Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.
SHAKESPEARE
The Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and, anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, the outer door having been fastened, on the preceding night, he was obliged to knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, or his voice was heard; but, considering the distance of this door from the bed-room, and that Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deep sleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no answer, and, leaving the door, he went down to walk in his grounds.
It was a gray autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Provence, gave only a feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that ascended2 from the sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which were now varied3 with many a mellow4 tint5 of autumn. The storm was passed, but the waves were yet violently agitated6, and their course was traced by long lines of foam7, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels8, near the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The still gloom of the hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued his way through the woods, sunk in deep thought.
Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the brow of the promontory9, that overhung the Mediterranean10. Her mind was now not occupied with the occurrences of the chateau11, and Valancourt was the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught herself to consider with indifference12, though her judgment13 constantly reproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after her esteem14 for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his parting look and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last farewel; and, some accidental associations now recalling these circumstances to her fancy, with peculiar15 energy, she shed bitter tears to the recollection.
Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps, and, in melancholy16 dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour, as they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray round the rocks below. Their hollow murmur17 and the obscuring mists, that came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene, which was in harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up to the remembrance of past times, till this became too painful, and she abruptly18 quitted the place. On passing the little gate of the watch-tower, she observed letters, engraved19 on the stone postern, which she paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely cut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length, recognizing the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling anxiety the following lines, entitled
SHIPWRECK20
‘Til solemn midnight! On this lonely steep,
Beneath this watch-tow’r’s desolated21 wall,
Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall22,
I rest; and view below the desert deep,
As through tempestuous23 clouds the moon’s cold light
Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night
With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,
And sullen24 roar the surges, far below.
In the still pauses of the gust25 I hear
The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,
And oft among the clouds their forms appear.
But hark! what shriek26 of death comes in the gale27,
And in the distant ray what glimmering28 sail
Bends to the storm?— Now sinks the note of fear!
Ah! wretched mariners29!— no more shall day
Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!
From these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower; that he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was such an one as they described, and that he had left the building very lately, since it had not long been light, and without light it was impossible these letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that he might be yet in the gardens.
As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called up a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits; but her first impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving the tower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the chateau. As she passed along, she remembered the music she had lately heard near the tower, with the figure, which had appeared, and, in this moment of agitation30, she was inclined to believe, that she had then heard and seen Valancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of her error. On turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a person, walking slowly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her mind engaged by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this to be Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps, and, before she could recover recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke31, and she then knew the voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on finding her walking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to rally her on her love of solitude32. But he soon perceived this to be more a subject of concern than of light laughter, and, changing his manner, affectionately expostulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing regret; who, though she acknowledged the justness of all he said, could not restrain her tears, while she did so, and he presently quitted the topic. Expressing surprise at not having yet heard from his friend, the Advocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to him, respecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with friendly zeal33, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of establishing her claim to them; while she felt, that the estates could now contribute little to the happiness of a life, in which Valancourt had no longer an interest.
When they returned to the chateau, Emily retired34 to her apartment, and Count De Villefort to the door of the north chambers36. This was still fastened, but, being now determined37 to arouse Ludovico, he renewed his calls more loudly than before, after which a total silence ensued, and the Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length began to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore, left the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force it open, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the chateau.
To the Count’s enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, they replied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north side of the chateau, since the preceding night.
‘He sleeps soundly then,’ said the Count, ‘and is at such a distance from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and follow me.’
The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all the household were assembled, that the Count’s orders were obeyed. In the mean time, Dorothee was telling of a door, that opened from a gallery, leading from the great stair-case into the last anti-room of the saloon, and, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber35, it appeared probable, that Ludovico might be easily awakened39 by an attempt to open it. Thither40, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as ineffectual at this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now, seriously interested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon the door with the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and with-held the blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so dark and close was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to be only of larch41 wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its forests of larch. The beauty of its polished hue42 and of its delicate carvings43 determined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to that leading from the back stair- case, which being, at length, forced, he entered the first anti-room, followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous44 of his servants, the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry on the stairs and landing- place.
All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and, having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after which, still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bed- room, and entered.
The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions45 for Ludovico, for not even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and his uncertainty46 was not soon terminated, since the shutters47 being all closed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be distinguished48 in it.
The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to do so, stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry occasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured thus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left to finish the adventure.
Henri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, they perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth49, in which Ludovico had been sitting;— for he sat there no longer, nor could any where be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into the apartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters, that he might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet appearing, he stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment50 and scarcely trusting his senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced to examine whether he was there asleep. No person, however, was in it, and he proceeded to the oriel, where every thing remained as on the preceding night, but Ludovico was no where to be found.
The Count now checked his amazement51, considering, that Ludovico might have left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, which their lonely desolation and the recollected52 reports, concerning them, had inspired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would naturally have sought society, and his fellow servants had all declared they had not seen him; the door of the outer room also had been found fastened, with the key on the inside; it was impossible, therefore, for him to have passed through that, and all the outer doors of this suite53 were found, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys also within them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the lad had escaped through the casements54, next examined them, but such as opened wide enough to admit the body of a man were found to be carefully secured either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige55 appeared of any person having attempted to pass them; neither was it probable, that Ludovico would have incurred56 the risque of breaking his neck, by leaping from a window, when he might have walked safely through a door.
The Count’s amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once more to examine the bed-room, where was no appearance of disorder57, except that occasioned by the late overthrow58 of the chair, near which had stood a small table, and on this Ludovico’s sword, his lamp, the book he had been reading, and the remnant of his flask59 of wine still remained. At the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some fragments of provision and wood.
Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve, and, though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in his manner, that expressed much. It appeared, that Ludovico must have quitted these rooms by some concealed60 passage, for the Count could not believe, that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, yet, if there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable61 why he should retreat through it, and it was equally surprising, that not even the smallest vestige should appear, by which his progress could be traced. In the rooms every thing remained as much in order as if he had just walked out by the common way.
The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the bed- chamber, saloon and one of the anti-rooms were hung, that he might discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after a laborious62 search, none was found, and he, at length, quitted the apartments, having secured the door of the last anti-chamber, the key of which he took into his own possession. He then gave orders, that strict search should be made for Ludovico not only in the chateau, but in the neighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, they remained there in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever was the subject of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity63, and his manners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever the topic, which now agitated the Count’s family with wonder and alarm, was introduced.
On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron64 St. Foix seemed strengthened in all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions65, though it was difficult to discover what connection there could possibly be between the two subjects, or to account for this effect otherwise than by supposing, that the mystery attending Ludovico, by exciting awe66 and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of sensibility, which rendered it more liable to the influence of superstition67 in general. It is, however, certain, that from this period the Baron and his adherents68 became more bigoted69 to their own systems than before, while the terrors of the Count’s servants increased to an excess, that occasioned many of them to quit the mansion70 immediately, and the rest remained only till others could be procured71 to supply their places.
The most strenuous72 search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and, after several days of indefatigable73 enquiry, poor Annette gave herself up to despair, and the other inhabitants of the chateau to amazement.
Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected74 by the disastrous75 fate of the late Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she fancied had existed between her and St. Aubert, was particularly impressed by the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the loss of Ludovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both her esteem and gratitude76. She was now very desirous to return to the quiet retirement77 of her convent, but every hint of this was received with real sorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by the Count, for whom she felt much of the respectful love and admiration78 of a daughter, and to whom, by Dorothee’s consent, she, at length, mentioned the appearance, which they had witnessed in the chamber of the deceased Marchioness. At any other period, he would have smiled at such a relation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in the distempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with seriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, that this occurrence should rest in silence. ‘Whatever may be the cause and the import of these extraordinary occurrences,’ added the Count, ‘time only can explain them. I shall keep a wary79 eye upon all that passes in the chateau, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent80 and be silent. I will myself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing, till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.’
The Count then sent for Dorothee, and required of her also a promise of silence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness of an extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him the particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi’s death, with some of which he appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was evidently surprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative81, the Count retired to his closet, where he remained alone for several hours; and, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner surprised and alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance82 to her thoughts.
On the week following the disappearance83 of Ludovico, all the Count’s guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and Emily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed84 by the arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determine upon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight, that appeared in his countenance85, when he met her, told that he brought back the same ardour of passion, which had formerly86 banished87 him from Chateau-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and with pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, that seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for his friend, from the embarrassment88 she betrayed.
But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner, and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the languor89 of despondency.
On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring the purport90 of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which was received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen91 the pain she might inflict92 by a second rejection93, with assurances of esteem and friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and excited her tenderest compassion94; and, being more sensible than ever of the impropriety of remaining longer at the chateau, she immediately sought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning to the convent.
‘My dear Emily,’ said he ‘I observe, with extreme concern, the illusion you are encouraging — an illusion common to young and sensible minds. Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never entirely95 recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit of indulging sorrow will subdue96 the strength of your mind, and discolour your future views with melancholy and regret. Let me dissipate this illusion, and awaken38 you to a sense of your danger.’
Emily smiled mournfully, ‘I know what you would say, my dear sir,’ said she, ‘and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its tranquillity98 — if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.’
‘I know, that you feel all this,’ replied the Count; ‘and I know, also, that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time will only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this subject, and to sympathize in your sufferings,’ added the Count, with an air of solemnity, ‘for I have known what it is to love, and to lament99 the object of my love. Yes,’ continued he, while his eyes filled with tears, ‘I have suffered!— but those times have passed away — long passed! and I can now look back upon them without emotion.’
‘My dear sir,’ said Emily, timidly, ‘what mean those tears?— they speak, I fear, another language — they plead for me.’
‘They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,’ replied the Count, drying them, ‘I would have you superior to such weakness. These, however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge100 of madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might be happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable101 man, who has long been tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are unexceptionable;— after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that I should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would promote it. Do not weep, Emily,’ continued the Count, taking her hand, ‘there IS happiness reserved for you.’
He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, ‘I do not wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings; all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that would lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your mind to be engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to believe it possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes think with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn102 him to the state of despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to withdraw you.’
‘Ah! my dear sir,’ said Emily, while her tears still fell, ‘do not suffer the benevolence103 of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with an expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.’
‘Leave me to understand your heart,’ replied the Count, with a faint smile. ‘If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in other instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain longer at the chateau than your own satisfaction will permit; but though I forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the claims of friendship for your future visits.’
Tears of gratitude mingled104 with those of tender regret, while Emily thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received from him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject but one, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at some future period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself — If Mons. Du Pont was not at the chateau.
The Count smiled at this condition. ‘Be it so,’ said he, ‘meanwhile the convent is so near the chateau, that my daughter and I shall often visit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you another visitor — will you forgive us?’
Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.
‘Well,’ rejoined the Count, ‘I will pursue this subject no further, and must now entreat105 your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. You will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged only by a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable friend Mons. Du Pont.’
Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departure to the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret; after which, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she should return to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening of the following day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart, while the Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would sometimes regard him with a more favourable106 eye.
She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil97 retirement of the convent, where she experienced a renewal107 of all the maternal108 kindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns109. A report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had already reached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, it was the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she was requested to mention some particulars of that unaccountable event. Emily was guarded in her conversation on this subject, and briefly111 related a few circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose disappearance, her auditors112 almost unanimously agreed, had been effected by supernatural means.
‘A belief had so long prevailed,’ said a nun110, who was called sister Frances, ‘that the chateau was haunted, that I was surprised, when I heard the Count had the temerity113 to inhabit it. Its former possessor, I fear, had some deed of conscience to atone114 for; let us hope, that the virtues115 of its present owner will preserve him from the punishment due to the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.’
‘Of what crime, then, was he suspected?’ said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a boarder at the convent.
‘Let us pray for his soul!’ said a nun, who had till now sat in silent attention. ‘If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was sufficient.’
There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of delivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle repeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun.
‘I dare not presume to say what was his crime,’ replied sister Frances; ‘but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respecting the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after the death of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never afterwards returned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it from report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died, that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more.’
‘But I can,’ said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called sister Agnes.
‘You then,’ said Mademoiselle Feydeau, ‘are possibly acquainted with circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or not, and what was the crime imputed116 to him.’
‘I am,’ replied the nun; ‘but who shall dare to scrutinize117 my thoughts — who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge, and to that judge he is gone!’
Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a significant glance.
‘I only requested your opinion,’ said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; ‘if the subject is displeasing118 to you, I will drop it.’
‘Displeasing!’— said the nun, with emphasis.—‘We are idle talkers; we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; DISPLEASING is a poor word. I will go pray.’ As she said this she rose from her seat, and with a profound sigh quitted the room.
‘What can be the meaning of this?’ said Emily, when she was gone.
‘It is nothing extraordinary,’ replied sister Frances, ‘she is often thus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at times deranged119. Did you never see her thus before?’
‘Never,’ said Emily. ‘I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there was the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived it in her speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!’
‘Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,’ observed the lady abbess, ‘she has need of them.’
‘Dear lady,’ said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, ‘what is your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have occurred at the chateau, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what the punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded120?’
‘We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,’ said the abbess, with an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, ‘we must be cautious of advancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon me to pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what was the crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably alluded to the severe one, which an exasperated121 conscience can inflict. Beware, my children, of incurring122 so terrible a punishment — it is the purgatory123 of this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to such as live in the world; nay124, our sacred order need not have blushed to copy her virtues! Our holy convent received her mortal part; her heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary125!’
As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and she rose. ‘Let us go, my children,’ said she, ‘and intercede126 for the wretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our souls for the heaven, to which SHE is gone!’
Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation127, and, remembering her father, ‘The heaven, to which HE, too, is gone!’ said she, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess and the nuns to the chapel128.
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1
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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abruptly
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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appall
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| vt.使惊骇，使大吃一惊 | |
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tempestuous
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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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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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shriek
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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29
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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30
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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31
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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32
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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33
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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34
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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35
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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36
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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37
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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38
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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39
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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40
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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41
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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42
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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43
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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44
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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45
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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46
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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47
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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48
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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49
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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50
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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51
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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52
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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54
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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55
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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56
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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57
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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58
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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59
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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60
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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61
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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62
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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63
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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64
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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65
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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66
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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67
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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68
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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69
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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70
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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71
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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72
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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73
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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74
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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75
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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76
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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77
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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78
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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79
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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80
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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81
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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82
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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83
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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84
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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87
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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89
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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90
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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91
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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92
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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93
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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94
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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95
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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96
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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97
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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98
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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99
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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100
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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101
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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102
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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103
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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104
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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105
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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106
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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107
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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108
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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109
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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110
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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111
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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112
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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113
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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114
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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115
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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116
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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118
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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119
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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120
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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122
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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123
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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124
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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125
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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126
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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127
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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128
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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