Not without purpose had he come down to Yorkshire. His mission was clear, and he intended to discharge it conscientiously2. He anxiously desired to have his niece married, to make for her a suitable match, give her in charge to a proper husband, and wash his hands of her for ever.
The misfortune was, from infancy3 upwards4, Shirley and he had disagreed on the meaning of the words "suitable" and "proper." She never yet had accepted his definition; and it was doubtful whether, in the most important step of her life, she would consent to accept it.
The trial soon came.
Mr. Wynne proposed in form for his son, Samuel Fawthrop Wynne.
"Decidedly suitable! most proper!" pronounced Mr. Sympson. "A fine unencumbered estate, real substance, good connections. It must be done!"
He sent for his niece to the oak parlour; he shut himself up there with her alone; he communicated the offer; he gave his opinion; he claimed her consent.
"No; I shall not marry Samuel Fawthrop Wynne."
She stood on the hearth7. She was pale as the white marble slab8 and cornice behind her; her eyes flashed large, dilated10, unsmiling.
"And I ask in what sense that young man is worthy of me?"
411"He has twice your money, twice your common sense, equal connections, equal respectability."
"Please to state your objections."
"He has run a course of despicable, commonplace profligacy12. Accept that as the first reason why I spurn13 him."
"Miss Keeldar, you shock me!"
"That conduct alone sinks him in a gulf14 of immeasurable inferiority. His intellect reaches no standard I can esteem15: there is a second stumbling-block. His views are narrow, his feelings are blunt, his tastes are coarse, his manners vulgar."
"The man is a respectable, wealthy man! To refuse him is presumption16 on your part."
"I refuse point-blank! Cease to annoy me with the subject; I forbid it!"
"I deny your right to claim an answer to that question."
"May I ask if you expect some man of title—some peer of the realm—to demand your hand?"
"I doubt if the peer breathes on whom I would confer it."
"Were there insanity18 in the family, I should believe you mad. Your eccentricity19 and conceit20 touch the verge21 of frenzy22."
"Perhaps, ere I have finished, you will see me over-leap it."
"I anticipate no less. Frantic23 and impracticable girl! Take warning! I dare you to sully our name by a mésalliance!"
"Our name! Am I called Sympson?"
"God be thanked that you are not! But be on your guard; I will not be trifled with!"
"What, in the name of common law and common sense, would you or could you do if my pleasure led me to a choice you disapproved24?"
"Take care! take care!" warning her with voice and hand that trembled alike.
"Why? What shadow of power have you over me? Why should I fear you?"
"Take care, madam!"
"Scrupulous25 care I will take, Mr. Sympson. Before I marry I am resolved to esteem—to admire—to love."
412"Preposterous stuff! indecorous, unwomanly!"
"To love with my whole heart. I know I speak in an unknown tongue; but I feel indifferent whether I am comprehended or not."
"And if this love of yours should fall on a beggar?"
"On a beggar it will never fall. Mendicancy26 is not estimable."
"On a low clerk, a play-actor, a play-writer, or—or——"
"Take courage, Mr. Sympson! Or what?"
"For the scrubby, shabby, whining I have no taste; for literature and the arts I have. And there I wonder how your Fawthrop Wynne would suit me. He cannot write a note without orthographical28 errors; he reads only a sporting paper; he was the booby of Stilbro' grammar school!"
"Unladylike language! Great God! to what will she come?" He lifted hands and eyes.
"Never to the altar of Hymen with Sam Wynne."
"To what will she come? Why are not the laws more stringent29, that I might compel her to hear reason?"
"Console yourself, uncle. Were Britain a serfdom and you the Czar, you could not compel me to this step. I will write to Mr. Wynne. Give yourself no further trouble on the subject."
Fortune is proverbially called changeful, yet her caprice often takes the form of repeating again and again a similar stroke of luck in the same quarter. It appeared that Miss Keeldar—or her fortune—had by this time made a sensation in the district, and produced an impression in quarters by her unthought of. No less than three offers followed Mr. Wynne's, all more or less eligible30. All were in succession pressed on her by her uncle, and all in succession she refused. Yet amongst them was more than one gentleman of unexceptionable character as well as ample wealth. Many besides her uncle asked what she meant, and whom she expected to entrap31, that she was so insolently32 fastidious.
At last the gossips thought they had found the key to her conduct, and her uncle was sure of it; and what is more, the discovery showed his niece to him in quite a new light, and he changed his whole deportment to her accordingly.
Fieldhead had of late been fast growing too hot to hold them both. The suave33 aunt could not reconcile them; the413 daughters froze at the view of their quarrels. Gertrude and Isabella whispered by the hour together in their dressing-room, and became chilled with decorous dread34 if they chanced to be left alone with their audacious cousin. But, as I have said, a change supervened. Mr. Sympson was appeased35 and his family tranquillized.
The village of Nunnely has been alluded36 to—its old church, its forest, its monastic ruins. It had also its hall, called the priory—an older, a larger, a more lordly abode37 than any Briarfield or Whinbury owned; and what is more, it had its man of title—its baronet, which neither Briarfield nor Whinbury could boast. This possession—its proudest and most prized—had for years been nominal38 only. The present baronet, a young man hitherto resident in a distant province, was unknown on his Yorkshire estate.
During Miss Keeldar's stay at the fashionable watering-place of Cliffbridge, she and her friends had met with and been introduced to Sir Philip Nunnely. They encountered him again and again on the sands, the cliffs, in the various walks, sometimes at the public balls of the place. He seemed solitary39. His manner was very unpretending—too simple to be termed affable; rather timid than proud. He did not condescend40 to their society; he seemed glad of it.
With any unaffected individual Shirley could easily and quickly cement an acquaintance. She walked and talked with Sir Philip; she, her aunt, and cousins sometimes took a sail in his yacht. She liked him because she found him kind and modest, and was charmed to feel she had the power to amuse him.
One slight drawback there was—where is the friendship without it?—Sir Philip had a literary turn. He wrote poetry—sonnets42, stanzas43, ballads44. Perhaps Miss Keeldar thought him a little too fond of reading and reciting these compositions; perhaps she wished the rhyme had possessed45 more accuracy, the measure more music, the tropes more freshness, the inspiration more fire. At any rate, she always winced46 when he recurred47 to the subject of his poems, and usually did her best to divert the conversation into another channel.
He would beguile48 her to take moonlight walks with him on the bridge, for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of pouring into her ear the longest of his ballads. He would lead her away to sequestered49 rustic51 seats, whence the rush of the surf to the sands was heard soft and soothing52; and414 when he had her all to himself, and the sea lay before them, and the scented53 shade of gardens spread round, and the tall shelter of cliffs rose behind them, he would pull out his last batch54 of sonnets, and read them in a voice tremulous with emotion. He did not seem to know that though they might be rhyme they were not poetry. It appeared, by Shirley's downcast eye and disturbed face, that she knew it, and felt heartily55 mortified56 by the single foible of this good and amiable57 gentleman.
Often she tried, as gently as might be, to wean him from this fanatic58 worship of the Muses59. It was his monomania; on all ordinary subjects he was sensible enough, and fain was she to engage him in ordinary topics. He questioned her sometimes about his place at Nunnely; she was but too happy to answer his interrogatories at length. She never wearied of describing the antique priory, the wild silvan park, the hoary60 church and hamlet; nor did she fail to counsel him to come down and gather his tenantry about him in his ancestral halls.
Somewhat to her surprise, Sir Philip followed her advice to the letter, and actually, towards the close of September, arrived at the priory.
He soon made a call at Fieldhead, and his first visit was not his last. He said—when he had achieved the round of the neighbourhood—that under no roof had he found such pleasant shelter as beneath the massive oak beams of the gray manor-house of Briarfield; a cramped61, modest dwelling62 enough compared with his own, but he liked it.
Presently it did not suffice to sit with Shirley in her panelled parlour, where others came and went, and where he could rarely find a quiet moment to show her the latest production of his fertile muse41; he must have her out amongst the pleasant pastures, and lead her by the still waters. Tête-à-tête ramblings she shunned63, so he made parties for her to his own grounds, his glorious forest; to remoter scenes—woods severed64 by the Wharfe, vales watered by the Aire.
Such assiduity covered Miss Keeldar with distinction. Her uncle's prophetic soul anticipated a splendid future. He already scented the time afar off when, with nonchalant air, and left foot nursed on his right knee, he should be able to make dashingly-familiar allusion65 to his "nephew the baronet." Now his niece dawned upon him no longer "a mad girl," but a "most sensible woman."415 He termed her, in confidential66 dialogues with Mrs. Sympson, "a truly superior person; peculiar67, but very clever." He treated her with exceeding deference68; rose reverently69 to open and shut doors for her; reddened his face and gave himself headaches with stooping to pick up gloves, handkerchiefs, and other loose property, whereof Shirley usually held but insecure tenure70. He would cut mysterious jokes about the superiority of woman's wit over man's wisdom; commence obscure apologies for the blundering mistake he had committed respecting the generalship, the tactics, of "a personage not a hundred miles from Fieldhead." In short, he seemed elate as any "midden-cock on pattens."
His niece viewed his manœuvres and received his innuendoes71 with phlegm; apparently72 she did not above half comprehend to what aim they tended. When plainly charged with being the preferred of the baronet, she said she believed he did like her, and for her part she liked him. She had never thought a man of rank—the only son of a proud, fond mother, the only brother of doting73 sisters—could have so much goodness, and, on the whole, so much sense.
Time proved, indeed, that Sir Philip liked her. Perhaps he had found in her that "curious charm" noticed by Mr. Hall. He sought her presence more and more, and at last with a frequency that attested74 it had become to him an indispensable stimulus75. About this time strange feelings hovered76 round Fieldhead; restless hopes and haggard anxieties haunted some of its rooms. There was an unquiet wandering of some of the inmates77 among the still fields round the mansion78; there was a sense of expectancy79 that kept the nerves strained.
One thing seemed clear: Sir Philip was not a man to be despised. He was amiable; if not highly intellectual, he was intelligent. Miss Keeldar could not affirm of him, what she had so bitterly affirmed of Sam Wynne, that his feelings were blunt, his tastes coarse, and his manners vulgar. There was sensibility in his nature; there was a very real, if not a very discriminating80, love of the arts; there was the English gentleman in all his deportment. As to his lineage and wealth, both were, of course, far beyond her claims.
His appearance had at first elicited81 some laughing though not ill-natured remarks from the merry Shirley. It was boyish. His features were plain and slight, his hair sandy,416 his stature82 insignificant83. But she soon checked her sarcasm84 on this point; she would even fire up if any one else made uncomplimentary allusion thereto. He had "a pleasing countenance85," she affirmed; "and there was that in his heart which was better than three Roman noses, than the locks of Absalom or the proportions of Saul." A spare and rare shaft86 she still reserved for his unfortunate poetic87 propensity88; but even here she would tolerate no irony89 save her own.
In short, matters had reached a point which seemed fully90 to warrant an observation made about this time by Mr. Yorke to the tutor, Louis.
"Yond' brother Robert of yours seems to me to be either a fool or a madman. Two months ago I could have sworn he had the game all in his own hands; and there he runs the country, and quarters himself up in London for weeks together, and by the time he comes back he'll find himself checkmated. Louis, 'there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, but, once let slip, never returns again.' I'd write to Robert, if I were you, and remind him of that."
"Robert had views on Miss Keeldar?" inquired Louis, as if the idea was new to him.
"Views I suggested to him myself, and views he might have realized, for she liked him."
"As a neighbour?"
"As more than that. I have seen her change countenance and colour at the mere91 mention of his name. Write to the lad, I say, and tell him to come home. He is a finer gentleman than this bit of a baronet, after all."
"Does it not strike you, Mr. Yorke, that for a mere penniless adventurer to aspire92 to a rich woman's hand is presumptuous—contemptible?"
"Oh, if you are for high notions and double-refined sentiment, I've naught93 to say. I'm a plain, practical man myself, and if Robert is willing to give up that royal prize to a lad-rival—a puling slip of aristocracy—I am quite agreeable. At his age, in his place, with his inducements, I would have acted differently. Neither baronet, nor duke, nor prince should have snatched my sweetheart from me without a struggle. But you tutors are such solemn chaps; it is almost like speaking to a parson to consult with you."
Flattered and fawned94 upon as Shirley was just now, it417 appeared she was not absolutely spoiled—that her better nature did not quite leave her. Universal report had indeed ceased to couple her name with that of Moore, and this silence seemed sanctioned by her own apparent oblivion of the absentee; but that she had not quite forgotten him—that she still regarded him, if not with love, yet with interest—seemed proved by the increased attention which at this juncture95 of affairs a sudden attack of illness induced her to show that tutor-brother of Robert's, to whom she habitually96 bore herself with strange alternations of cool reserve and docile97 respect—now sweeping98 past him in all the dignity of the moneyed heiress and prospective99 Lady Nunnely, and anon accosting101 him as abashed102 school-girls are wont103 to accost100 their stern professors; bridling104 her neck of ivory and curling her lip of carmine105, if he encountered her glance, one minute, and the next submitting to the grave rebuke106 of his eye with as much contrition107 as if he had the power to inflict108 penalties in case of contumacy.
Louis Moore had perhaps caught the fever, which for a few days laid him low, in one of the poor cottages of the district, which he, his lame109 pupil, and Mr. Hall were in the habit of visiting together. At any rate he sickened, and after opposing to the malady110 a taciturn resistance for a day or two, was obliged to keep his chamber111.
He lay tossing on his thorny112 bed one evening, Henry, who would not quit him, watching faithfully beside him, when a tap—too light to be that of Mrs. Gill or the housemaid—summoned young Sympson to the door.
"How is Mr. Moore to-night?" asked a low voice from the dark gallery.
"Come in and see him yourself."
"Is he asleep?"
"I wish he could sleep. Come and speak to him, Shirley."
"He would not like it."
But the speaker stepped in, and Henry, seeing her hesitate on the threshold, took her hand and drew her to the couch.
The shaded light showed Miss Keeldar's form but imperfectly; yet it revealed her in elegant attire113. There was a party assembled below, including Sir Philip Nunnely; the ladies were now in the drawing-room, and their hostess had stolen from them to visit Henry's tutor. Her pure white dress, her fair arms and neck, the trembling chainlet of gold circling her throat and quivering on her breast,418 glistened114 strangely amid the obscurity of the sickroom. Her mien115 was chastened and pensive116. She spoke117 gently.
"Mr. Moore, how are you to-night?"
"I have not been very ill, and am now better."
"I heard that you complained of thirst. I have brought you some grapes; can you taste one?"
"No; but I thank you for remembering me."
"Just one."
From the rich cluster that filled a small basket held in her hand she severed a berry and offered it to his lips. He shook his head, and turned aside his flushed face.
"But what, then, can I bring you instead? You have no wish for fruit; yet I see that your lips are parched118. What beverage119 do you prefer?"
"Mrs. Gill supplies me with toast-and-water. I like it best."
Silence fell for some minutes.
"Do you suffer?—have you pain?"
"Very little."
"What made you ill?"
Silence.
"I wonder what caused this fever? To what do you attribute it?"
"I hear you often visit the sick in Briarfield, and Nunnely too, with Mr. Hall. You should be on your guard; temerity121 is not wise."
"That reminds me, Miss Keeldar, that perhaps you had better not enter this chamber or come near this couch. I do not believe my illness is infectious. I scarcely fear"—with a sort of smile—"you will take it; but why should you run even the shadow of a risk? Leave me."
"Patience, I will go soon; but I should like to do something for you before I depart—any little service——"
"They will miss you below."
"No; the gentlemen are still at table."
"They will not linger long. Sir Philip Nunnely is no wine-bibber, and I hear him just now pass from the dining-room to the drawing-room."
"It is a servant."
"It is Sir Philip; I know his step."
"Your hearing is acute."
"It is never dull, and the sense seems sharpened at419 present. Sir Philip was here to tea last night. I heard you sing to him some song which he had brought you. I heard him, when he took his departure at eleven o'clock, call you out on to the pavement, to look at the evening star."
"I heard him kiss your hand."
"Impossible!"
"No: my chamber is over the hall, the window just above the front door; the sash was a little raised, for I felt feverish123. You stood ten minutes with him on the steps. I heard your discourse124, every word, and I heard the salute125.—Henry, give me some water."
"Let me give it him."
But he half rose to take the glass from young Sympson, and declined her attendance.
"And can I do nothing?"
"Nothing; for you cannot guarantee me a night's peaceful rest, and it is all I at present want."
"You do not sleep well?"
"Sleep has left me."
"Yet you said you were not very ill?"
"If I had power, I would lap you in the most placid127 slumber—quite deep and hushed, without a dream."
"Blank annihilation! I do not ask that."
"With dreams of all you most desire."
"Your wishes are not so chimerical132; you are no visionary."
"Miss Keeldar, I suppose you think so; but my character is not, perhaps, quite as legible to you as a page of the last new novel might be."
"That is possible. But this sleep—I should like to woo it to your pillow, to win for you its favour. If I took a book and sat down and read some pages? I can well spare half an hour."
"Thank you, but I will not detain you."
"I would read softly."
"It would not do. I am too feverish and excitable to bear a soft, cooing, vibrating voice close at my ear. You had better leave me."
"Well, I will go."
"And no good-night?"
"Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Moore, good-night." (Exit Shirley.)
"Sir, it would please me to watch at your bedside all night."
"Nothing less called for. I am getting better. There, go."
"God bless you, my best pupil!"
"You never call me your dearest pupil!"
"No, nor ever shall."
Possibly Miss Keeldar resented her former teacher's rejection135 of her courtesy. It is certain she did not repeat the offer of it. Often as her light step traversed the gallery in the course of a day, it did not again pause at his door; nor did her "cooing, vibrating voice" disturb a second time the hush128 of the sickroom. A sickroom, indeed, it soon ceased to be; Mr. Moore's good constitution quickly triumphed over his indisposition. In a few days he shook it off, and resumed his duties as tutor.
That "auld136 lang syne137" had still its authority both with preceptor and scholar was proved by the manner in which he sometimes promptly138 passed the distance she usually maintained between them, and put down her high reserve with a firm, quiet hand.
One afternoon the Sympson family were gone out to take a carriage airing. Shirley, never sorry to snatch a reprieve139 from their society, had remained behind, detained by business, as she said. The business—a little letter-writing—was soon dispatched after the yard gates had closed on the carriage; Miss Keeldar betook herself to the garden.
It was a peaceful autumn day. The gilding140 of the Indian summer mellowed141 the pastures far and wide. The russet woods stood ripe to be stripped, but were yet full of leaf. The purple of heath-bloom, faded but not withered142, tinged143 the hills. The beck wandered down to the Hollow, through a silent district; no wind followed its course or haunted its woody borders. Fieldhead gardens bore the seal of gentle decay. On the walks, swept that morning, yellow leaves had fluttered down again. Its time of flowers, and even of fruits, was over; but a scantling421 of apples enriched the trees. Only a blossom here and there expanded pale and delicate amidst a knot of faded leaves.
These single flowers—the last of their race—Shirley culled145 as she wandered thoughtfully amongst the beds. She was fastening into her girdle a hueless147 and scentless148 nosegay, when Henry Sympson called to her as he came limping from the house.
"Shirley, Mr. Moore would be glad to see you in the schoolroom and to hear you read a little French, if you have no more urgent occupation."
The messenger delivered his commission very simply, as if it were a mere matter of course.
"Did Mr. Moore tell you to say that?"
"Certainly; why not? And now, do come, and let us once more be as we were at Sympson Grove149. We used to have pleasant school-hours in those days."
Miss Keeldar perhaps thought that circumstances were changed since then; however, she made no remark, but after a little reflection quietly followed Henry.
Entering the schoolroom, she inclined her head with a decent obeisance150, as had been her wont in former times. She removed her bonnet151, and hung it up beside Henry's cap. Louis Moore sat at his desk, turning the leaves of a book, open before him, and marking passages with his pencil. He just moved, in acknowledgment of her curtsy, but did not rise.
"You proposed to read to me a few nights ago," said he. "I could not hear you then. My attention is now at your service. A little renewed practice in French may not be unprofitable. Your accent, I have observed, begins to rust50."
"What book shall I take?"
"Here are the posthumous153 works of St. Pierre. Read a few pages of the 'Fragments de l'Amazone.'"
She accepted the chair which he had placed in readiness near his own; the volume lay on his desk—there was but one between them; her sweeping curls dropped so low as to hide the page from him.
"Put back your hair," he said.
For one moment Shirley looked not quite certain whether she would obey the request or disregard it. A flicker154 of her eye beamed furtive155 on the professor's face. Perhaps if he had been looking at her harshly or timidly, or if one undecided line had marked his countenance, she would have rebelled, and the lesson had ended there and then; but he422 was only awaiting her compliance—as calm as marble, and as cool. She threw the veil of tresses behind her ear. It was well her face owned an agreeable outline, and that her cheek possessed the polish and the roundness of early youth, or, thus robbed of a softening156 shade, the contours might have lost their grace. But what mattered that in the present society? Neither Calypso nor Eucharis cared to fascinate Mentor157.
She began to read. The language had become strange to her tongue; it faltered158; the lecture flowed unevenly159, impeded160 by hurried breath, broken by Anglicized tones. She stopped.
"I can't do it. Read me a paragraph, if you please, Mr. Moore."
What he read she repeated. She caught his accent in three minutes.
"Très bien," was the approving comment at the close of the piece.
"C'est presque le Français rattrapé, n'est-ce pas?"
"You could not write French as you once could, I dare say?"
"You could not compose the devoir of 'La Première Femme Savante'?"
"Do you still remember that rubbish?"
"Every line."
"I doubt you."
"I will engage to repeat it word for word."
"You would stop short at the first line."
"Challenge me to the experiment."
"I challenge you."
He proceeded to recite the following. He gave it in French, but we must translate, on pain of being unintelligible162 to some readers.
"And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose."
This was in the dawn of time, before the morning stars were set, and while they yet sang together.
The epoch163 is so remote, the mists and dewy gray of423 matin twilight164 veil it with so vague an obscurity, that all distinct feature of custom, all clear line of locality, evade165 perception and baffle research. It must suffice to know that the world then existed; that men peopled it; that man's nature, with its passions, sympathies, pains, and pleasures, informed the planet and gave it soul.
A certain tribe colonized166 a certain spot on the globe; of what race this tribe—unknown; in what region that spot—untold. We usually think of the East when we refer to transactions of that date; but who shall declare that there was no life in the West, the South, the North? What is to disprove that this tribe, instead of camping under palm groves167 in Asia, wandered beneath island oak woods rooted in our own seas of Europe?
It is no sandy plain, nor any circumscribed168 and scant144 oasis169 I seem to realize. A forest valley, with rocky sides and brown profundity170 of shade, formed by tree crowding on tree, descends171 deep before me. Here, indeed, dwell human beings, but so few, and in alleys172 so thick branched and overarched, they are neither heard nor seen. Are they savage173? Doubtless. They live by the crook174 and the bow; half shepherds, half hunters, their flocks wander wild as their prey175. Are they happy? No, not more happy than we are at this day. Are they good? No, not better than ourselves. Their nature is our nature—human both. There is one in this tribe too often miserable—a child bereaved176 of both parents. None cares for this child. She is fed sometimes, but oftener forgotten. A hut rarely receives her; the hollow tree and chill cavern177 are her home. Forsaken178, lost, and wandering, she lives more with the wild beast and bird than with her own kind. Hunger and cold are her comrades; sadness hovers179 over, and solitude180 besets181 her round. Unheeded and unvalued, she should die; but she both lives and grows. The green wilderness182 nurses her, and becomes to her a mother; feeds her on juicy berry, on saccharine183 root and nut.
There is something in the air of this clime which fosters life kindly184. There must be something, too, in its dews which heals with sovereign balm. Its gentle seasons exaggerate no passion, no sense; its temperature tends to harmony; its breezes, you would say, bring down from heaven the germ of pure thought and purer feeling. Not grotesquely185 fantastic are the forms of cliff and foliage186, not violently vivid the colouring of flower and bird. In all the424 grandeur187 of these forests there is repose; in all their freshness there is tenderness.
The gentle charm vouchsafed188 to flower and tree, bestowed189 on deer and dove, has not been denied to the human nursling. All solitary, she has sprung up straight and graceful190. Nature cast her features in a fine mould; they have matured in their pure, accurate first lines, unaltered by the shocks of disease. No fierce dry blast has dealt rudely with the surface of her frame; no burning sun has crisped or withered her tresses. Her form gleams ivory-white through the trees; her hair flows plenteous, long, and glossy191; her eyes, not dazzled by vertical192 fires, beam in the shade large and open, and full and dewy. Above those eyes, when the breeze bares her forehead, shines an expanse fair and ample—a clear, candid193 page, whereon knowledge, should knowledge ever come, might write a golden record. You see in the desolate194 young savage nothing vicious or vacant. She haunts the wood harmless and thoughtful, though of what one so untaught can think it is not easy to divine.
On the evening of one summer day, before the Flood, being utterly195 alone—for she had lost all trace of her tribe, who had wandered leagues away, she knew not where—she went up from the vale, to watch Day take leave and Night arrive. A crag overspread by a tree was her station. The oak roots, turfed and mossed, gave a seat; the oak boughs196, thick-leaved, wove a canopy197.
Slow and grand the Day withdrew, passing in purple fire, and parting to the farewell of a wild, low chorus from the woodlands. Then Night entered, quiet as death. The wind fell, the birds ceased singing. Now every nest held happy mates, and hart and hind9 slumbered198 blissfully safe in their lair200.
The girl sat, her body still, her soul astir; occupied, however, rather in feeling than in thinking, in wishing than hoping, in imagining than projecting. She felt the world, the sky, the night, boundlessly201 mighty202. Of all things herself seemed to herself the centre—a small, forgotten atom of life, a spark of soul, emitted inadvertent from the great creative source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the heart of a black hollow. She asked, was she thus to burn out and perish, her living light doing no good, never seen, never needed—a star in an else starless firmament203, which nor shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage152, nor priest tracked as a guide or read as a prophecy? Could this425 be, she demanded, when the flame of her intelligence burned so vivid; when her life beat so true, and real, and potent204; when something within her stirred disquieted205, and restlessly asserted a God-given strength, for which it insisted she should find exercise?
She gazed abroad on Heaven and Evening. Heaven and Evening gazed back on her. She bent206 down, searching bank, hill, river, spread dim below. All she questioned responded by oracles207. She heard—she was impressed; but she could not understand. Above her head she raised her hands joined together.
"Guidance—help—comfort—come!" was her cry.
There was no voice, nor any that answered.
She waited, kneeling, steadfastly208 looking up. Yonder sky was sealed; the solemn stars shone alien and remote.
At last one overstretched chord of her agony slacked; she thought Something above relented; she felt as if Something far round drew nigher; she heard as if Silence spoke. There was no language, no word, only a tone.
Again—a fine, full, lofty tone, a deep, soft sound, like a storm whispering, made twilight undulate.
Once more, profounder, nearer, clearer, it rolled harmonious209.
Yet again—a distinct voice passed between Heaven and Earth.
"Eva!"
If Eva were not this woman's name, she had none. She rose. "Here am I."
"Eva!"
"O Night (it can be but Night that speaks), I am here!"
The voice, descending210, reached Earth.
"Eva!"
"I come—a Comforter!"
"Lord, come quickly!"
The Evening flushed full of hope; the Air panted; the Moon—rising before—ascended large, but her light showed no shape.
"Lean towards me, Eva. Enter my arms; repose thus."
"Thus I lean, O Invisible but felt! And what art thou?"
"I drink: it is as if sweetest dew visited my lips in a full current. My arid214 heart revives; my affliction is lightened; my strait and struggle are gone. And the night changes! the wood, the hill, the moon, the wide sky—all change!"
"All change, and for ever. I take from thy vision darkness; I loosen from thy faculties215 fetters216! I level in thy path obstacles; I with my presence fill vacancy217. I claim as mine the lost atom of life. I take to myself the spark of soul—burning heretofore forgotten!"
"O take me! O claim me! This is a god."
"This is a son of God—one who feels himself in the portion of life that stirs you. He is suffered to reclaim218 his own, and so to foster and aid that it shall not perish hopeless."
"A son of God! Am I indeed chosen?"
"Thou only in this land. I saw thee that thou wert fair; I knew thee that thou wert mine. To me it is given to rescue, to sustain, to cherish mine own. Acknowledge in me that Seraph219 on earth named Genius."
"My glorious Bridegroom! true Dayspring from on high! All I would have at last I possess. I receive a revelation. The dark hint, the obscure whisper, which have haunted me from childhood, are interpreted. Thou art He I sought. Godborn, take me, thy bride!"
"Unhumbled, I can take what is mine. Did I not give from the altar the very flame which lit Eva's being? Come again into the heaven whence thou wert sent."
That Presence, invisible but mighty, gathered her in like a lamb to the fold; that voice, soft but all-pervading, vibrated through her heart like music. Her eye received no image; and yet a sense visited her vision and her brain as of the serenity222 of stainless223 air, the power of sovereign seas, the majesty224 of marching stars, the energy of colliding elements, the rooted endurance of hills wide based, and, above all, as of the lustre225 of heroic beauty rushing victorious226 on the Night, vanquishing227 its shadows like a diviner sun.
Such was the bridal hour of Genius and Humanity. Who shall rehearse the tale of their after-union? Who shall depict228 its bliss199 and bale? Who shall tell how He between whom and the Woman God put enmity forged deadly plots to break the bond or defile229 its purity? Who shall record427 the long strife230 between Serpent and Seraph:—How still the Father of Lies insinuated231 evil into good, pride into wisdom, grossness into glory, pain into bliss, poison into passion? How the "dreadless Angel" defied, resisted, and repelled232? How again and again he refined the polluted cup, exalted233 the debased emotion, rectified234 the perverted235 impulse, detected the lurking236 venom237, baffled the frontless temptation—purified, justified238, watched, and withstood? How, by his patience, by his strength, by that unutterable excellence239 he held from God—his Origin—this faithful Seraph fought for Humanity a good fight through time; and, when Time's course closed, and Death was encountered at the end, barring with fleshless arm the portals of Eternity240, how Genius still held close his dying bride, sustained her through the agony of the passage, bore her triumphant241 into his own home, Heaven; restored her, redeemed242, to Jehovah, her Maker243; and at last, before Angel and Archangel, crowned her with the crown of Immortality244?
Who shall of these things write the chronicle?
"I never could correct that composition," observed Shirley, as Moore concluded. "Your censor-pencil scored it with condemnatory245 lines, whose signification I strove vainly to fathom246."
She had taken a crayon from the tutor's desk, and was drawing little leaves, fragments of pillars, broken crosses, on the margin247 of the book.
"French may be half forgotten, but the habits of the French lesson are retained, I see," said Louis. "My books would now, as erst, be unsafe with you. My newly-bound St. Pierre would soon be like my Racine—Miss Keeldar, her mark, traced on every page."
Shirley dropped her crayon as if it burned her fingers.
"Tell me what were the faults of that devoir?" she asked. "Were they grammatical errors, or did you object to the substance?"
"I never said that the lines I drew were indications of faults at all. You would have it that such was the case, and I refrained from contradiction."
"What else did they denote?"
"No matter now."
"Mr. Moore," cried Henry, "make Shirley repeat some of the pieces she used to say so well by heart."
"If I ask for any, it will be 'Le Cheval Dompté,'"428 said Moore, trimming with his penknife the pencil Miss Keeldar had worn to a stump248.
She turned aside her head; the neck, the clear cheek, forsaken by their natural veil, were seen to flush warm.
"Ah! she has not forgotten, you see, sir," said Henry, exultant249. "She knows how naughty she was."
A smile, which Shirley would not permit to expand, made her lip tremble; she bent her face, and hid it half with her arms, half in her curls, which, as she stooped, fell loose again. "Certainly I was a rebel," she answered.
"A rebel!" repeated Henry. "Yes; you and papa had quarrelled terribly, and you set both him and mamma, and Mrs. Pryor, and everybody, at defiance250. You said he had insulted you——"
"He had insulted me," interposed Shirley.
"And you wanted to leave Sympson Grove directly. You packed your things up, and papa threw them out of your trunk; mamma cried, Mrs. Pryor cried; they both stood wringing251 their hands begging you to be patient; and you knelt on the floor with your things and your up-turned box before you, looking, Shirley, looking—why, in one of your passions. Your features, in such passions, are not distorted; they are fixed252, but quite beautiful. You scarcely look angry, only resolute253, and in a certain haste; yet one feels that at such times an obstacle cast across your path would be split as with lightning. Papa lost heart, and called Mr. Moore."
"Enough, Henry."
"No, it is not enough. I hardly know how Mr. Moore managed, except that I recollect254 he suggested to papa that agitation255 would bring on his gout; and then he spoke quietly to the ladies, and got them away; and afterwards he said to you, Miss Shirley, that it was of no use talking or lecturing now, but that the tea-things were just brought into the schoolroom, and he was very thirsty, and he would be glad if you would leave your packing for the present and come and make a cup of tea for him and me. You came; you would not talk at first, but soon you softened256 and grew cheerful. Mr. Moore began to tell us about the Continent, the war, and Bonaparte—subjects we were both fond of listening to. After tea he said we should neither of us leave him that evening; he would not let us stray out of his sight, lest we should again get into mischief257. We sat one on each side of him. We were so happy. I never passed so pleasant429 an evening. The next day he gave you, missy, a lecture of an hour, and wound it up by marking you a piece to learn in Bossuet as a punishment-lesson—'Le Cheval Dompté.' You learned it instead of packing up, Shirley. We heard no more of your running away. Mr. Moore used to tease you on the subject for a year afterwards."
"She never said a lesson with greater spirit," subjoined Moore. "She then, for the first time, gave me the treat of hearing my native tongue spoken without accent by an English girl."
"She was as sweet as summer cherries for a month afterwards," struck in Henry: "a good hearty258 quarrel always left Shirley's temper better than it found it."
"You talk of me as if I were not present," observed Miss Keeldar, who had not yet lifted her face.
"Are you sure you are present?" asked Moore. "There have been moments since my arrival here when I have been tempted259 to inquire of the lady of Fieldhead if she knew what had become of my former pupil."
"She is here now."
"I see her, and humble220 enough; but I would neither advise Harry260 nor others to believe too implicitly261 in the humility262 which one moment can hide its blushing face like a modest little child, and the next lift it pale and lofty as a marble Juno."
"One man in times of old, it is said, imparted vitality263 to the statue he had chiselled264; others may have the contrary gift of turning life to stone."
Moore paused on this observation before he replied to it. His look, at once struck and meditative265, said, "A strange phrase; what may it mean?" He turned it over in his mind, with thought deep and slow, as some German pondering metaphysics.
"You mean," he said at last, "that some men inspire repugnance266, and so chill the kind heart."
"Ingenious!" responded Shirley. "If the interpretation267 pleases you, you are welcome to hold it valid268. I don't care."
And with that she raised her head, lofty in look and statue-like in hue146, as Louis had described it.
"Behold the metamorphosis!" he said; "scarce imagined ere it is realized: a lowly nymph develops to an inaccessible269 goddess. But Henry must not be disappointed430 of his recitation, and Olympia will deign270 to oblige him. Let us begin."
"I have forgotten the very first line."
"Which I have not. My memory, if a slow, is a retentive271 one. I acquire deliberately272 both knowledge and liking273. The acquisition grows into my brain, and the sentiment into my breast; and it is not as the rapid-springing produce which, having no root in itself, flourishes verdurous enough for a time, but too soon falls withered away. Attention, Henry! Miss Keeldar consents to favour you. 'Voyez ce cheval ardent274 et impétueux,' so it commences."
Miss Keeldar did consent to make the effort; but she soon stopped.
"Unless I heard the whole repeated I cannot continue it," she said.
"Yet it was quickly learned—'soon gained, soon gone,'" moralized the tutor. He recited the passage deliberately, accurately275, with slow, impressive emphasis.
Shirley, by degrees, inclined her ear as he went on. Her face, before turned from him, returned towards him. When he ceased, she took the word up as if from his lips; she took his very tone; she seized his very accent; she delivered the periods as he had delivered them; she reproduced his manner, his pronunciation, his expression.
It was now her turn to petition.
He said it for her. She took it from him; she found lively excitement in the pleasure of making his language her own. She asked for further indulgence; all the old school pieces were revived, and with them Shirley's old school days.
He had gone through some of the best passages of Racine and Corneille, and then had heard the echo of his own deep tones in the girl's voice, that modulated277 itself faithfully on his. "Le chêne et le Roseau," that most beautiful of La Fontaine's fables278, had been recited, well recited, by the tutor, and the pupil had animatedly279 availed herself of the lesson. Perhaps a simultaneous feeling seized them now, that their enthusiasm had kindled280 to a glow, which the slight fuel of French poetry no longer sufficed to feed; perhaps they longed for a trunk of English oak to be thrown as a Yule log to the devouring281 flame. Moore observed,431 "And these are our best pieces! And we have nothing more dramatic, nervous, natural!"
And then he smiled and was silent. His whole nature seemed serenely282 alight. He stood on the hearth, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, musing283 not unblissfully.
Twilight was closing on the diminished autumn day. The schoolroom windows—darkened with creeping plants, from which no high October winds had as yet swept the sere221 foliage—admitted scarce a gleam of sky; but the fire gave light enough to talk by.
And now Louis Moore addressed his pupil in French, and she answered at first with laughing hesitation284 and in broken phrase. Moore encouraged while he corrected her. Henry joined in the lesson; the two scholars stood opposite the master, their arms round each other's waists. Tartar, who long since had craved285 and obtained admission, sat sagely286 in the centre of the rug, staring at the blaze which burst fitful from morsels287 of coal among the red cinders288. The group were happy enough, but—
"Pleasures are like poppies spread;
You seize the flower—its bloom is shed."
"It is the carriage returned," said Shirley; "and dinner must be just ready, and I am not dressed."
A servant came in with Mr. Moore's candle and tea; for the tutor and his pupil usually dined at luncheon290 time.
"Mr. Sympson and the ladies are returned," she said, "and Sir Philip Nunnely is with them."
"How you did start, and how your hand trembled, Shirley!" said Henry, when the maid had closed the shutter291 and was gone. "But I know why—don't you, Mr. Moore? I know what papa intends. He is a little ugly man, that Sir Philip. I wish he had not come. I wish sisters and all of them had stayed at De Walden Hall to dine.—Shirley should once more have made tea for you and me, Mr. Moore, and we would have had a happy evening of it."
Moore was locking up his desk and putting away his St. Pierre. "That was your plan, was it, my boy?"
"Don't you approve it, sir?"
"I approve nothing utopian. Look Life in its iron face; stare Reality out of its brassy countenance. Make the tea, Henry; I shall be back in a minute."
He left the room; so did Shirley, by another door.
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收听单词发音
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1
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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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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3
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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4
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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7
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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14
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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19
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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mendicancy
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| n.乞丐，托钵，行乞修道士 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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28
orthographical
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| adj.正字法的，拼字正确的 | |
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29
stringent
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| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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31
entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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35
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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43
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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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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45
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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49
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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50
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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52
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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53
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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54
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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56
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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57
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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58
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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59
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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60
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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61
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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63
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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66
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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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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68
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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69
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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70
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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71
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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72
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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73
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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74
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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75
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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76
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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77
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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78
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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79
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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80
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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81
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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83
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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84
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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85
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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86
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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87
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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88
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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89
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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90
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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91
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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92
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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93
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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94
fawned
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| v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的过去式和过去分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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95
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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96
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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97
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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98
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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99
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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100
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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101
accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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102
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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104
bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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105
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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106
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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107
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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108
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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109
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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110
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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111
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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112
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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113
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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114
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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116
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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117
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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118
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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119
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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120
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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121
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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122
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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123
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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124
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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125
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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126
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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127
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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128
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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129
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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130
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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131
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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132
chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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133
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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134
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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135
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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136
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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137
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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138
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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139
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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140
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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141
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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142
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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143
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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144
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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145
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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147
hueless
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148
scentless
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| adj.无气味的，遗臭已消失的 | |
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149
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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150
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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151
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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152
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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153
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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154
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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155
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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156
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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157
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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158
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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159
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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160
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
concords
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| n.和谐，一致，和睦( concord的名词复数 ) | |
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162
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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163
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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164
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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165
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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166
colonized
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| 开拓殖民地，移民于殖民地( colonize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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168
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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169
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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170
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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171
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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172
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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173
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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174
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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175
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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176
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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177
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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178
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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179
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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180
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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181
besets
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| v.困扰( beset的第三人称单数 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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182
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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183
saccharine
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| adj.奉承的，讨好的 | |
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184
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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185
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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186
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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187
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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188
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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189
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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191
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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192
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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193
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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194
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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195
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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196
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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197
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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198
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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199
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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200
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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201
boundlessly
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| adv.无穷地，无限地 | |
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202
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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203
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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204
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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205
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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207
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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208
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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209
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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210
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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211
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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212
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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213
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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214
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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215
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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216
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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217
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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218
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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219
seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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220
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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221
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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222
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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223
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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224
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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225
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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226
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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227
vanquishing
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| v.征服( vanquish的现在分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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228
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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229
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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230
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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231
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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232
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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233
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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234
rectified
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| [医]矫正的，调整的 | |
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235
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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236
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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237
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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238
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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239
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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240
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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241
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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242
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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243
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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244
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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245
condemnatory
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| adj. 非难的，处罚的 | |
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246
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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247
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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248
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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249
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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250
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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251
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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252
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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253
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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254
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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255
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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256
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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257
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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258
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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259
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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260
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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261
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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262
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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263
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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264
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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265
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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266
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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267
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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268
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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269
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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270
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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271
retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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272
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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273
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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274
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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275
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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276
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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277
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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278
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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279
animatedly
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| adv.栩栩如生地，活跃地 | |
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280
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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281
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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282
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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283
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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284
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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285
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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286
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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287
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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288
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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289
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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290
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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291
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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