Our thoughts are link’d by many a hidden chain:
Awake but one, and lo! what myriads3 rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
PLEASURES OF MEMORY
Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Tholouse, which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the melancholy4 fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now have been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited and commanding; such also as she had since beheld6 him in his days of vengeance7; and now, only a few short months had passed — and he had no longer the power, or the will to afflict;— he had become a clod of earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept at his fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunate aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome by the recollection of her misfortunes.
Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt was lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the brow of the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a farewell look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she had so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit, when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that chain of the Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like faint clouds, on the horizon. ‘There, too, is Gascony, extended at their feet!’ said she, ‘O my father,— my mother! And there, too, is the Garonne!’ she added, drying the tears, that obscured her sight,- -‘and Tholouse, and my aunt’s mansion9 — and the groves10 in her garden!- -O my friends! are ye all lost to me — must I never, never see ye more!’ Tears rushed again to her eyes, and she continued to weep, till an abrupt11 turn in the road had nearly occasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceived another part of the well- known scene around Tholouse, and all the reflections and anticipations12, which she had suffered, at the moment, when she bade it last adieu, came with recollected13 force to her heart. She remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity, which was to decide her happiness concerning Valancourt, and what depressing fears had assailed14 her; the very words she had uttered, as she withdrew her last look from the prospect15, came to her memory. ‘Could I but be certain,’ she had then said, ‘that I should ever return, and that Valancourt would still live for me — I should go in peace!’
Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was returned — but what a dreary16 blank appeared!— Valancourt no longer lived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of contemplating17 his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same Valancourt she had cherished there — the solace18 of many a mournful hour, the animating19 friend, that had enabled her to bear up against the oppression of Montoni — the distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy prospect! On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her own creation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated20, and her soul sickened at the blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death, she thought she could have endured with more fortitude21, than this discovery; for then, amidst all her grief, she could have looked in secret upon the image of goodness, which her fancy had drawn22 of him, and comfort would have mingled23 with her suffering!
Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which had excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, where she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure from Tholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such as he had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a last adieu — saw him leaning mournfully against the high trees, and remembered the fixed24 look of mingled tenderness and anguish25, with which he had then regarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and she sunk back in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped at the gates of what was now her own mansion.
These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the chateau26 had been entrusted27, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting, she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary28, to a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame Montoni, where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a letter from him, informing her that business of consequence had obliged him to leave Tholouse two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not sorry to be spared his presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to indicate the same indifference29, with which he had formerly30 regarded her. This letter informed her, also, of the progress he had made in the settlement of her affairs, and concluded with directions, concerning the forms of some business, which remained for her to transact31. But M. Quesnel’s unkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned the remembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in this mansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni. In the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the morning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most forcibly to her recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time, and the many gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting the journey before her. While Emily’s mind was thus engaged, her eyes wandered unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the garden, and here new memorials of the past spoke32 to her heart, for she saw extended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted with Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tender interest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his earnest remonstrances33 against her committing herself to the power of Montoni, and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this moment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could have become unworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had lately heard to his disadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed Count De Villefort’s report of him. Overcome by the recollections, which the view of this avenue occasioned, she turned abruptly35 from the window, and sunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given up to grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her.
‘Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,’ said Annette, ‘to what it used to do! It is dismal36 coming home, when there is nobody to welcome one!’
This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her tears fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired37 to her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose38 her fatigued39 spirits. But busy memory would still supply her with the visions of former times: she saw Valancourt interesting and benevolent40, as he had been wont41 to appear in the days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had believed that they should sometimes pass their years together!— but, at length, sleep closed these afflicting42 scenes from her view.
On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and of hastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the condition of the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the necessary business concerning it, according to the directions of Mons. Quesnel. It required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from other interests sufficiently44 to attend to this, but she was rewarded for her exertions45 by again experiencing, that employment is the surest antidote46 to sorrow.
This day was devoted47 entirely48 to business; and, among other concerns, she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants49, that she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.
In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked with Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their scenes would only affect her the more, whenever they should be viewed, she took advantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them.
Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell for a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to her heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that led from the lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became agitated50, and hesitated whether to ascend51, but, her resolution returning, she proceeded.
‘Ah!’ said Emily, as she ascended52, ‘these are the same high trees, that used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets53 — the liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe — which were wont to grow beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants, which Valancourt so carefully reared!— O, when last I saw them!’— she checked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation54, upon the view of this well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop, and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful evening. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west, gave rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of the groves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and Valancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; and it was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure for Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey, and to the pleadings of passionate55 affection. Some observations, which she made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it all the minute particulars of that conversation;— the alarming doubts he had expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally confirmed; the reasons and entreaties56 he had employed to prevail with her to consent to an immediate43 marriage; the tenderness of his love, the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had repeatedly expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All these circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened57 the various emotions she had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as powerful as in the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with him and happiness together, and when the strength of her mind had enabled her to triumph over present suffering, rather than to deserve the reproach of her conscience by engaging in a clandestine58 marriage.—‘Alas!’ said Emily, as these recollections came to her mind, ‘and what have I gained by the fortitude I then practised?— am I happy now?— He said, we should meet no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct would separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded59!’
Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable misfortune — from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not congratulate herself on the prudence5, that had saved her; she could only lament60, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had conspired61 to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from that, which the virtues62, the tastes, and the pursuits of his early years had promised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal. An observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now occurred to her. ‘This young man,’ said he, speaking of Valancourt, ‘has never been at Paris;’ a remark, that had surprised her at the time it was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed sorrowfully, ‘O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with you at Paris — your noble, ingenuous63 nature would not have fallen!’
The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive64 shade of twilight65 was pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began to answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive66 note, which always touched her heart; while all the fragrance67 of the flowery thickets, that bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floated so lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.
Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of her former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance68 to encounter the painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a melancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the hanging foliage69 of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonne reflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was placed near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sitting there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved since she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted70 air of the place added solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper of the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint murmur71 of the Garonne.
She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, when her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and worked, while he conversed73, or read; and she now well remembered with what discriminating74 judgment75, with what tempered energy, he used to repeat some of the sublimest76 passages of their favourite authors; how often he would pause to admire with her their excellence77, and with what tender delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.
‘And is it possible,’ said Emily, as these recollections returned — ‘is it possible, that a mind, so susceptible78 of whatever is grand and beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued79 by frivolous80 temptations?’
She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his eye, and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any great or benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same character. ‘And such a mind,’ said she, ‘such a heart, were to be sacrificed to the habits of a great city!’
These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her departed happiness, returned towards the chateau. As she passed along the terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step, and a dejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight, which was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, and she imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her steps seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she saw Valancourt!
Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, and disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he had vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could scarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit the spot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her recollection, her strength returned, and she hurried toward the house, where she did not venture to enquire81 who had been in the gardens, lest she should betray her emotion; and she sat down alone, endeavouring to recollect8 the figure, air and features of the person she had just seen. Her view of him, however, had been so transient, and the gloom had rendered it so imperfect, that she could remember nothing with exactness; yet the general appearance of his figure, and his abrupt departure, made her still believe, that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she thought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him, had suggested his image to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture82 was fleeting83. If it was himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that he should be at Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into the garden; but as often as her impatience84 prompted her to enquire whether any stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an unwillingness86 to betray her doubts; and the evening was passed in anxious conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her thoughts. But, these endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand inconsistent emotions assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt might be near her; now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it to be false; and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself, that she wished the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her heart as constantly contradicted her reason.
The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole87 with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of these estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the strange reports they had heard of her own situation; all which was done with the utmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much composure as they had arrived.
Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the subservient88 manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely worthy34 of common attention, while she was believed to be a dependant89 on Madame Montoni.
‘Surely,’ said she, ‘there is some magic in wealth, which can thus make persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit themselves. How strange it is, that a fool or a knave90, with riches, should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise man in poverty!’
It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to have refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she feared to go thither91, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had seen on the preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspense92 and anxiety she suffered, on this subject, she found all her efforts unable to controul, and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more, though unseen by him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and a delicate pride restrained her, and she determined93 to avoid the possibility of throwing herself in his way, by forbearing to visit the gardens, for several days.
When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette her companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often started as the leaves rustled94 in the breeze, imagining, that some person was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley95, she looked forward with apprehensive96 expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfully and silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to converse72 with Annette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so intolerable, that she did not scruple97 at length to talk to her mistress.
‘Dear madam,’ said she, ‘why do you start so? one would think you knew what has happened.’
‘What has happened?’ said Emily, in a faltering98 voice, and trying to command her emotion.
‘The night before last, you know, madam’—
‘I know nothing, Annette,’ replied her lady in a more hurried voice.
‘The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.’
‘A robber!’ said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.
‘I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?’
‘Where did you see him, Annette?’ rejoined Emily, looking round her, and turning back towards the chateau.
‘It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was twelve o’clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go the back way into the house, what should he see — but somebody walking in the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed how it was, and he went into the house for his gun.’
‘His gun!’ exclaimed Emily.
‘Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch him. Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean over the garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I warrant he examined it well, and settled what window he should break in at.’
‘But the gun,’ said Emily —‘the gun!’
‘Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber opened the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper to ask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him say who he was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned upon his heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enough how it was, and so he fired after him.’
‘Fired!’ exclaimed Emily.
‘Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin99! what makes you look so pale, madam? The man was not killed,— I dare say; but if he was, his comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to look for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of blood on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and’—
Annette was interrupted: for Emily’s spirits died away, and she would have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and supported her to a bench, close to them.
When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquire further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she might receive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she might weep and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of the person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still her fancy gave her the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it was he whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the manner of the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a robber; nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come alone, to break into a house so spacious100 as this.
When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her of no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who had been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severely101 reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent102 enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the wounded person, she dismissed him, and herself remained in the same state of terrible suspense. All the tenderness she had ever felt for Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of his danger; and the more she considered the subject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it was he, who had visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing103 the misery104 of disappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former happiness.
‘Dear madam,’ said Annette, when she returned, ‘I never saw you so affected105 before! I dare say the man is not killed.’
Emily shuddered106, and lamented107 bitterly the rashness of the gardener in having fired.
‘I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, “Annette, say nothing about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house, so did not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if she knew, seeing there is blood. But then,” says he, “how is one to keep the garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one sees him?”’
‘No more of this,’ said Emily, ‘pray leave me.’
Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing108 considerations, that had assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to sooth by a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain he had come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to quit the gardens, without assistance; a circumstance which did not seem probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, she endeavoured to support herself, during the enquiries, that were making by her servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and still closed in uncertainty109, concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering in silence, at length, drooped110, and sunk under the pressure of her anxiety. She was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the persuasion111 of Annette to send for medical advice, the physicians prescribed little beside air, gentle exercise and amusement: but how was this last to be obtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from the subject of her anxiety, by employing them in promoting that happiness in others, which she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, she usually took an airing, including in her ride the cottages of some of her tenants, on whose condition she made such observations, as often enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.
Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this estate, had already protracted112 her stay at Tholouse, beyond the period she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now she was unwilling85 to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, that certainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress113. But the time was come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallee, a letter from the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and herself, being then at the chateau of the Baron114 St. Foix, purposed to visit her at La Vallee, on their way home, as soon as they should be informed of her arrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the hope of inducing her to return with them to Chateau- le-Blanc.
Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she should be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty preparations for the journey; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeavoured to support herself with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt, she must in this interval115 have heard of it.
On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the terrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower, that fell just before sun-set, had cooled the air, and given that soft verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing116 to the eye; while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs117, glittered in the last yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filled with fragrance, exhaled118 by the late shower, from herbs and flowers and from the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from the terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; she sighed deeply as her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state of such dejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to La Vallee, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the death of her father, as if it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached the pavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while her eyes settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still gleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below, ‘Alas!’ said she, ‘I return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful119!— no more shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of fondness:— all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happy home.’
Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time, she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude120 in forgetting the friends, that she possessed121, while she lamented those that were departed; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace, without having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person.
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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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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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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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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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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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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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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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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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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30
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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32
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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33
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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34
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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35
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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36
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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37
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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38
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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39
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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40
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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41
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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42
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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46
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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51
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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52
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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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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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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67
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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74
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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75
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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76
sublimest
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| 伟大的( sublime的最高级 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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77
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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81
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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82
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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83
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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84
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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85
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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86
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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87
condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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88
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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89
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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90
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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91
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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92
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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93
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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94
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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96
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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97
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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98
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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99
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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100
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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101
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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102
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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103
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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104
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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106
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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107
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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109
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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110
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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112
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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113
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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114
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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115
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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116
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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117
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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118
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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119
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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120
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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121
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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