Helen had left Chartries a couple of days after the crisis in her love-affair, at the suggestion of her uncle, to whom she had confided10 it.
“I will walk back with you to the vicarage, Helen,” he had said, “and persuade your father, in case he needs persuasion12, to let you go away at once. Your being with him just now only keeps the wound open. Go away; it will heal better so. Just now, after that scene, you can only torture each other by your remaining there. Poor, dear child!”
“Yes; but ‘poor father,’ too,” said Helen.
“Certainly. Come to Chartries, if you like.”
Helen took his arm.
“That is so good of you, Uncle Rupert,” she said; “but I think I should like to go quite away, if father will let me. I think I should like to go to Cambridge. Martin is there. And Martin is so good for one, if one is, well, not very happy.”
“Yes; that is a good plan. You can stay with Susan. My dear, I’m more sorry for you than I can tell you, and also I am as sorry for your father. You and I both know him, and we both love him, and, though we are made very differently, we know how—how splendid he is. And how big.”
“I know,” said she. “I feel that if I could only persuade myself he was narrow I should care less. But his huge, singlehearted devotion to—to God cannot possibly be called narrow.”
They walked on in silence a little.
“But that is all I can do for you, Helen,” said he. “Nobody can really help you except yourself; we can{171} only alleviate13 things a bit. You have made your choice, absolutely, I gather?”
“Am I being a selfish, egotistic little brute14, Uncle Rupert?” she asked.
“Not according to my view, which is that when a thing concerns you so intimately and vitally as this it is nobody else’s business. Not even your father’s,” he added.
A good deal of persuasion, as Lord Flintshire found, was needed. At first his brother would not hear of Helen’s going, for he said that her departure was shirking the situation. What made him yield was the suggestion that the situation, if not shirked, might make her really ill. And a hurried interchange of telegrams led to her arrival at Cambridge the next evening.
The expedition to-day had started rather silently, and Martin decided15 that, as Helen did not at present want to talk about her affairs, the best thing to do was to be completely futile16, foolish, and garrulous17. For years he and Helen had adopted this method of treating each other’s depression, and it was sufficient for one to say “Hump. Play the fool,” for the other to understand that until further notice he had to talk rot. This was a device, by the way, which neither had ever employed when Mr. Challoner was in a similar mood. He would probably not have understood it.
Martin stood up in the boat, which had stuck, and peered into the water.
“The great thing,” he remarked, “as the White Knight18 said, is to guide against the bites of sharks. He had steel anklets. Ow! why do they take the{172} sharpest stones in the world and place them where I want to step. I’m bleeding like a pig.”
He stood precariously19 on the other foot and examined the injury.
“A pig,” he remarked, fatuously20, “that has not yet had its throat cut. Helen, how fat you must be getting. You weigh tons. We’ll have to throw the lunch overboard. Or perhaps it would be simpler if you stepped ashore21 for a moment. You can easily step on to the bank from there.”
He pulled the canoe over the shoal and took it where she could get in again. She laid her hand on his shoulder as she stepped in.
“You darling,” she said. “You can stop now. I’m better.”
“That’s good work,” said Martin. “Because, really I was beginning to run rather dry. You mightn’t have thought it.”
“I didn’t. I had no idea of it. I thought there was any amount more.”
“I can manage ten minutes more, if you like,” said Martin.
“No; I’m going to talk now. Martin, if you look suddenly grave like that I shall begin to laugh.”
“Well, give me a couple of minutes,” said the outraged22 Martin. “We always have an interval23 after the rot before we begin to talk. Otherwise, you know, we always laugh. One always laughs at anything abrupt24. Don’t you know the story of the man who was suddenly told his wife was dead? Just like that. He said, ‘Oh, how shocking!’ and burst into shrieks25 of laughter. And he was really devoted26 to her, and never smiled again for years.”{173}
Helen gave up all attempts at gravity, and the two foolish twins laughed till they were completely exhausted27, while the Canadian canoe went slowly circling round and round down the river.
So they landed and lunched, as Martin refused to drag the boat any more till he had eaten and by degrees recovered themselves. Then, taking to the canoe again, they paddled and talked.
“It has been dreadful at home, Martin,” said she. “Father hardly speaks at all. He has been very gentle since that scene with Frank and me, yet even that was hardly so bad as his silence and quietness now. He is suffering horribly, too; I am sure of it. Sometimes I see him looking at me with a sort of appeal in his eyes like a dumb animal. That is the worst of all; I feel such a brute.”
“You suffer, too,” said Martin, quickly.
“I know; but though they all—Uncle Rupert, Lady Sunningdale—think I am right, that doesn’t make me feel less of a brute. Besides, there is no ‘right’ about it. I can’t give him up, and father can’t bear it. And every evening he uses the prayer for Jews, Turks, and infidels.”
Martin frowned.
“That is not good manners,” he said, “with you there.”
“Oh, Martin, manners don’t come into it. The truth of father’s beliefs is so overwhelmingly real to him that he can’t think of anything else. That light is so strong that he can see nothing but it. It is soberly the whole world to him.”
“But it isn’t as if Frank was immoral,” said Martin.
“I believe he would mind that less,” said she.{174}
Martin swung the canoe round a half-submerged tree-trunk, where the water sucked and gurgled.
“But how unreasonable,” he cried. “Frank can’t help his want of belief. But we can all, in some degree, help making brutes30 of ourselves.”
Helen sat up suddenly, causing the boat to rock.
“I can’t live my life on other people’s lines,” she said, “any more than I expect others to live theirs on my lines. ‘I am I.’ I remember Frank quoting that to me the Sunday he walked back with me from Chartries. That has been like leaven31; it has fermented32 and expanded within me. But, after all, is it only another way of saying ‘I shall be as selfish as I please’?”
“Of course not. That is what people think who haven’t got any individuality of their own. Lots of people haven’t. They are like mirrors slightly cracked, which reflect with certain dimnesses and distortions what is put opposite them. They say individuality is selfishness. What bosh!”
“Aunt Susan hasn’t got any,” remarked Helen, letting the conversation drift away a little. “It is that which makes her so restful. Her mind is like a cushion. It is quite soft, and if you lean on it you make great dents34 in it.”
Martin remained quite serious, staring at the water with vacant black eyes.
“Poor father!” he said at length. “Just think; you and me, Helen. He must find us awfully35 trying.”
“I know; and he continues to love us so. It is that which makes it so dreadful. Oh, Martin, do get through your stupid examination. Do turn out satisfactory, as I’ve been so eminently37 the reverse.”{175}
Martin transferred his gaze to his sister.
“I really don’t think there’s much chance of it,” he said.
“Of your getting through?”
“I might manage that. But there are other things. The career I propose, for instance.”
“But he’s reconciled to that,” said Helen. “That’s nothing new.”
Martin paddled on without answering this, and Helen looked at him rather closely.
“There is something more,” she said. “What is it? Is there not something more?”
He brought the boat up to the bank in Byron’s pool, where they were to disembark.
“Yes, there is,” he said. “At least, there may be. There is no use in my telling you now. If it happens, if I am sure it is going to happen, I will tell you beforehand. I promise you that. And now I think we won’t talk any more about it.”
But a sudden uneasiness seized the girl.
“Promise me one thing,” she said. “Promise me it is nothing disgraceful.”
Martin looked rather injured.
“No; I have not been stealing hens,” he said. “And it is compatible with the highest character.”
Helen looked at him a moment in silence.
“Then I’m not afraid,” she said. “And I will try not to guess at it until you tell me.”
The afternoon was intensely hot, and having arrived here, they settled that a boat under trees was far more to the point than walking under the blaze of the sun, and Helen merely reclined more recumbently on a pile of cushions.{176}
“I think we will go for a walk to-morrow, Martin,” she said, “instead of to-day.”
“That may be. By the way, I met last week that nice girl who was down at Chartries on the Sunday when I got into so many rows. What was her name?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Helen.
“Yes, you have. Oh, I know—Miss Pl—— Oh, yes,—Stella Plympton.”
Helen did not answer for a moment.
“Well, I shall go to sleep,” she said. “Martin!”
“Well?”
“You did that remarkably40 badly,” she said; “a cow could give you points in dissimulation41. You remembered her name perfectly42.”
Dr. Arne, at whose house on the Trumpington Road Helen was staying, was probably as nearly happy as is possible to the sons of men, who have so marked a genius for discontent. Whether his happiness was worth much and what it all came to is another question; but happy he was,—an affair of immense importance not only to himself, but to all on whom his imperturbable43 serenity44 shone. For Providence45 had endowed him with an apparently46 insatiable curiosity about the chorus-metres in Greek plays, and also with an intuitive perception as regards this extremely difficult and no doubt fascinating branch of knowledge, which had proved itself capable of being trained into something approaching the perfection of acumen47. His intellectual ambitions were thus completely satisfied, and being without any passion but this, which the fact that he was tutor of his college enabled him to gratify without stint48, there was really no possible{177} chink at which the bitter wind of discontent could enter and make draughts49. The same good fortune had attended his marriage, for he had wooed and won a woman of good birth and breeding, whose only desire, as far as he was aware, was to make her husband not happy,—he was that already,—but comfortable. Extremely edible50 meals were offered to his notice at hours of his choosing, no sacrilegious hand ever disturbed the papers in his study, his wife walked with him after lunch, and, unless they had people dining with them or were themselves bidden to other feasts, played picquet with him after dinner. His mode of progression along roads was naturally a little quicker than hers, his play of the hand at cards a shade less mediocre51, and in consequence he lived in an atmosphere of slight domestic superiority. The same atmosphere, though not domestic, surrounded him in his studies, for, to make a rough statement of the matter, he knew rather more about Greek chorus-metres than anybody else had ever done. His bodily health, moreover, if not exuberant,—he would have found exuberance52 very trying,—was excellent; he appeared, in fact, to be as immune to the frailties53 and disorders54 of the flesh as he was to any unsatisfied cravings of the spirit. He was also childless; and though he was not consciously grateful for this, he was aware that he desired neither more distractions55, anxieties, or even joys than he possessed56 in such completeness.
Lady Susan Arne had been compared by her niece to a cushion; and, indeed, the superficial similarity—not, indeed, in point of looks, for Lady Susan was remarkably well-favoured—in the nature of the two was extremely striking when once it had been pointed57 out.{178} It was true that if one leaned on Lady Susan’s mind there was no firm resistance, only a large dent33 seemed to have been made in hers. But Helen, with a certain impatience58 in her survey, had overlooked the existence of a permanent dent there, a thing entirely59 foreign to cushions. She, Helen, it is true, might lean and make a dent, and that the next person who, so to speak, shook Aunt Susan up, or leaned upon her in another place, would (still in Helen’s view) efface60 the first dent; but in a corner of her, where no one ever thought of leaning or looking, there was a permanent and uneffaceable dent. This was made in the first place by the ungratified yearning61 for a child of her own; it was now daily renewed by the knowledge of its impossibility. There was in her, in fact, a potential vitality62 which under other circumstances might have made of her a woman, not a housekeeper63, and have given her points more directly in contact with life than were picquet and constitutionals. As it was, she had experienced none of the divine unsatisfiedness which fulness of life alone brings with it; she knew only the content of a rather empty existence. And Helen, judging with the impatience of youth, which is akin28 to the impatience of kittens or puppies with inanimate objects that will not come and play with them, had overlooked this. For, in truth, Aunt Susan was not inanimate; tucked away in a corner of the cushion was a real, live thing that groped for life and light, and she, the individual, was like a room made ready for the reception of guests,—chairs and tables in order, games put out for their entertainment, but until the guests began to arrive the room was in darkness. Aunt Susan stood there, match-box in hand, so to speak,{179} waiting for the first ring at the bell to light up her tapers64 and shew how orderly, how fragrant65, how charming (a little old-fashioned, too) her room was, how thoughtfully arranged for the pleasure of others. But no ring had yet come at her door-bell, and she still stood there, very patient and still smiling, but still waiting.
Lady Susan, on Helen’s arrival, knew only vaguely66 that something uncomfortable had happened at the vicarage; but Helen, the first evening she was there, had confided to her, rather as one may confide11 on cold nights to one’s pillow or to bedclothes tucked round the neck, the history of the last few days. But she neither knew nor would have guessed it possible that the news had kept Aunt Susan awake half the night, and that while she herself was up the river with Martin her aunt had gone about her household businesses and taken her walk with her husband in such a tremor67 of excitement that he had to hurry after her, instead of hanging on his step to wait for her. In all these tranquil68 years at Cambridge she had never been brought into contact with a thing that moved her like this. The gentle ministrations in which her years were passed had not touched her emotions, which, had not her yearnings for a child kept them alive, would probably long ago have fossilised. But those yearnings had nourished and rendered mature their sweet, delicate sensitiveness, and now when they were aroused, though even in this second-hand69 manner, they responded instantly, gently vibrating, not with a crackle of dry autumn leaves, but like foliage of aspen in the breath of spring.
Helen got back to this house of quiet towards five{180} in the afternoon, and found her aunt and Dr. Arne at tea on the lawn behind the house. The latter, however, soon went indoors to enjoy—literally enjoy—his couple of hours’ work before dinner, after forewarning them as to possible dampness on the grass after sunset.
“And have you enjoyed yourself, dear?” asked Aunt Susan, pleasantly; “and was the lunch I gave you really sufficient? Dear Martin has always such a beautiful appetite. It is a pleasure to see him eat his dinner.”
“Yes, dear aunt, we had heaps. And it was all so good, and so beautifully done up. Exactly like you.”
Aunt Susan, who always looked like a kind, little, animated70 Dresden shepherdess, flushed a little.
“And so you had a nice day?” she said. “And no upsets? Martin is so reckless on water. Dear Helen, is it quite wise to take off your hat? It may turn suddenly chilly71.”
Helen laughed, and threw it on the grass.
“No; no upsets, and quite wise, Aunt Susan. But a nice day? There was everything to make it nice externally; but one’s nice days are made inside one, I think. And just now my machine for making nice days creaks and groans72; it is out of order.”
Aunt Susan, though far too shy to take the initiative, was longing73 for the least thing that could be considered an introduction of this topic.
“Do you know, dear, I lay awake half the night thinking of you and your trouble,” she said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” cried Helen. “I ought not to have told you so late last night. Selfish little pig I am!”{181}
Aunt Susan patted her hand gently.
“Dear, it was delicious,” she said, “lying awake and thinking about you. I am afraid I actually enjoyed it. Not that I am not very, very sorry for you and your father and Lord Yorkshire; but when I said it was delicious, I meant it was so real, so alive, so very interesting. I don’t think I have lain awake more than a few minutes in the last couple of years, and that was when your uncle had the influenza74. And then it was only his cough that kept me awake; I was not anxious, for he had it very slightly. Now, if you do not mind talking about it, do tell me more. You told me just the facts. Tell me what you feel. How does it touch,—I am so stupid at saying things,—not what you will do only, your actions, but yourself?”
The question implied a perception with which Helen had not credited her aunt.
“Ah, what a difference there is between them!” she said, quickly. “One’s actions may so frightfully belie29 one. What one does is so often a parody75 of one’s best. One’s worst part acts, while one’s best does nothing, turns its face to the wall, like Hezekiah. Or, or”—she was still kindly76 trying to explain to this dear little Dresden shepherdess—“one’s actions are often like an unsympathetic repetition of something one has really said, which gives quite a different meaning to it. Do you understand?” she asked, eagerly.
“Yes, dear, quite,” said Lady Susan. “Surely everybody understands that. All the same it is our business if we are kind and good at all not to be harsh or hard in what we do.”
Suddenly Helen’s eyes were opened. In a flash she saw that she had been doing what she deprecated, and{182} hitherto had judged Aunt Susan merely by her actions. With the impatience that was so very characteristic of her, she had observed her ordering dinner, taking the walk, playing picquet, and otherwise having a great deal of rather fragrant leisure with which she did nothing. From this she had drawn77 the conclusion that there was, so to speak, no one really there, only a punctual little domestic automaton78. She had been so taken up with the fact that others did not understand her, did not allow for her individuality, that she had as yet never taken the trouble to consider whether these others also had not their own individuality equally to be respected. Aunt Susan, she would have said offhand79, had none, yet she was referring to as a mere38 commonplace what was still to Helen a blinding discovery. And she went on talking with a freedom and a certainty of being understood that she associated only with the beloved twin.
“Well, it is just that,” she said. “Any one,—you, Uncle David,—any one may say it is merely heartless, merely selfish of me to go my own way, to pay no attention to the wish—ah, it is much stronger than that—of my father. Or you may think that I don’t really know how strong his objection to my marriage is. I do know, I fully36 know. And knowing that, knowing also that he is my father, that I owe nearly everything to him, that he loves me and I love him, I am going to do, you may say, as I choose, throwing away all the love and the care he has spent on me, repudiating80 my debts to him. But I don’t. Oh, Aunt Susan, I don’t throw away his love or repudiate81 my debts. It is not fair to say that. Simply I can’t help it—I must. Something has come which is stronger{183} than everything else. Ah, Aunt Susan, you know what it is.”
Lady Susan’s delicate little china-looking face flushed suddenly.
“Yes, dear, I know,” she said. “At least I know some of it. We women are meant to be wives and mothers. I know half of what a woman longs to know. And the half I know, dear Helen, is so very fine that it is worth making some little sacrifice for it.”
“Sacrifice?” asked the girl.
“Yes. I cannot tell you in great language what I mean, because I am not great in any way, so I will give you my advice in one short word. Wait. Love is so good that it will not spoil by being kept; it will only get more mature, more exquisite82. And in the mean time you will have proved yourself a good daughter, too.”
“But why—why?” asked the girl. “Nothing will ever change what father feels about it, nor what I feel. It only means that for six months more, or for a year more, or however long I wait, he and I will go through dreadful days. It is awful at home, Aunt Susan; you have no idea how awful. If it would get any better with waiting, I would do as you suggest.”
The older woman was still smiling in the habitual83 way which Helen had so often thought so meaningless, so objectless. But now, as she looked, she saw there was a very cheerful patience about the smile which somehow she had not noticed before.
“It is true it may not get better with waiting,” she said, “for it is possible it may not. But you will have done your best, not only thought your best. You will have made your action not, as you say, the parody of{184} yourself, but the faithful expression of your very best self. You will have put your speech into no unsympathetic mouth, but into the mouth of a fine actor.”
Another current seized the girl, sweeping84 her impetuously away. She laid her hand on her aunt’s knee.
“Are you unhappy, Aunt Susan?” she asked. “Oh, I hope not. I always thought you were so contented85, so—so occupied with all the duties you do so well.”
Lady Susan, with the only movement of impatience that she had made perhaps for years, swept her hand away.
“Ah, that is because you are young,” she said, “and because you think that any one who feels an impulse must act on it, if she wants to realise her life. It is not so. You know what I have always called you and Martin, the Volcanoes—dear Volcanoes. When you feel pressure you burst, and scatter86 burning ashes anywhere and everywhere, and say with great good-humour, ‘But I am I. If I want to burst, I must.’ And when you see an old woman like me, just getting through the day’s work, day after day, week after week, with a little dinner-party here, and a little walk there, and a little ordering of the household all through, you think ‘Is that all? Is that life?’ And I answer you, ‘Yes; that is life.’”
Helen was silent a moment, suddenly aware that for the time it was perhaps wiser to listen and attend than talk about her own individuality.
“Tell me, tell me,” she said.
“My dear, there is very little to tell,” she said. “But you in your heyday87 do not allow, it seems to me, for the fact of other quiet people living and feeling perhaps just as much as you do. Because you feel a{185} thing you scream. You will learn to feel a thing, we hope, without screaming. I think young people tend to scream rather more than we used. They call it living their own lives. That possibly may be a mistaken, or, anyhow, a misleading name for it.”
Again Helen had no reply. But this did not seem to her at all like want of individuality. There was no screaming, it is true, and no assertion, but just as certainly there was “something there.” And, to do her justice, she respected that. But her aunt paused also, waiting for her answer, and after a minute she spoke88.
“Live your own life, then, in talk with me,” she said. “Let me understand it. It is quite true, Aunt Susan, I have judged as if there was no other view than mine, while the whole time my complaint—no, not that exactly, but you understand—has been that other people behave as if there was no other view than theirs! About you, for instance. I didn’t know, I didn’t guess. I thought you were—you were what you appeared.”
Lady Susan seemed to repent89 of her hasty movement, and recaptured Helen’s soft, brown-skinned hand.
“Yes, dear, I am,” she said, quietly. “At least, I choose to let that be my outward expression of myself, the expression by which you, Martin, anybody, may judge me. That certainly is my affair, and nobody else’s.”
She ceased stroking Helen’s hand a moment and looked up at her.
“But, dear, would you like to come inside me a moment? There is only one thing there, but it fills my house. Oh, Helen, if I had had a child!”
At that all the girl’s nature rose.{186}
“Ah, dear aunt, dear aunt!” she said.
Lady Susan’s pretty patient smile did not leave her lips, nor did any tear come to her eyes. The sorrow was too old and too eternally alive for her to weep over it now. And she went on quite quietly:
“If only I had been given the chance even to be made as unhappy as you are making your father, dear, I should have loved it so. But it was denied me, and by no fault of mine. So I am learning, I hope, not to grumble90. Ah, but it is hard sometimes, and I think I miss the joys of love as you would count joys, Helen, less than I miss what you would count its sorrows. But those are its opportunities. Dear, its possibilities in self-denial and self-abandonment. That is Love triumphant91, not crowned with roses, but crowned with sharp, beloved thorns. And the tragedy of love is when there is none for whom it can sacrifice itself.”
She stroked Helen’s hand again gently.
“Make yourself complete, dear,” she said; “there I am entirely at one with you. But, remember, our souls are like rose-trees, I think. You cut and prune92 them, if you are a wise gardener, for you know that by the cutting, the renunciation, you do not check or hinder your development, but you encourage it. You will be the more fragrant, the fuller of blossom by that which you might hastily say was a piece of cruelty, a stunting93 of your growth.”
Her kind eyes looked away from Helen, and out over the sun-baked lawn, bordered with flower-beds, in which, clearly to comply with preconceived notions of a garden on the part of a gardener, lobelias were set in a formal row in front, and behind them terrible, speckled calceolarias and hard, crude geraniums. That{187} garden had often seemed to Helen very typical of her aunt: it was orderly and completely conventional. Beyond Dr. Arne’s study windows looked from the red-brick house across the grass, and from where they sat she could see him at a table littered with books and manuscripts, with head bent39 over his work, or rising now and then to consult some book of reference which he took from the volume-lined walls. That sight, also, had often seemed to her very typical; the Cambridge professor was at his work (as, indeed, it was most right and proper that he should be), but that to him was all. His little life was bounded with books; on all sides stretched limitless deserts of particles and chorus-metres. But now, for the first time, Helen knew how erroneous all her judgments95 with regard to Aunt Susan had been,—for a real heart beat there, and it was somebody, somebody very distinct and individual, who ordered dinner and played picquet. Her life was not negative, emotionless; it was only her own obtuseness96 of perception that had so labelled it. Instead it was sad; in spite of all its quiet cheerfulness it was as sad as the level rays of the sun striking hazily97 across the lawn; as sad as the grey spires98 of Kings which rose against the clear, hot blue of the sky.
And the pathos99 of it suddenly moved her. Was that all that the good fairies had brought to her aunt’s cradle, just to grow quietly and gently old, she, who might have been so fine, missing all the joy and riot of life, missing, too, the crown of womanhood? “To live, to live!” that demand was battering100 at her doors with buffets101 that made the panels start. Yet here was the dear aunt, who had heard often the same insistent102 visitor, old, but sweet and unembittered, though it had{188} never been given to her to let him in, knowing all she had missed, yet not soured at having missed it.
“Oh, Aunt Susan,” she cried, forgetting herself, forgetting all else in a young creature’s somewhat insolent103 pity for the old, “is it not too sad? Is it not too terribly sad? Is that everybody’s fate, just to get older and older——“
Then, with the strong, unconscious egotism of her years:
“And me?” she said. “Will that happen to me, too?”
“What? Sadness? Yes, dear Helen, I hope so. No woman is worth very much until she has been through a good deal of sadness, a great deal of wanting what she cannot get. I hope you will go through that. But, dear, if you turn bitter under it, you had almost better not have lived; and certainly you had better die, for death is better than bitterness. But if you take the love and the sadness, which is inseparable, from life without bitterness, it strengthens and cleanses104 you. And you will certainly emerge from it a far finer creature than if you had never been through it. Emerge? Ah, it may last to the day of your death; but what then? What does that matter?”
There was a long silence, and the shadows grew and lengthened105 on the grass as Helen sat unseeing, but absorbed, gazing wide-eyed in front of her. She felt ashamed, humiliated106 at her own blindness; she had thought of her aunt as some dweller107 in the valley, while she herself was climbing the snowfields far above with eager, untiring foot. But now at the summit, or near it, she saw sitting the quiet, patient figure, so high up that she had not seen her before.{189}
Then, in her gentle voice, Aunt Susan broke in on her reverie.
“There, dear,” she said, “the sun has set; let us go in. And do tell me, Helen, before you go home, what you decide to do about this very difficult choice that is before you. Of course, you will not give Lord Yorkshire up. I think that would be very wrong. Do not be hasty; do not judge quickly. But do confide in me again, if you can. It is a great privilege, you know, for old people to be confided in by the young. Come, it is time to dress; there are a few people to dinner. Ah, Martin comes, too. I had quite forgotten. Dear me, how careless! I must go and see if there is enough to eat.”
Helen rose and gave her a great, tempestuous108 hug.
“You dear, you dear,” she said.
And then Aunt Susan, after her excursion into realities, hurried to the kitchen, the excellent housekeeper again.
There must have been something in the conjunctivity of the twins—except, indeed, at the vicarage at Chartries—which disposed the beholder109 to indefensible levity110. London had felt their spell, and even Cambridge, it appeared, that home of sweet and sober seriousness, went a little off its head about them. The spell, whatever it was, lay in their combination. Helen alone, it is true, could rouse that impulse of social gaiety which is evoked111 so easily by a girl’s beauty and high spirits, and Martin could make other people enjoy themselves by the sight of his own enormous power that way; but it was when they were together that{190} resistance was clearly hopeless, and it is worthy112 of record that to-night, after dinner, Dr. Arne and a professor of poetry, with their respective wives and the twins played “Ghosts” in the garden. Why these elderly people did it they could not have told you; but Martin proposed “Ghosts,” Helen explained it in three sentences, and the studious shades were awakened113 and appalled114 by wild shrieks.
For the night was dark and moonless, and while five out of these six foolish people hid in asparagus beds, behind tree-trunks, in the wood-shed, and in other black and dreadful places, the professor of poetry (selected by lot) was in honour bound to make the complete circuit of the garden, conscious that at any moment a ghost with curdling115 yells might spring out on him, or even worse, scuttle116 quickly up behind him, or perhaps, worst of all, he might suddenly be conscious of a small, crouching117 figure by his side which accompanied him in awful silence, ready to break forth118 into who knew what hideous119 and babbling120 speech? Thus one eye had to be kept on this dreadful object, while simultaneously121 the whole attention had to be on the alert in case of some new reverent122 from the bushes. The professor was a man on whom, as far as was known, the imputation123 of cowardice124 had never yet been laid, but at the first attempt to make the black circuit of the garden he found he could not possibly face the corner by the wood-shed, his nerves being already utterly125 unstrung by a vague form that groaned126 among the gooseberry bushes. He paused while still a few yards distant from this dreadful being, and then fled with flying coat-tails back to the house, where in the safety of the lit drawing-room he wiped the dews of{191} strangling anguish127 from his forehead and called lamentably128 on his courage.
“‘Not a glimmer129 from the worm, in the darkness thick and hot,’” he half moaned to himself. “Oh, this will never do! I am aware it is probably only Dr. Arne, and I am not really frightened of him. Come, come.”
And, with his heart in his mouth, he set out again on his fascinating and abhorred130 errand, murmuring again, “‘In the darkness thick and hot. In the darkness thick and hot. In the dark——’ Oh, dear me, what is that?”
The poor professor suffered for his momentary131 panic, for Helen had, in his hour of weakness in the drawing-room, changed her place to behind a large flower-tub, which had concealed132 nobody before. Consequently, he approached it inattentively, without caution or misgiving133, to be confronted, shuddering134, by a flapping form which gasped135 and panted.
He made a fruitless appeal.
“Dear Miss Helen,” he said, “I can’t go on. I really do not think it would be right. My work will suffer. But is it Dr. Arne among the gooseberry bushes or is it Martin? I think I could run as fast as Dr. Arne, but if——“
Hoots136 of unearthly laughter assailed137 him on the other side.
Afterwards they played “Dumb Crambo.” Lady Susan, in a college cap and a dust-coat of Martin’s, was Alfred letting the cakes burn. At another time Dr. Arne found himself to be Cleopatra, with Helen as Mark Antony. He chose his dresses from Helen’s{192} wardrobe—they were much too large for him—with immense care, and subsequently applied138 a paper-weight, in the form of a snake, to his bosom139. The professor of poetry became a prize-fighter, his wife, a godly and virtuous140 woman hitherto, unexpectedly turned out to be Peace the murderer, and did a deed of blood with immense gusto and a paper-knife. Yet, all the time, nobody asked himself why he did these silly things; the twins had said it was to be so, and that was enough. At their order, too, it seemed as if the golden gates of youth had swung open, and the tired and the patient and the elderly and the wise were bidden to enter once more and be children again.
Helen’s visit to Cambridge had been restricted by no statute141 of limitations in regard to time, and the days passed on, the vague “few nights” growing to a week, and the week to a magnified fortnight. For these quiet, uneventful hours in which (except when the twin was with her) even the ticking of clocks seemed muffled142 had an extraordinary and growing charm for her, since she had learned that behind the outward placidity143 in her aunt there lay a very real inward life in which she longed without possibility of satisfaction and suffered without bitterness. That somehow to the girl seemed to lift up and consecrate144 Aunt Susan’s homely145 little employments, which, so sweetly and patiently performed, became symbols and signs of a very beautiful character, and that which Helen had thought dull, unperceptive, unemotional, was now lit from within, as it were, by the uncomplaining cheerfulness which gave such gentle, unquestioning welcome to the limitations set about her. For Lady Susan, so{193} her niece had now learned, had not from her own defective146 eyesight set her horizons so close about her; circumstances, childlessness had imposed them, and that being so, she had taken up her place in the narrowed circle with resignation so cheerful that it could scarcely be called by that rather depressing name. In fact, the gentle old lady was put on a pedestal in the girl’s mind, and offerings of incense147 were made her, a position which now and then she found slightly embarrassing, for Helen, in her first moment of understanding and in the reaction from her previous hasty and mistaken judgment94, was one torrent148 of warm-hearted sympathy, and was disposed to magnify into heroism149 the performance of those common tasks, just because she had before labelled them trivial.
But from home—she must begin taking up her own little burdens at once—there came no word for her. She herself wrote regularly to her father, but morning after morning passed, bringing its posts, and still no answer came to her. Once she saw among the letters laid out for Aunt Susan one addressed in the brisk, scholarly handwriting, and could not help glancing at her aunt’s face as she read it. But she said nothing to Helen, and replaced the letter in its envelope with a troubled little sigh. Martin, also, she knew had heard from him, but there had been no message for her, no mention even of her. This omission150, this intentional151 disregard of her, though it hurt her, made her sorry also, not for herself, but for him. It was inhuman152, but she knew that it was the depth and earnestness of his feeling about her engagement that made him inhuman. On the other hand, she heard constantly from Frank, who hinted that if not a day, at any rate a{194} season might be ever so vaguely indicated to which he could look forward.
The term was drawing to its close, and Martin would go home in a few days’ time. It was understood that Helen would go with him; and as the day of departure got near, she knew that her decision must be made, so far as it concerned herself, as to whether she should put off her marriage for some definite time, and do the daughter’s part to her father, living at home, obeying him, performing her parish duties as before, making amende, as far as she could, for the great act of disobedience which she was going to commit. Practically, she did not see the use of it; no good, as far as she could judge, would come of it; yet, in a way, Aunt Susan was right, the meaning of it, the sentiment of it, was sound. It would not be easy; it would be full of sustained effort, of sustained self-repression. Intercourse153 would be crammed154 with misunderstanding, the atmosphere would be full of frictional disturbances155, but she saw there would be a certain moral gain to set against this. Also, and this, too, had a very sensible weight with her, there would be gain to her in the completeness of which her aunt had spoken. Ever since she had consciously woke to her own individuality her eagerness for her own improvement and enlargement had been of a very vivid sort. And perhaps the most excellent way of all had been here set before her to compass that, not by working for it, but by apparently limiting, maiming, discouraging it. That was a very simple, very elementary suggestion, yet it had never occurred to her in this connection. And it was, well, less crude than the other method.{195}
The evening before her departure she took the opportunity provided by Dr. Arne’s going to his chorus-metres after tea to talk to her aunt again. It had been a chilly day, touched with the autumnal sadness of early-falling leaves, and early-falling dusk, and the window-panes streamed. Though it was still August, a fire burned in the grate, and she sat down on the floor by her aunt’s chair.
“Father has not written to me once since I came here,” she said. “He has written to you and to Martin I know, but there has never been a message to me. I don’t say this in any complaint, Aunt Susan; but what is one to do when that happens?”
Lady Susan shut the book she was reading. She had been expecting Helen to mention this, but was unwilling156 to open the subject herself.
“I know he has not, dear,” she said, “and I think it very wrong of him. I have told him so. But don’t let it hurt you, Helen. If other people, yes, misbehave, there is never anything to be done except to go on ‘behaving’ one’s self. And never let what other people do hurt you. For nothing can really hurt us except what we do ourselves.”
“Ah, but in a way I have done it,” said the girl. “At least, it is in consequence of what I have done.”
“No; your father is wrong, I think,” said Lady Susan, with gentle decision. “And now, dear, as you are going away to-morrow, I want to ask you something. You go home with Martin, do you not? And then? Have you made up your mind?”
“Yes,” she said. “I will not give up Frank, but I will put it all off till next May. Of course, if he wishes, he is absolutely free.”{196}
“Ah,” said Aunt Susan, gently. “It is likely he would wish that, I suppose.”
Helen laughed.
“Well, no; not very. But till then I shall live at home, if father will let me, and try in every way to please him.”
Her voice trembled a little.
“And I hope he will accept that,” she said. “And I hope he will be good to me and forgive me.”
Lady Susan stroked her hair in silence a moment.
“You have chosen right, dear,” she said.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
flannel
|
|
| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
draught
|
|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
drowsily
|
|
| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
foliage
|
|
| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
dabbled
|
|
| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
gliding
|
|
| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
constellation
|
|
| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
recalcitrant
|
|
| adj.倔强的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
confided
|
|
| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
confide
|
|
| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
persuasion
|
|
| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
alleviate
|
|
| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
garrulous
|
|
| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
knight
|
|
| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
precariously
|
|
| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
fatuously
|
|
| adv.愚昧地，昏庸地，蠢地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
ashore
|
|
| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
outraged
|
|
| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
shrieks
|
|
| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
akin
|
|
| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
belie
|
|
| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
brutes
|
|
| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
leaven
|
|
| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
fermented
|
|
| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
dent
|
|
| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
dents
|
|
| n.花边边饰；凹痕( dent的名词复数 )；凹部；减少；削弱v.使产生凹痕( dent的第三人称单数 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
eminently
|
|
| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
remarkably
|
|
| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
dissimulation
|
|
| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
imperturbable
|
|
| adj.镇静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
serenity
|
|
| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
providence
|
|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
acumen
|
|
| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
stint
|
|
| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
draughts
|
|
| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
edible
|
|
| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
mediocre
|
|
| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
exuberance
|
|
| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
frailties
|
|
| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
disorders
|
|
| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
distractions
|
|
| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
efface
|
|
| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
vitality
|
|
| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
housekeeper
|
|
| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
tapers
|
|
| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
fragrant
|
|
| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
tremor
|
|
| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
tranquil
|
|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
second-hand
|
|
| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
animated
|
|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
chilly
|
|
| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
groans
|
|
| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
influenza
|
|
| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
parody
|
|
| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
automaton
|
|
| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
offhand
|
|
| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
repudiating
|
|
| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的现在分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
repudiate
|
|
| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
habitual
|
|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
sweeping
|
|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
scatter
|
|
| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
heyday
|
|
| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
repent
|
|
| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
grumble
|
|
| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
triumphant
|
|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
prune
|
|
| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
stunting
|
|
| v.阻碍…发育[生长]，抑制，妨碍( stunt的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
judgments
|
|
| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
obtuseness
|
|
| 感觉迟钝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
hazily
|
|
| ad. vaguely, not clear | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
spires
|
|
| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
pathos
|
|
| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
battering
|
|
| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
buffets
|
|
| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
insistent
|
|
| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
insolent
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
cleanses
|
|
| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
lengthened
|
|
| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
humiliated
|
|
| 感到羞愧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
dweller
|
|
| n.居住者，住客 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
tempestuous
|
|
| adj.狂暴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
beholder
|
|
| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
levity
|
|
| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
evoked
|
|
| [医]诱发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
awakened
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
appalled
|
|
| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
curdling
|
|
| n.凝化v.（使）凝结( curdle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
scuttle
|
|
| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
crouching
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
hideous
|
|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
babbling
|
|
| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
simultaneously
|
|
| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
reverent
|
|
| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
imputation
|
|
| n.归罪，责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
cowardice
|
|
| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
groaned
|
|
| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
lamentably
|
|
| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
glimmer
|
|
| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
abhorred
|
|
| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
misgiving
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
shuddering
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
hoots
|
|
| 咄，啐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
assailed
|
|
| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
statute
|
|
| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
muffled
|
|
| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
placidity
|
|
| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
consecrate
|
|
| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
homely
|
|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
defective
|
|
| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
incense
|
|
| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
torrent
|
|
| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
heroism
|
|
| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
omission
|
|
| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
intentional
|
|
| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
inhuman
|
|
| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
intercourse
|
|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
crammed
|
|
| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
disturbances
|
|
| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |