Shirley might be brilliant, and probably happy likewise, but no one is independent of genial1 society; and though in about a month she had made the acquaintance of most of the families round, and was on quite free and easy terms with all the Misses Sykes, and all the Misses Pearson, and the two superlative Misses Wynne of Walden Hall, yet, it appeared, she found none amongst them very genial: she fraternized with none of them, to use her own words. If she had had the bliss2 to be really Shirley Keeldar, Esq., lord of the manor3 of Briarfield, there was not a single fair one in this and the two neighbouring parishes whom she should have felt disposed to request to become Mrs. Keeldar, lady of the manor. This declaration she made to Mrs. Pryor, who received it very quietly, as she did most of her pupil's off-hand speeches, responding, "My dear, do not allow that habit of alluding4 to yourself as a gentleman to be confirmed. It is a strange one. Those who do not know you, hearing you speak thus, would think you affected5 masculine manners."
Shirley never laughed at her former governess; even the little formalities and harmless peculiarities7 of that lady were respectable in her eyes. Had it been otherwise, she would have proved herself a weak character at once; for it is only the weak who make a butt8 of quiet worth. Therefore she took her remonstrance9 in silence. She stood quietly182 near the window, looking at the grand cedar10 on her lawn watching a bird on one of its lower boughs11. Presently she began to chirrup to the bird; soon her chirrup grew clearer; ere long she was whistling; the whistle struck into a tune12, and very sweetly and deftly13 it was executed.
"My dear!" expostulated Mrs. Pryor.
"Was I whistling?" said Shirley. "I forgot. I beg your pardon, ma'am. I had resolved to take care not to whistle before you."
"But, Miss Keeldar, where did you learn to whistle? You must have got the habit since you came down into Yorkshire. I never knew you guilty of it before."
"Oh! I learned to whistle a long while ago."
"Who taught you?"
"No one. I took it up by listening, and I had laid it down again. But lately, yesterday evening, as I was coming up our lane, I heard a gentleman whistling that very tune in the field on the other side of the hedge, and that reminded me."
"What gentleman was it?"
"We have only one gentleman in this region, ma'am, and that is Mr. Moore—at least he is the only gentleman who is not gray-haired. My two venerable favourites, Mr. Helstone and Mr. Yorke, it is true, are fine old beaus, infinitely14 better than any of the stupid young ones."
Mrs. Pryor was silent.
"You do not like Mr. Helstone, ma'am?"
"My dear, Mr. Helstone's office secures him from criticism."
"Do you walk out this morning, my dear?"
"Yes, I shall go to the rectory, and seek and find Caroline Helstone, and make her take some exercise. She shall have a breezy walk over Nunnely Common."
"If you go in that direction, my dear, have the goodness to remind Miss Helstone to wrap up well, as there is a fresh wind, and she appears to me to require care."
"You shall be minutely obeyed, Mrs. Pryor. Meantime, will you not accompany us yourself?"
"No, my love; I should be a restraint upon you. I am stout16, and cannot walk so quickly as you would wish to do."
Shirley easily persuaded Caroline to go with her, and when they were fairly out on the quiet road, traversing183 the extensive and solitary17 sweep of Nunnely Common, she as easily drew her into conversation. The first feelings of diffidence overcome, Caroline soon felt glad to talk with Miss Keeldar. The very first interchange of slight observations sufficed to give each an idea of what the other was. Shirley said she liked the green sweep of the common turf, and, better still, the heath on its ridges18, for the heath reminded her of moors19. She had seen moors when she was travelling on the borders near Scotland. She remembered particularly a district traversed one long afternoon, on a sultry but sunless day in summer. They journeyed from noon till sunset, over what seemed a boundless20 waste of deep heath, and nothing had they seen but wild sheep, nothing heard but the cries of wild birds.
"I know how the heath would look on such a day," said Caroline; "purple-black—a deeper shade of the sky-tint, and that would be livid."
"Yes, quite livid, with brassy edges to the clouds, and here and there a white gleam, more ghastly than the lurid21 tinge22, which, as you looked at it, you momentarily expected would kindle24 into blinding lightning."
"Did it thunder?"
"It muttered distant peals25, but the storm did not break till evening, after we had reached our inn—that inn being an isolated26 house at the foot of a range of mountains."
"Did you watch the clouds come down over the mountains?"
"I did. I stood at the window an hour watching them. The hills seemed rolled in a sullen27 mist, and when the rain fell in whitening sheets, suddenly they were blotted28 from the prospect29; they were washed from the world."
"I have seen such storms in hilly districts in Yorkshire; and at their riotous30 climax31, while the sky was all cataract32, the earth all flood, I have remembered the Deluge33."
"It is singularly reviving after such hurricanes to feel calm return, and from the opening clouds to receive a consolatory35 gleam, softly testifying that the sun is not quenched36."
"Miss Keeldar, just stand still now, and look down at Nunnely dale and wood."
They both halted on the green brow of the common. They looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment; on varied37 meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with king-cups. To-day all this young verdure184 smiled clear in sunlight; transparent38 emerald and amber39 gleams played over it. On Nunnwood—the sole remnant of antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were once all silvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heather—slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted40 like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues41, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured42 the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven's foundations. The air blowing on the brow was fresh, and sweet, and bracing43.
"Our England is a bonny island," said Shirley, "and Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks."
"You are a Yorkshire girl too?"
"I am—Yorkshire in blood and birth. Five generations of my race sleep under the aisles44 of Briarfield Church. I drew my first breath in the old black hall behind us."
Hereupon Caroline presented her hand, which was accordingly taken and shaken. "We are compatriots," said she.
"Yes," agreed Shirley, with a grave nod.
"And that," asked Miss Keeldar, pointing to the forest—"that is Nunnwood?"
"It is."
"Were you ever there?"
"Many a time."
"In the heart of it?"
"Yes."
"What is it like?"
"It is like an encampment of forest sons of Anak. The trees are huge and old. When you stand at their roots, the summits seem in another region. The trunks remain still and firm as pillars, while the boughs sway to every breeze. In the deepest calm their leaves are never quite hushed, and in high wind a flood rushes, a sea thunders above you."
"Yes, and there are mementos46 of him still existing. To penetrate47 into Nunnwood, Miss Keeldar, is to go far back into the dim days of old. Can you see a break in the forest, about the centre?"
"Yes, distinctly."
"That break is a dell—a deep, hollow cup, lined with turf as green and short as the sod of this common. The very oldest of the trees, gnarled mighty48 oaks, crowd about185 the brink49 of this dell. In the bottom lie the ruins of a nunnery."
"We will go—you and I alone, Caroline—to that wood, early some fine summer morning, and spend a long day there. We can take pencils and sketch-books, and any interesting reading book we like; and of course we shall take something to eat. I have two little baskets, in which Mrs. Gill, my housekeeper50, might pack our provisions, and we could each carry our own. It would not tire you too much to walk so far?"
"Oh no; especially if we rested the whole day in the wood. And I know all the pleasantest spots. I know where we could get nuts in nutting time; I know where wild strawberries abound52; I know certain lonely, quite untrodden glades53, carpeted with strange mosses54, some yellow as if gilded55, some a sober gray, some gem-green. I know groups of trees that ravish the eye with their perfect, picture-like effects—rude oak, delicate birch, glossy57 beech58, clustered in contrast; and ash trees stately as Saul, standing59 isolated; and superannuated60 wood-giants clad in bright shrouds61 of ivy62. Miss Keeldar, I could guide you."
"You would be dull with me alone?"
"I should not. I think we should suit; and what third person is there whose presence would not spoil our pleasure?"
"Indeed, I know of none about our own ages—no lady at least; and as to gentlemen——"
"An excursion becomes quite a different thing when there are gentlemen of the party," interrupted Caroline.
"I agree with you—quite a different thing to what we were proposing."
"We were going simply to see the old trees, the old ruins; to pass a day in old times, surrounded by olden silence, and above all by quietude."
"You are right; and the presence of gentlemen dispels63 the last charm, I think. If they are of the wrong sort, like your Malones, and your young Sykes, and Wynnes, irritation64 takes the place of serenity65. If they are of the right sort, there is still a change; I can hardly tell what change—one easy to feel, difficult to describe."
"We forget Nature, imprimis."
"And then Nature forgets us, covers her vast calm brow with a dim veil, conceals66 her face, and withdraws the peaceful186 joy with which, if we had been content to worship her only, she would have filled our hearts."
"What does she give us instead?"
"More elation67 and more anxiety; an excitement that steals the hours away fast, and a trouble that ruffles68 their course."
"Our power of being happy lies a good deal in ourselves, I believe," remarked Caroline sagely69. "I have gone to Nunnwood with a large party—all the curates and some other gentry70 of these parts, together with sundry71 ladies—and I found the affair insufferably tedious and absurd; and I have gone quite alone, or accompanied but by Fanny, who sat in the woodman's hut and sewed, or talked to the goodwife, while I roamed about and made sketches72, or read; and I have enjoyed much happiness of a quiet kind all day long. But that was when I was young—two years ago."
"Did you ever go with your cousin, Robert Moore?"
"Yes; once."
"What sort of a companion is he on these occasions?"
"A cousin, you know, is different to a stranger."
"I am aware of that; but cousins, if they are stupid, are still more insupportable than strangers, because you cannot so easily keep them at a distance. But your cousin is not stupid?"
"No; but——"
"Well?"
"If the company of fools irritates, as you say, the society of clever men leaves its own peculiar6 pain also. Where the goodness or talent of your friend is beyond and above all doubt, your own worthiness73 to be his associate often becomes a matter of question."
"Oh! there I cannot follow you. That crotchet is not one I should choose to entertain for an instant. I consider myself not unworthy to be the associate of the best of them—of gentlemen, I mean—though that is saying a great deal. Where they are good, they are very good, I believe. Your uncle, by-the-bye, is not a bad specimen74 of the elderly gentleman. I am always glad to see his brown, keen, sensible old face, either in my own house or any other. Are you fond of him? Is he kind to you? Now, speak the truth."
"He has brought me up from childhood, I doubt not, precisely75 as he would have brought up his own daughter, if he had had one; and that is kindness. But I am not187 fond of him. I would rather be out of his presence than in it."
"Strange, when he has the art of making himself so agreeable."
"Yes, in company; but he is stern and silent at home. As he puts away his cane34 and shovel-hat in the rectory hall, so he locks his liveliness in his book-case and study-desk: the knitted brow and brief word for the fireside; the smile, the jest, the witty76 sally for society."
"Is he tyrannical?"
"Not in the least. He is neither tyrannical nor hypocritical. He is simply a man who is rather liberal than good-natured, rather brilliant than genial, rather scrupulously77 equitable78 than truly just—if you can understand such superfine distinctions."
"Oh yes! Good-nature implies indulgence, which he has not; geniality79, warmth of heart, which he does not own; and genuine justice is the offspring of sympathy and considerateness, of which, I can well conceive, my bronzed old friend is quite innocent."
"I often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble my uncle in their domestic relations; whether it is necessary to be new and unfamiliar80 to them in order to seem agreeable or estimable in their eyes; and whether it is impossible to their natures to retain a constant interest and affection for those they see every day."
"I don't know. I can't clear up your doubts. I ponder over similar ones myself sometimes. But, to tell you a secret, if I were convinced that they are necessarily and universally different from us—fickle, soon petrifying81, unsympathizing—I would never marry. I should not like to find out that what I loved did not love me, that it was weary of me, and that whatever effort I might make to please would hereafter be worse than useless, since it was inevitably82 in its nature to change and become indifferent. That discovery once made, what should I long for? To go away, to remove from a presence where my society gave no pleasure."
"But you could not if you were married."
"No, I could not. There it is. I could never be my own mistress more. A terrible thought! It suffocates83 me! Nothing irks me like the idea of being a burden and a bore—an inevitable84 burden, a ceaseless bore! Now, when I feel my company superfluous85, I can comfortably fold my188 independence round me like a mantle86, and drop my pride like a veil, and withdraw to solitude87. If married, that could not be."
"I wonder we don't all make up our minds to remain single," said Caroline. "We should if we listened to the wisdom of experience. My uncle always speaks of marriage as a burden; and I believe whenever he hears of a man being married he invariably regards him as a fool, or, at any rate, as doing a foolish thing."
"But, Caroline, men are not all like your uncle. Surely not. I hope not."
"I suppose we each find an exception in the one we love, till we are married," suggested Caroline.
"I suppose so. And this exception we believe to be of sterling89 materials. We fancy it like ourselves; we imagine a sense of harmony. We think his voice gives the softest, truest promise of a heart that will never harden against us; we read in his eyes that faithful feeling—affection. I don't think we should trust to what they call passion at all, Caroline. I believe it is a mere90 fire of dry sticks, blazing up and vanishing. But we watch him, and see him kind to animals, to little children, to poor people. He is kind to us likewise, good, considerate. He does not flatter women, but he is patient with them, and he seems to be easy in their presence, and to find their company genial. He likes them not only for vain and selfish reasons, but as we like him—because we like him. Then we observe that he is just, that he always speaks the truth, that he is conscientious91. We feel joy and peace when he comes into a room; we feel sadness and trouble when he leaves it. We know that this man has been a kind son, that he is a kind brother. Will any one dare to tell me that he will not be a kind husband?"
"My uncle would affirm it unhesitatingly. 'He will be sick of you in a month,' he would say."
"Mrs. Pryor would seriously intimate the same."
"Mrs. Yorke and Miss Mann would darkly suggest ditto."
"Very good, if you can avoid it."
"I choose to doubt their truth."
"I am afraid that proves you are already caught."
"Not I. But if I were, do you know what soothsayers I would consult?"
189"Let me hear."
"Neither man nor woman, elderly nor young: the little Irish beggar that comes barefoot to my door; the mouse that steals out of the cranny in the wainscot; the bird that in frost and snow pecks at my window for a crumb93; the dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee."
"Did you ever see any one who was kind to such things?"
"Did you ever see any one whom such things seemed instinctively94 to follow, like, rely on?"
"We have a black cat and an old dog at the rectory. I know somebody to whose knee that black cat loves to climb, against whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr. The old dog always comes out of his kennel95 and wags his tail, and whines96 affectionately when somebody passes."
"And what does that somebody do?"
"He quietly strokes the cat, and lets her sit while he conveniently can; and when he must disturb her by rising, he puts her softly down, and never flings her from him roughly. He always whistles to the dog and gives him a caress97."
"Does he? It is not Robert?"
"But it is Robert."
"Handsome fellow!" said Shirley, with enthusiasm. Her eyes sparkled.
"Is he not handsome? Has he not fine eyes and well-cut features, and a clear, princely forehead?"
"I was sure you would see that he was. When I first looked at your face I knew you would."
"I was well inclined to him before I saw him. I liked him when I did see him. I admire him now. There is charm in beauty for itself, Caroline; when it is blent with goodness, there is a powerful charm."
"When mind is added, Shirley?"
"Who can resist it?"
"Remember my uncle, Mesdames Pryor, Yorke, and Mann."
"Remember the croaking99 of the frogs of Egypt. He is a noble being. I tell you when they are good they are the lords of the creation—they are the sons of God. Moulded in their Maker's image, the minutest spark of His spirit lifts them almost above mortality. Indisputably, a great, good, handsome man is the first of created things."
190"Above us?"
"I would scorn to contend for empire with him—I would scorn it. Shall my left hand dispute for precedence with my right? Shall my heart quarrel with my pulse? Shall my veins100 be jealous of the blood which fills them?"
"Men and women, husbands and wives, quarrel horribly, Shirley."
"Poor things! Poor, fallen, degenerate101 things! God made them for another lot, for other feelings."
"But are we men's equals, or are we not?"
"Nothing ever charms me more than when I meet my superior—one who makes me sincerely feel that he is my superior."
"Did you ever meet him?"
"I should be glad to see him any day. The higher above me, so much the better. It degrades to stoop; it is glorious to look up. What frets102 me is, that when I try to esteem103, I am baffled; when religiously inclined, there are but false gods to adore. I disdain104 to be a pagan."
"Miss Keeldar, will you come in? We are here at the rectory gates."
"Not to-day, but to-morrow I shall fetch you to spend the evening with me. Caroline Helstone, if you really are what at present to me you seem, you and I will suit. I have never in my whole life been able to talk to a young lady as I have talked to you this morning. Kiss me—and good-bye."
Mrs. Pryor seemed as well disposed to cultivate Caroline's acquaintance as Shirley. She, who went nowhere else, called on an early day at the rectory. She came in the afternoon, when the rector happened to be out. It was rather a close day; the heat of the weather had flushed her, and she seemed fluttered too by the circumstance of entering a strange house, for it appeared her habits were most retiring and secluded105. When Miss Helstone went to her in the dining-room she found her seated on the sofa, trembling, fanning herself with her handkerchief, and seeming to contend with a nervous discomposure that threatened to become hysterical106.
Caroline marvelled107 somewhat at this unusual want of self-command in a lady of her years, and also at the lack of real strength in one who appeared almost robust—for Mrs. Pryor hastened to allege108 the fatigue109 of her walk, the191 heat of the sun, etc., as reasons for her temporary indisposition; and still as, with more hurry than coherence110, she again and again enumerated111 these causes of exhaustion112, Caroline gently sought to relieve her by opening her shawl and removing her bonnet113. Attentions of this sort Mrs. Pryor would not have accepted from every one. In general she recoiled114 from touch or close approach with a mixture of embarrassment115 and coldness far from flattering to those who offered her aid. To Miss Helstone's little light hand, however, she yielded tractably116, and seemed soothed117 by its contact. In a few minutes she ceased to tremble, and grew quiet and tranquil118.
Her usual manner being resumed, she proceeded to talk of ordinary topics. In a miscellaneous company Mrs. Pryor rarely opened her lips, or, if obliged to speak, she spoke119 under restraint, and consequently not well; in dialogue she was a good converser120. Her language, always a little formal, was well chosen; her sentiments were just; her information was varied and correct. Caroline felt it pleasant to listen to her, more pleasant than she could have anticipated.
On the wall opposite the sofa where they sat hung three pictures—the centre one, above the mantelpiece, that of a lady; the two others, male portraits.
"That is a beautiful face," said Mrs. Pryor, interrupting a brief pause which had followed half an hour's animated121 conversation. "The features may be termed perfect; no statuary's chisel122 could improve them. It is a portrait from the life, I presume?"
"It is a portrait of Mrs. Helstone."
"Of Mrs. Matthewson Helstone? Of your uncle's wife?"
"It is, and is said to be a good likeness123. Before her marriage she was accounted the beauty of the district."
"I should say she merited the distinction. What accuracy in all the lineaments! It is, however, a passive face. The original could not have been what is generally termed 'a woman of spirit.'"
"I believe she was a remarkably124 still, silent person."
"One would scarcely have expected, my dear, that your uncle's choice should have fallen on a partner of that description. Is he not fond of being amused by lively chat?"
"In company he is. But he always says he could never do with a talking wife. He must have quiet at home.192 You go out to gossip, he affirms; you come home to read and reflect."
"Mrs. Matthewson lived but a few years after her marriage, I think I have heard?"
"About five years."
"Well, my dear," pursued Mrs. Pryor, rising to go, "I trust it is understood that you will frequently come to Fieldhead. I hope you will. You must feel lonely here, having no female relative in the house; you must necessarily pass much of your time in solitude."
Mrs. Pryor submitted to be assisted.
"Should you chance to require help in your studies," she said, "you may command me."
Caroline expressed her sense of such kindness.
"I hope to have frequent conversations with you. I should wish to be of use to you."
Again Miss Helstone returned thanks. She thought what a kind heart was hidden under her visitor's seeming chilliness126. Observing that Mrs. Pryor again glanced with an air of interest towards the portraits, as she walked down the room, Caroline casually127 explained: "The likeness that hangs near the window, you will see, is my uncle, taken twenty years ago; the other, to the left of the mantelpiece, is his brother James, my father."
"They resemble each other in some measure," said Mrs. Pryor; "yet a difference of character may be traced in the different mould of the brow and mouth."
"What difference?" inquired Caroline, accompanying her to the door. "James Helstone—that is, my father—is generally considered the best-looking of the two. Strangers, I remark, always exclaim, 'What a handsome man!' Do you think his picture handsome, Mrs. Pryor?"
"It is much softer or finer featured than that of your uncle."
"But where or what is the difference of character to which you alluded128? Tell me. I wish to see if you guess right."
"My dear, your uncle is a man of principle. His forehead and his lips are firm, and his eye is steady."
"Well, and the other? Do not be afraid of offending me. I always like the truth."
"Do you like the truth? It is well for you. Adhere193 to that preference—never swerve129 thence. The other, my dear, if he had been living now, would probably have furnished little support to his daughter. It is, however, a graceful head—taken in youth, I should think. My dear" (turning abruptly130), "you acknowledge an inestimable value in principle?"
"I am sure no character can have true worth without it."
"You feel what you say? You have considered the subject?"
"Often. Circumstances early forced it upon my attention."
"The lesson was not lost, then, though it came so prematurely131. I suppose the soil is not light nor stony132, otherwise seed falling in that season never would have borne fruit. My dear, do not stand in the air of the door; you will take cold. Good-afternoon."
Miss Helstone's new acquaintance soon became of value to her: their society was acknowledged a privilege. She found she would have been in error indeed to have let slip this chance of relief, to have neglected to avail herself of this happy change. A turn was thereby133 given to her thoughts; a new channel was opened for them, which, diverting a few of them at least from the one direction in which all had hitherto tended, abated134 the impetuosity of their rush, and lessened135 the force of their pressure on one worn-down point.
Soon she was content to spend whole days at Fieldhead, doing by turns whatever Shirley or Mrs. Pryor wished her to do; and now one would claim her, now the other. Nothing could be less demonstrative than the friendship of the elder lady, but also nothing could be more vigilant136, assiduous, untiring. I have intimated that she was a peculiar personage, and in nothing was her peculiarity137 more shown than in the nature of the interest she evinced for Caroline. She watched all her movements; she seemed as if she would have guarded all her steps. It gave her pleasure to be applied138 to by Miss Helstone for advice and assistance. She yielded her aid, when asked, with such quiet yet obvious enjoyment139 that Caroline ere long took delight in depending on her.
Shirley Keeldar's complete docility140 with Mrs. Pryor had at first surprised Miss Helstone, and not less the fact of the reserved ex-governess being so much at home and at ease in the residence of her young pupil, where she filled with194 such quiet independency a very dependent post; but she soon found that it needed but to know both ladies to comprehend fully141 the enigma142. Every one, it seemed to her, must like, must love, must prize Mrs. Pryor when they knew her. No matter that she perseveringly143 wore old-fashioned gowns; that her speech was formal and her manner cool; that she had twenty little ways such as nobody else had: she was still such a stay, such a counsellor, so truthful144, so kind in her way, that, in Caroline's idea, none once accustomed to her presence could easily afford to dispense145 with it.
As to dependency or humiliation146, Caroline did not feel it in her intercourse147 with Shirley, and why should Mrs. Pryor? The heiress was rich—very rich—compared with her new friend: one possessed148 a clear thousand a year, the other not a penny; and yet there was a safe sense of equality experienced in her society, never known in that of the ordinary Briarfield and Whinbury gentry.
The reason was, Shirley's head ran on other things than money and position. She was glad to be independent as to property; by fits she was even elated at the notion of being lady of the manor, and having tenants149 and an estate. She was especially tickled150 with an agreeable complacency when reminded of "all that property" down in the Hollow, "comprising an excellent cloth-mill, dyehouse, warehouse151, together with the messuage, gardens, and outbuildings, termed Hollow's Cottage;" but her exultation152 being quite undisguised was singularly inoffensive; and, for her serious thoughts, they tended elsewhere. To admire the great, reverence153 the good, and be joyous154 with the genial, was very much the bent155 of Shirley's soul: she mused, therefore, on the means of following this bent far oftener than she pondered on her social superiority.
In Caroline Miss Keeldar had first taken an interest because she was quiet, retiring, looked delicate, and seemed as if she needed some one to take care of her. Her predilection156 increased greatly when she discovered that her own way of thinking and talking was understood and responded to by this new acquaintance. She had hardly expected it. Miss Helstone, she fancied, had too pretty a face, manners and voice too soft, to be anything out of the common way in mind and attainments158; and she very much wondered to see the gentle features light up archly to the reveille of a dry sally or two risked by herself; and more195 did she wonder to discover the self-won knowledge treasured, and the untaught speculations159 working in that girlish, curl-veiled head. Caroline's instinct of taste, too, was like her own. Such books as Miss Keeldar had read with the most pleasure were Miss Helstone's delight also. They held many aversions too in common, and could have the comfort of laughing together over works of false sentimentality and pompous160 pretension161.
Few, Shirley conceived, men or women have the right taste in poetry, the right sense for discriminating162 between what is real and what is false. She had again and again heard very clever people pronounce this or that passage, in this or that versifier, altogether admirable, which, when she read, her soul refused to acknowledge as anything but cant163, flourish, and tinsel, or at the best elaborate wordiness, curious, clever, learned, perhaps, haply even tinged164 with the fascinating hues165 of fancy, but, God knows, as different from real poetry as the gorgeous and massy vase of mosaic166 is from the little cup of pure metal; or, to give the reader a choice of similes167, as the milliner's artificial wreath is from the fresh-gathered lily of the field.
Caroline, she found, felt the value of the true ore, and knew the deception168 of the flashy dross169. The minds of the two girls being toned in harmony often chimed very sweetly together.
One evening they chanced to be alone in the oak-parlour. They had passed a long wet day together without ennui170. It was now on the edge of dark; candles were not yet brought in; both, as twilight171 deepened, grew meditative172 and silent. A western wind roared high round the hall, driving wild clouds and stormy rain up from the far-remote ocean; all was tempest outside the antique lattices, all deep peace within. Shirley sat at the window, watching the rack in heaven, the mist on earth, listening to certain notes of the gale173 that plained like restless spirits—notes which, had she not been so young, gay, and healthy, would have swept her trembling nerves like some omen23, some anticipatory174 dirge175. In this her prime of existence and bloom of beauty they but subdued176 vivacity177 to pensiveness178. Snatches of sweet ballads179 haunted her ear; now and then she sang a stanza181. Her accents obeyed the fitful impulse of the wind; they swelled182 as its gusts183 rushed on, and died as they wandered away. Caroline, withdrawn184 to the farthest and darkest end of the room, her figure just discernible by the ruby196 shine of the flameless fire, was pacing to and fro, muttering to herself fragments of well-remembered poetry. She spoke very low, but Shirley heard her; and while singing softly, she listened. This was the strain:—
"Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
Washed headlong from on board,
His floating home for ever left."
Here the fragment stopped, because Shirley's song, erewhile somewhat full and thrilling, had become delicately faint.
"Go on," said she.
"Then you go on too. I was only repeating 'The Castaway.'"
"I know. If you can remember it all, say it all."
And as it was nearly dark, and, after all, Miss Keeldar was no formidable auditor188, Caroline went through it. She went through it as she should have gone through it. The wild sea, the drowning mariner189, the reluctant ship swept on in the storm, you heard were realized by her; and more vividly190 was realized the heart of the poet, who did not weep for "The Castaway," but who, in an hour of tearless anguish191, traced a semblance192 to his own God-abandoned misery193 in the fate of that man-forsaken sailor, and cried from the depths where he struggled,—
No light propitious196 shone,
When, snatched from all effectual aid,
We perished—each alone!
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he."
"I hope William Cowper is safe and calm in heaven now," said Caroline.
"Do you pity what he suffered on earth?" asked Miss Keeldar.
"Pity him, Shirley? What can I do else? He was nearly broken-hearted when he wrote that poem, and it almost breaks one's heart to read it. But he found relief in writing it—I know he did; and that gift of poetry—the most divine bestowed197 on man—was, I believe, granted to197 allay195 emotions when their strength threatens harm. It seems to me, Shirley, that nobody should write poetry to exhibit intellect or attainment157. Who cares for that sort of poetry? Who cares for learning—who cares for fine words in poetry? And who does not care for feeling—real feeling—however simply, even rudely expressed?"
"It seems you care for it, at all events; and certainly, in hearing that poem, one discovers that Cowper was under an impulse strong as that of the wind which drove the ship—an impulse which, while it would not suffer him to stop to add ornament198 to a single stanza, filled him with force to achieve the whole with consummate199 perfection. You managed to recite it with a steady voice, Caroline. I wonder thereat."
"Cowper's hand did not tremble in writing the lines. Why should my voice falter200 in repeating them? Depend on it, Shirley, no tear blistered201 the manuscript of 'The Castaway.' I hear in it no sob56 of sorrow, only the cry of despair; but, that cry uttered, I believe the deadly spasm202 passed from his heart, that he wept abundantly, and was comforted."
Shirley resumed her ballad180 minstrelsy. Stopping short, she remarked ere long, "One could have loved Cowper, if it were only for the sake of having the privilege of comforting him."
"You never would have loved Cowper," rejoined Caroline promptly203. "He was not made to be loved by woman."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say. I know there is a kind of natures in the world—and very noble, elevated natures too—whom love never comes near. You might have sought Cowper with the intention of loving him, and you would have looked at him, pitied him, and left him, forced away by a sense of the impossible, the incongruous, as the crew were borne from their drowning comrade by 'the furious blast.'"
"You may be right. Who told you this?"
"And what I say of Cowper, I should say of Rousseau. Was Rousseau ever loved? He loved passionately204; but was his passion ever returned? I am certain, never. And if there were any female Cowpers and Rousseaus, I should assert the same of them."
"Who told you this, I ask? Did Moore?"
"Why should anybody have told me? Have I not an instinct? Can I not divine by analogy? Moore never198 talked to me either about Cowper, or Rousseau, or love. The voice we hear in solitude told me all I know on these subjects."
"Do you like characters of the Rousseau order, Caroline?"
"Not at all, as a whole. I sympathize intensely with certain qualities they possess. Certain divine sparks in their nature dazzle my eyes, and make my soul glow. Then, again, I scorn them. They are made of clay and gold. The refuse and the ore make a mass of weakness: taken altogether, I feel them unnatural205, unhealthy, repulsive206."
"I dare say I should be more tolerant of a Rousseau than you would, Cary. Submissive and contemplative yourself, you like the stern and the practical. By the way, you must miss that Cousin Robert of yours very much, now that you and he never meet."
"I do."
"And he must miss you?"
"That he does not."
"I cannot imagine," pursued Shirley, who had lately got a habit of introducing Moore's name into the conversation, even when it seemed to have no business there—"I cannot imagine but that he was fond of you, since he took so much notice of you, talked to you, and taught you so much."
"He never was fond of me; he never professed207 to be fond of me. He took pains to prove that he only just tolerated me."
Caroline, determined208 not to err51 on the flattering side in estimating her cousin's regard for her, always now habitually209 thought of it and mentioned it in the most scanty210 measure. She had her own reasons for being less sanguine211 than ever in hopeful views of the future, less indulgent to pleasurable retrospections of the past.
"Of course, then," observed Miss Keeldar, "you only just tolerated him in return?"
"Shirley, men and women are so different; they are in such a different position. Women have so few things to think about, men so many. You may have a friendship for a man, while he is almost indifferent to you. Much of what cheers your life may be dependent on him, while not a feeling or interest of moment in his eyes may have reference to you. Robert used to be in the habit of going to London, sometimes for a week or a fortnight together. Well, while he was away, I found his absence a void. There199 was something wanting; Briarfield was duller. Of course, I had my usual occupations; still I missed him. As I sat by myself in the evenings, I used to feel a strange certainty of conviction I cannot describe, that if a magician or a genius had, at that moment, offered me Prince Ali's tube (you remember it in the 'Arabian Nights'?), and if, with its aid, I had been enabled to take a view of Robert—to see where he was, how occupied—I should have learned, in a startling manner, the width of the chasm212 which gaped213 between such as he and such as I. I knew that, however my thoughts might adhere to him, his were effectually sundered214 from me."
"Caroline," demanded Miss Keeldar abruptly, "don't you wish you had a profession—a trade?"
"I wish it fifty times a day. As it is, I often wonder what I came into the world for. I long to have something absorbing and compulsory215 to fill my head and hands and to occupy my thoughts."
"Can labour alone make a human being happy?"
"No; but it can give varieties of pain, and prevent us from breaking our hearts with a single tyrant216 master-torture. Besides, successful labour has its recompense; a vacant, weary, lonely, hopeless life has none."
"But hard labour and learned professions, they say, make women masculine, coarse, unwomanly."
"And what does it signify whether unmarried and never-to-be-married women are unattractive and inelegant or not? Provided only they are decent, decorous, and neat, it is enough. The utmost which ought to be required of old maids, in the way of appearance, is that they should not absolutely offend men's eyes as they pass them in the street; for the rest, they should be allowed, without too much scorn, to be as absorbed, grave, plain-looking, and plain-dressed as they please."
"You might be an old maid yourself, Caroline, you speak so earnestly."
"I shall be one. It is my destiny. I will never marry a Malone or a Sykes; and no one else will ever marry me."
Here fell a long pause. Shirley broke it. Again the name by which she seemed bewitched was almost the first on her lips.
"Lina—did not Moore call you Lina sometimes?"
"Yes. It is sometimes used as the abbreviation of Caroline in his native country."
"Well, Lina, do you remember my one day noticing an inequality in your hair—a curl wanting on that right side—and your telling me that it was Robert's fault, as he had once cut therefrom a long lock?"
"Yes."
"If he is, and always was, as indifferent to you as you say, why did he steal your hair?"
"I don't know—yes, I do. It was my doing, not his. Everything of that sort always was my doing. He was going from home—to London, as usual; and the night before he went, I had found in his sister's workbox a lock of black hair—a short, round curl. Hortense told me it was her brother's, and a keepsake. He was sitting near the table. I looked at his head. He has plenty of hair; on the temples were many such round curls. I thought he could spare me one. I knew I should like to have it, and I asked for it. He said, on condition that he might have his choice of a tress from my head. So he got one of my long locks of hair, and I got one of his short ones. I keep his, but I dare say he has lost mine. It was my doing, and one of those silly deeds it distresses217 the heart and sets the face on fire to think of; one of those small but sharp recollections that return, lacerating your self-respect like tiny penknives, and forcing from your lips, as you sit alone, sudden, insane-sounding interjections."
"Caroline!"
"I do think myself a fool, Shirley, in some respects; I do despise myself. But I said I would not make you my confessor, for you cannot reciprocate218 foible for foible; you are not weak. How steadily219 you watch me now! Turn aside your clear, strong, she-eagle eye; it is an insult to fix it on me thus."
"What a study of character you are—weak, certainly, but not in the sense you think!—Come in!"
This was said in answer to a tap at the door. Miss Keeldar happened to be near it at the moment, Caroline at the other end of the room. She saw a note put into Shirley's hands, and heard the words, "From Mr. Moore, ma'am."
"Bring candles," said Miss Keeldar.
Caroline sat expectant.
"A communication on business," said the heiress; but when candles were brought, she neither opened nor read it. The rector's Fanny was presently announced, and the rector's niece went home.
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收听单词发音
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1
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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3
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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12
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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13
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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14
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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17
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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18
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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19
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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20
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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21
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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22
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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23
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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24
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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25
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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28
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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29
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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30
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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31
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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32
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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33
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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34
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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35
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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36
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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37
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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38
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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39
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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40
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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41
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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42
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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44
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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45
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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46
mementos
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| 纪念品，令人回忆的东西( memento的名词复数 ) | |
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47
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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48
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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49
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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50
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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51
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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52
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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53
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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54
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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55
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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56
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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57
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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58
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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59
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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60
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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61
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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62
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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63
dispels
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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65
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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66
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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68
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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69
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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70
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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71
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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72
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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73
worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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74
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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75
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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76
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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77
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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78
equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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79
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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80
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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81
petrifying
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| v.吓呆，使麻木( petrify的现在分词 )；使吓呆，使惊呆；僵化 | |
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82
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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83
suffocates
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的第三人称单数 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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84
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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85
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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86
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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87
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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88
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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89
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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90
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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91
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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92
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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93
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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94
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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95
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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96
whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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97
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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98
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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99
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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100
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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101
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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102
frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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103
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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104
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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105
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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106
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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107
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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109
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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110
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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111
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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113
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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114
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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115
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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116
tractably
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| 驯良地，温顺地 | |
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117
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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118
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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119
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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120
converser
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| 交谈，谈话； [计]对话，会话 | |
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121
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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122
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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123
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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124
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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125
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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126
chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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127
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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128
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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130
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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131
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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132
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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133
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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134
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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135
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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136
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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137
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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138
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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139
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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140
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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141
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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142
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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143
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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144
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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145
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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146
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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147
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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148
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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149
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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150
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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151
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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152
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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153
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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154
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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155
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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156
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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157
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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158
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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159
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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160
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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161
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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162
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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163
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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164
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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166
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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167
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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168
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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169
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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170
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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171
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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172
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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173
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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174
anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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175
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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176
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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177
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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178
pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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179
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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180
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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181
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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182
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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183
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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184
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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185
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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186
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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187
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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188
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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189
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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190
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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191
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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192
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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193
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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194
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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196
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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197
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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199
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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200
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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201
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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202
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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203
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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204
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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205
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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206
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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207
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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208
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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209
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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210
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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211
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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212
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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213
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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214
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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216
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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217
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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218
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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219
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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