she always found her, surrounded by perfect neatness, cleanliness, and comfort (after all, is it not a virtue in old maids that solitude158 rarely makes them negligent159 or disorderly?)—no dust on her polished furniture, none on her carpet, fresh flowers in the vase on her table, a bright fire in the grate. She herself sat primly160 and somewhat158 grimly-tidy in a cushioned rocking-chair, her hands busied with some knitting. This was her favourite work, as it required the least exertion161. She scarcely rose as Caroline entered. To avoid excitement was one of Miss Mann's aims in life. She had been composing herself ever since she came down in the morning, and had just attained162 a certain lethargic163 state of tranquillity164 when the visitor's knock at the door startled her, and undid165 her day's work. She was scarcely pleased, therefore, to see Miss Helstone. She received her with reserve, bade her be seated with austerity, and when she got her placed opposite, she fixed her with her eye.
This was no ordinary doom—to be fixed with Miss Mann's eye. Robert Moore had undergone it once, and had never forgotten the circumstance.
He considered it quite equal to anything Medusa could do. He professed166 to doubt whether, since that infliction167, his flesh had been quite what it was before—whether there was not something stony168 in its texture169. The gaze had had such an effect on him as to drive him promptly170 from the apartment and house; it had even sent him straightway up to the rectory, where he had appeared in Caroline's presence with a very queer face, and amazed her by demanding a cousinly salute171 on the spot, to rectify172 a damage that had been done him.
Certainly Miss Mann had a formidable eye for one of the softer sex. It was prominent, and showed a great deal of the white, and looked as steadily173, as unwinkingly, at you as if it were a steel ball soldered174 in her head; and when, while looking, she began to talk in an indescribably dry, monotonous175 tone—a tone without vibration176 or inflection—you felt as if a graven image of some bad spirit were addressing you. But it was all a figment of fancy, a matter of surface. Miss Mann's goblin grimness scarcely went deeper than the angel sweetness of hundreds of beauties. She was a perfectly honest, conscientious177 woman, who had performed duties in her day from whose severe anguish178 many a human Peri, gazelle-eyed, silken-tressed, and silver-tongued, would have shrunk appalled179. She had passed alone through protracted180 scenes of suffering, exercised rigid181 self-denial, made large sacrifices of time, money, health for those who had repaid her only by ingratitude182, and now her main—almost her sole—fault was that she was censorious.
Censorious she certainly was. Caroline had not sat five minutes ere her hostess, still keeping her under the spell of that dread183 and Gorgon184 gaze, began flaying185 alive certain of the families in the neighbourhood. She went to work at this business in a singularly cool, deliberate manner, like some surgeon practising with his scalpel on a lifeless subject. She made few distinctions; she allowed scarcely any one to be good; she dissected186 impartially187 almost all her acquaintance. If her auditress ventured now and then to put in a palliative word she set it aside with a certain disdain188. Still, though thus pitiless in moral anatomy189, she was no scandal-monger. She never disseminated190 really malignant191 or dangerous reports. It was not her heart so much as her temper that was wrong.
Caroline made this discovery for the first time to-day, and moved thereby192 to regret divers193 unjust judgments194 she had more than once passed on the crabbed195 old maid, she began to talk to her softly, not in sympathizing words, but with a sympathizing voice. The loneliness of her condition struck her visitor in a new light, as did also the character of her ugliness—a bloodless pallor of complexion, and deeply worn lines of feature. The girl pitied the solitary and afflicted196 woman; her looks told what she felt. A sweet countenance is never so sweet as when the moved heart animates197 it with compassionate198 tenderness. Miss Mann, seeing such a countenance raised to her, was touched in her turn. She acknowledged her sense of the interest thus unexpectedly shown in her, who usually met with only coldness and ridicule200, by replying to her candidly201. Communicative on her own affairs she usually was not, because no one cared to listen to her; but to-day she became so, and her confidante shed tears as she heard her speak, for she told of cruel, slow-wasting, obstinate202 sufferings. Well might she be corpse-like; well might she look grim, and never smile; well might she wish to avoid excitement, to gain and retain composure! Caroline, when she knew all, acknowledged that Miss Mann was rather to be admired for fortitude203 than blamed for moroseness204. Reader! when you behold205 an aspect for whose constant gloom and frown you cannot account, whose unvarying cloud exasperates206 you by its apparent causelessness, be sure that there is a canker somewhere, and a canker not the less deeply corroding207 because concealed208.
Miss Mann felt that she was understood partly, and160 wished to be understood further; for, however old, plain, humble148, desolate209, afflicted we may be, so long as our hearts preserve the feeblest spark of life, they preserve also, shivering near that pale ember, a starved, ghostly longing210 for appreciation211 and affection. To this extenuated212 spectre, perhaps, a crumb213 is not thrown once a year, but when ahungered and athirst to famine—when all humanity has forgotten the dying tenant214 of a decaying house—Divine mercy remembers the mourner, and a shower of manna falls for lips that earthly nutriment is to pass no more. Biblical promises, heard first in health, but then unheeded, come whispering to the couch of sickness; it is felt that a pitying God watches what all mankind have forsaken215. The tender compassion199 of Jesus is recalled and relied on; the faded eye, gazing beyond time, sees a home, a friend, a refuge in eternity216.
Miss Mann, drawn217 on by the still attention of her listener, proceeded to allude218 to circumstances in her past life. She spoke like one who tells the truth—simply, and with a certain reserve; she did not boast, nor did she exaggerate. Caroline found that the old maid had been a most devoted daughter and sister, an unwearied watcher by lingering deathbeds; that to prolonged and unrelaxing attendance on the sick the malady219 that now poisoned her own life owed its origin; that to one wretched relative she had been a support and succour in the depths of self-earned degradation220, and that it was still her hand which kept him from utter destitution221. Miss Helstone stayed the whole evening, omitting to pay her other intended visit; and when she left Miss Mann it was with the determination to try in future to excuse her faults; never again to make light of her peculiarities or to laugh at her plainness; and, above all things, not to neglect her, but to come once a week, and to offer her, from one human heart at least, the homage222 of affection and respect. She felt she could now sincerely give her a small tribute of each feeling.
Caroline, on her return, told Fanny she was very glad she had gone out, as she felt much better for the visit. The next day she failed not to seek Miss Ainley. This lady was in narrower circumstances than Miss Mann, and her dwelling223 was more humble. It was, however, if possible, yet more exquisitely224 clean, though the decayed gentlewoman could not afford to keep a servant, but waited161 on herself, and had only the occasional assistance of a little girl who lived in a cottage near.
Not only was Miss Ainley poorer, but she was even plainer than the other old maid. In her first youth she must have been ugly; now, at the age of fifty, she was very ugly. At first sight, all but peculiarly well-disciplined minds were apt to turn from her with annoyance225, to conceive against her a prejudice, simply on the ground of her unattractive look. Then she was prim155 in dress and manner; she looked, spoke, and moved the complete old maid.
Her welcome to Caroline was formal, even in its kindness—for it was kind; but Miss Helstone excused this. She knew something of the benevolence226 of the heart which beat under that starched227 kerchief; all the neighbourhood—at least all the female neighbourhood—knew something of it. No one spoke against Miss Ainley except lively young gentlemen and inconsiderate old ones, who declared her hideous228.
Caroline was soon at home in that tiny parlour. A kind hand took from her her shawl and bonnet229, and installed her in the most comfortable seat near the fire. The young and the antiquated230 woman were presently deep in kindly conversation, and soon Caroline became aware of the power a most serene231, unselfish, and benignant mind could exercise over those to whom it was developed. She talked never of herself, always of others. Their faults she passed over. Her theme was their wants, which she sought to supply; their sufferings, which she longed to alleviate232. She was religious, a professor of religion—what some would call "a saint;" and she referred to religion often in sanctioned phrase—in phrase which those who possess a perception of the ridiculous, without owning the power of exactly testing and truly judging character, would certainly have esteemed233 a proper subject for satire234, a matter for mimicry235 and laughter. They would have been hugely mistaken for their pains. Sincerity236 is never ludicrous; it is always respectable. Whether truth—be it religious or moral truth—speak eloquently237 and in well-chosen language or not, its voice should be heard with reverence238. Let those who cannot nicely, and with certainty, discern the difference between the tones of hypocrisy239 and those of sincerity, never presume to laugh at all, lest they should have the miserable240 misfortune to laugh in the wrong place,162 and commit impiety241 when they think they are achieving wit.
Not from Miss Ainley's own lips did Caroline hear of her good works, but she knew much of them nevertheless. Her beneficence was the familiar topic of the poor in Briarfield. They were not works of almsgiving. The old maid was too poor to give much, though she straitened herself to privation that she might contribute her mite242 when needful. They were the works of a Sister of Charity—far more difficult to perform than those of a Lady Bountiful. She would watch by any sick-bed; she seemed to fear no disease. She would nurse the poorest whom none else would nurse. She was serene, humble, kind, and equable through everything.
For this goodness she got but little reward in this life. Many of the poor became so accustomed to her services that they hardly thanked her for them. The rich heard them mentioned with wonder, but were silent, from a sense of shame at the difference between her sacrifices and their own. Many ladies, however, respected her deeply. They could not help it. One gentleman—one only—gave her his friendship and perfect confidence. This was Mr. Hall, the vicar of Nunnely. He said, and said truly, that her life came nearer the life of Christ than that of any other human being he had ever met with. You must not think, reader, that in sketching243 Miss Ainley's character I depict244 a figment of imagination. No. We seek the originals of such portraits in real life only.
Miss Helstone studied well the mind and heart now revealed to her. She found no high intellect to admire—the old maid was merely sensible—but she discovered so much goodness, so much usefulness, so much mildness, patience, truth, that she bent her own mind before Miss Ainley's in reverence. What was her love of nature, what was her sense of beauty, what were her more varied245 and fervent246 emotions, what was her deeper power of thought, what her wider capacity to comprehend, compared to the practical excellence247 of this good woman? Momently, they seemed only beautiful forms of selfish delight; mentally, she trod them under foot.
It is true she still felt with pain that the life which made Miss Ainley happy could not make her happy. Pure and active as it was, in her heart she deemed it deeply dreary248, because it was so loveless—to her ideas, so forlorn. Yet,163 doubtless, she reflected, it needed only habit to make it practicable and agreeable to any one. It was despicable, she felt, to pine sentimentally249, to cherish secret griefs, vain memories, to be inert250, to waste youth in aching languor251, to grow old doing nothing.
"I will bestir myself," was her resolution, "and try to be wise if I cannot be good."
She proceeded to make inquiry252 of Miss Ainley if she could help her in anything. Miss Ainley, glad of an assistant, told her that she could, and indicated some poor families in Briarfield that it was desirable she should visit, giving her likewise, at her further request, some work to do for certain poor women who had many children, and who were unskilled in using the needle for themselves.
Caroline went home, laid her plans, and took a resolve not to swerve253 from them. She allotted254 a certain portion of her time for her various studies, and a certain portion for doing anything Miss Ainley might direct her to do. The remainder was to be spent in exercise; not a moment was to be left for the indulgence of such fevered thoughts as had poisoned last Sunday evening.
To do her justice, she executed her plans conscientiously255, perseveringly256. It was very hard work at first—it was even hard work to the end—but it helped her to stem and keep down anguish; it forced her to be employed; it forbade her to brood; and gleams of satisfaction chequered her gray life here and there when she found she had done good, imparted pleasure, or allayed257 suffering.
Yet I must speak truth. These efforts brought her neither health of body nor continued peace of mind. With them all she wasted, grew more joyless and more wan; with them all her memory kept harping258 on the name of Robert Moore; an elegy259 over the past still rung constantly in her ear; a funereal260 inward cry haunted and harassed her; the heaviness of a broken spirit, and of pining and palsying faculties, settled slow on her buoyant youth. Winter seemed conquering her spring; the mind's soil and its treasures were freezing gradually to barren stagnation261.
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1
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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2
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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3
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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intervals
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| 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 | |
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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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7
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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12
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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14
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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disinterestedness
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17
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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18
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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19
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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20
instils
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instil的第三人称单数 ) | |
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21
buffets
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| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
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22
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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23
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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24
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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25
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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26
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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28
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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29
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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30
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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31
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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32
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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33
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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34
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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35
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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36
instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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38
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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39
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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40
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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41
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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42
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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43
circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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44
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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45
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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46
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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47
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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48
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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49
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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50
gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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51
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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52
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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53
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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54
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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55
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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56
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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58
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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59
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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60
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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61
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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62
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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63
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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64
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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65
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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66
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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68
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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69
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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70
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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71
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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72
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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74
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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75
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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76
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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77
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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78
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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79
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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80
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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81
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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82
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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83
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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84
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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85
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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86
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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87
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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88
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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89
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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90
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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91
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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92
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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93
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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94
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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95
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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96
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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97
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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98
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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99
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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100
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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101
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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103
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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104
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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105
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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106
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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107
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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108
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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109
sleety
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| 雨夹雪的，下雨雪的 | |
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110
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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112
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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113
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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114
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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115
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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116
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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117
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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118
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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119
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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120
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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121
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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122
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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123
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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124
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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125
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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126
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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127
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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128
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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129
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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130
mediating
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| 调停，调解，斡旋( mediate的现在分词 )； 居间促成； 影响…的发生； 使…可能发生 | |
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131
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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132
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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133
industriously
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134
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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135
dismal
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|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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136
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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137
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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138
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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139
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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140
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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141
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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142
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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143
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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144
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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145
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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146
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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147
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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148
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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149
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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150
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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151
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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152
timbre
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| n.音色，音质 | |
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153
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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154
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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155
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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156
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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157
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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159
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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160
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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161
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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162
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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163
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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164
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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165
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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166
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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167
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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168
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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169
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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170
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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171
salute
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|
| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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172
rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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173
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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174
soldered
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| v.（使）焊接，焊合( solder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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176
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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177
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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178
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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179
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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180
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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181
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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182
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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183
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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184
gorgon
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| n.丑陋女人，蛇发女怪 | |
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185
flaying
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| v.痛打( flay的现在分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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186
dissected
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|
| adj.切开的，分割的，（叶子）多裂的v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的过去式和过去分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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187
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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188
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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189
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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190
disseminated
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| 散布，传播( disseminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
malignant
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|
| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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192
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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193
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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194
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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195
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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198
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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199
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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200
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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201
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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202
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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203
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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204
moroseness
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205
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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206
exasperates
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| n.激怒，触怒( exasperate的名词复数 )v.激怒，触怒( exasperate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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207
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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208
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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209
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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210
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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211
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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212
extenuated
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| v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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213
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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214
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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215
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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216
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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217
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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218
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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219
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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220
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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221
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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222
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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223
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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224
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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225
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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226
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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227
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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229
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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230
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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231
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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232
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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233
esteemed
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| 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 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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