Work: A Story of Experience - Chapter 5
时间：2021-01-24 02:25:07
（单词翻译:单击）
BEFORE she had time to find a new situation, Christie received a note from Miss Tudor, saying that hearing she had left Mrs. Saltonstall she wanted to offer her the place of companion to an invalid2 girl, where the duties were light and the compensation large.
"How kind of her to think of me," said Christie, gratefully. "I'll go at once and do my best to secure it, for it must be a good thing or she wouldn't recommend it."
Away went Christie to the address sent by Miss Tudor, and as she waited at the door she thought:
"What a happy family the Carrols must be!" for the house was one of an imposing3 block in a West End square, which had its own little park where a fountain sparkled in the autumn sunshine, and pretty children played among the fallen leaves.
Mrs. Carrol was a stately woman, still beautiful in spite of her fifty years. But though there were few lines on her forehead, few silver threads in the dark hair that lay smoothly4 over it, and a gracious smile showed the fine teeth, an indescribable expression of unsubmissive sorrow touched the whole face, betraying that life had brought some heavy cross, from which her wealth could purchase no release, for which her pride could find no effectual screen.
She looked at Christie with a searching eye, listened attentively6 when she spoke7, and seemed testing her with covert8 care as if the place she was to fill demanded some unusual gift or skill.
"Miss Tudor tells me that you read aloud well, sing sweetly, possess a cheerful temper, and the quiet, patient ways which are peculiarly grateful to an invalid," began Mrs. Carrol, with that keen yet wistful gaze, and an anxious accent in her voice that went to Christie's heart.
"Miss Tudor is very kind to think so well of me and my few accomplishments9. I have never been with an invalid, but I think I can promise to be patient, willing, and cheerful. My own experience of illness has taught me how to sympathize with others and love to lighten pain. I shall be very glad to try if you think I have any fitness for the place."
"I do," and Mrs. Carrol's face softened10 as she spoke, for something in Christie's words or manner seemed to please her. Then slowly, as if the task was a hard one, she added:
"My daughter has been very ill and is still weak and nervous. I must hint to you that the loss of one very dear to her was the cause of the illness and the melancholy11 which now oppresses her. Therefore we must avoid any thing that can suggest or recall this trouble. She cares for nothing as yet, will see no one, and prefers to live alone. She is still so feeble this is but natural; yet solitude12 is bad for her, and her physician thinks that a new face might rouse her, and the society of one in no way connected with the painful past might interest and do her good. You see it is a little difficult to find just what we want, for a young companion is best, yet must be discreet13 and firm, as few young people are."
Fancying from Mrs. Carrol's manner that Miss Tudor had said more in her favor than had been repeated to her, Christie in a few plain-words told her little story, resolving to have no concealments here, and feeling that perhaps her experiences might have given her more firmness and discretion15 than many women of her age possessed16. Mrs. Carrol seemed to find it so; the anxious look lifted a little as she listened, and when Christie ended she said, with a sigh of relief:
"Yes, I think Miss Tudor is right, and you are the one we want. Come and try it for a week and then we can decide. Can you begin to-day?" she added, as Christie rose. "Every hour is precious, for my poor girl's sad solitude weighs on my heart, and this is my one hope."
"I will stay with pleasure," answered Christie, thinking Mrs. Carrol's anxiety excessive, yet pitying the mother's pain, for something in her face suggested the idea that she reproached herself in some way for her daughter's state.
With secret gratitude17 that she had dressed with care, Christie took off her things and followed Mrs. Carrol upstairs. Entering a room in what seemed to be a wing of the great house, they found an old woman sewing.
"How is Helen to-day, Nurse?" asked Mrs. Carrol, pausing.
"Poorly, ma'am. I've been in every hour, but she only says: 'Let me be quiet,' and lies looking up at the picture till it's fit to break your heart to see her," answered the woman, with a shake of the head.
"I have brought Miss Devon to sit with her a little while. Doctor advises it, and I fancy the experiment may succeed if we can only amuse the dear child, and make her forget herself and her troubles."
"As you please, ma'am," said the old woman, looking with little favor at the new-comer, for the good soul was jealous of any interference between herself and the child she had tended for years.
"I won't disturb her, but you shall take Miss Devon in and tell Helen mamma sends her love, and hopes she will make an effort for all our sakes."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Go, my dear, and do your best." With these words Mrs. Carrol hastily left the room, and Christie followed Nurse.
A quick glance showed her that she was in the daintily furnished boudoir of a rich man's daughter, but before she could take a second look her eyes were arrested by the occupant of this pretty place, and she forgot all else. On a low luxurious18 couch lay a girl, so beautiful and pale and still, that for an instant Christie thought her dead or sleeping. She was neither, for at the sound of a voice the great eyes opened wide, darkening and dilating19 with a strange expression as they fell on the unfamiliar20 face.
"Nurse, who is that? I told you I would see no one. I'm too ill to be so worried," she said, in an imperious tone.
HELEN CARROL
"Yes, dear, I know, but your mamma wished you to make an effort. Miss Devon is to sit with you and try to cheer you up a bit," said the old woman in a dissatisfied tone, that contrasted strangely with the tender way in which she stroked the beautiful disordered hair that hung about the girl's shoulders.
Helen knit her brows and looked most ungracious, but evidently tried to be civil, for with a courteous21 wave of her hand toward an easy chair in the sunny window she said, quietly:
"Please sit down, Miss Devon, and excuse me for a little while. I've had a bad night, and am too tired to talk just yet. There are books of all sorts, or the conservatory22 if you like it better."
"Thank you. I'll read quietly till you want me. Then I shall be very glad to do any thing I can for you."
With that Christie retired23 to the big chair, and fell to reading the first book she took up, a good deal embarrassed by her reception, and very curious to know what would come next.
The old woman went away after folding the down coverlet carefully over her darling's feet, and Helen seemed to go to sleep.
For a time the room was very still; the fire burned softly on the marble hearth24, the sun shone warmly on velvet25 carpet and rich hangings, the delicate breath of flowers blew in through the halt-open door that led to a gay little conservatory, and nothing but the roll of a distant carriage broke the silence now and then.
Christie's eyes soon wandered from her book to the lovely face and motionless figure on the couch. Just opposite, in a recess26, hung the portrait of a young and handsome man, and below it stood a vase of flowers, a graceful27 Roman lamp, and several little relics29, as if it were the shrine30 where some dead love was mourned and worshipped still.
As she looked from the living face, so pale and so pathetic in its quietude, to the painted one so full of color, strength, and happiness, her heart ached for poor Helen, and her eyes were wet with tears of pity. A sudden movement on the couch gave her no time to hide them, and as she hastily looked down upon her book a treacherous31 drop fell glittering on the page.
"What have you there so interesting?" asked Helen, in that softly imperious tone of hers.
Helen smiled a melancholy smile as she rose, saying wearily:
"They gave me that to make me laugh, but I did not find it funny; neither was it sad enough to make me cry as you do."
"I was not reading, I was" - there Christie broke down, and could have cried with vexation at the bad beginning she had made. But that involuntary tear was better balm to Helen than the most perfect tact33, the most brilliant conversation. It touched and won her without words, for sympathy works miracles. Her whole face changed, and her mournful eyes grew soft as with the gentle freedom of a child she lifted Christie's downcast face and said, with a falter34 in her voice:
"I know you were pitying me. Well, I need pity, and from you I'll take it, because you don't force it on me. Have you been ill and wretched too? I think so, else you would never care to come and shut yourself up here with me!"
"I have been ill, and I know how hard it is to get one's spirits back again. I've had my troubles, too, but not heavier than I could bear, thank God."
"What made you ill? Would you mind telling me about it? I seem to fancy hearing other people's woes36, though it can't make mine seem lighter37."
"A piece of the Castle of the Sun fell on my head and nearly killed me," and Christie laughed in spite of herself at the astonishment38 in Helen's face. "I was an actress once; your mother knows and didn't mind," she added, quickly.
"I'm glad of that. I used to wish I could be one, I was so fond of the theatre. They should have consented, it would have given me something to do, and, however hard it is, it couldn't be worse than this." Helen spoke vehemently39 and an excited flush rose to her white cheeks; then she checked herself and dropped into a chair, saying, hurriedly:
"Tell about it: don't let me think; it's bad for me." Glad to be set to work, and bent40 on retrieving41 her first mistake, Christie plunged42 into her theatrical43 experiences and talked away in her most lively style. People usually get eloquent44 when telling their own stories, and true tales are always the most interesting. Helen listened at first with a half-absent air, but presently grew more attentive5, and when the catastrophe45 came sat erect46, quite absorbed in the interest of this glimpse behind the curtain.
Charmed with her success, Christie branched off right and left, stimulated47 by questions, led on by suggestive incidents, and generously supplied by memory. Before she knew it, she was telling her whole history in the most expansive manner, for women soon get sociable48 together, and Helen's interest flattered her immensely. Once she made her laugh at some droll49 trifle, and as if the unaccustomed sound had startled her, old nurse popped in her head; but seeing nothing amiss retired, wondering what on earth that girl could be doing to cheer up Miss Helen so.
"Tell about your lovers: you must have had some; actresses always do. Happy women, they can love as they like!" said Helen, with the inquisitive50 frankness of an invalid for whom etiquette51 has ceased to exist.
Remembering in time that this was a forbidden subject, Christie smiled and shook her head.
"I had a few, but one does not tell those secrets, you know."
Evidently disappointed, and a little displeased53 at being reminded of her want of good-breeding, Helen got up and began to wander restlessly about the room. Presently, as if wishing to atone54 for her impatience55, she bade Christie come and see her flowers. Following her, the new companion found herself in a little world where perpetual summer reigned56. Vines curtained the roof, slender shrubs57 and trees made leafy walls on either side, flowers bloomed above and below, birds carolled in half-hidden prisons, aquariums58 and ferneries stood all about, and the soft plash of a little fountain made pleasant music as it rose and fell.
Helen threw herself wearily down on a pile of cushions that lay beside the basin, and beckoning59 Christie to sit near, said, as she pressed her hands to her hot forehead and looked up with a distressful60 brightness in the haggard eyes that seemed to have no rest in them:
"Please sing to me; any humdrum61 air will do. I am so tired, and yet I cannot sleep. If my head would only stop this dreadful thinking and let me forget one hour it would do me so much good."
"I know the feeling, and I'll try what Lucy used to do to quiet me. Put your poor head in my lap, dear, and lie quite still while I cool and comfort it."
Obeying like a worn-out child, Helen lay motionless while Christie, dipping her fingers in the basin, passed the wet tips softly to and fro across the hot forehead, and the thin temples where the pulses throbbed63 so fast. And while she soothed65 she sang the "Land o' the Leal," and sang it well; for the tender words, the plaintive66 air were dear to her, because her mother loved and sang it to her years ago. Slowly the heavy eyelids67 drooped68, slowly the lines of pain were smoothed away from the broad brow, slowly the restless hands grew still, and Helen lay asleep.
So intent upon her task was Christie, that she forgot herself till the discomfort69 of her position reminded her that she had a body. Fearing to wake the poor girl in her arms, she tried to lean against the basin, but could not reach a cushion to lay upon the cold stone ledge70. An unseen hand supplied the want, and, looking round, she saw two young men standing71 behind her.
Helen's brothers, without doubt; for, though utterly72 unlike in expression, some of the family traits were strongly marked in both. The elder wore the dress of a priest, had a pale, ascetic73 face, with melancholy eyes, stern mouth, and the absent air of one who leads an inward life. The younger had a more attractive face, for, though bearing marks of dissipation, it betrayed a generous, ardent74 nature, proud and wilful75, yet lovable in spite of all defects. He was very boyish still, and plainly showed how much he felt, as, with a hasty nod to Christie, he knelt down beside his sister, saying, in a whisper:
"Look at her, Augustine! so beautiful, so quiet! What a comfort it is to see her like herself again."
"Ah, yes; and but for the sin of it, I could find it in my heart to wish she might never wake!" returned the other, gloomily.
"Don't say that! How could we live without her?" Then, turning to Christie, the younger said, in a friendly tone:
"You must be very tired; let us lay her on the sofa. It is very damp here, and if she sleeps long you will faint from weariness."
Carefully lifting her, the brothers carried the sleeping girl into her room, and laid her down. She sighed as her head touched the pillow, and her arm clung to Harry76's neck, as if she felt his nearness even in sleep. He put his cheek to hers, and lingered over her with an affectionate solicitude77 beautiful to see. Augustine stood silent, grave and cold as if he had done with human ties, yet found it hard to sever28 this one, for he stretched his hand above his sister as if he blessed her, then, with another grave bow to Christie, went away as noiselessly as he had come. But Harry kissed the sleeper78 tenderly, whispered, "Be kind to her," with an imploring79 voice, and hurried from the room as if to hide the feeling that he must not show.
A few minutes later the nurse brought in a note from Mrs. Carrol.
"My son tells me that Helen is asleep, and you look very tired. Leave her to Hester, now; you have done enough to-day, so let me thank you heartily80, and send you home for a quiet night before you continue your good work to-morrow."
Christie went, found a carriage waiting for her, and drove home very happy at the success of her first attempt at companionship.
The next day she entered upon the new duties with interest and good-will, for this was work in which heart took part, as well as head and hand. Many things surprised, and some things perplexed81 her, as she came to know the family better. But she discreetly82 held her tongue, used her eyes, and did her best to please.
Mrs. Carrol seemed satisfied, often thanked her for her faithfulness to Helen, but seldom visited her daughter, never seemed surprised or grieved that the girl expressed no wish to see her; and, though her handsome face always wore its gracious smile, Christie soon felt very sure that it was a mask put on to hide some heavy sorrow from a curious world.
Augustine never came except when Helen was asleep: then, like a shadow, he passed in and out, always silent, cold, and grave, but in his eyes the gloom of some remorseful84 pain that prayers and penances85 seemed powerless to heal.
Harry came every day, and no matter how melancholy, listless, or irritable86 his sister might be, for him she always had a smile, an affectionate greeting, a word of praise, or a tender warning against the reckless spirit that seemed to possess him. The love between them was very strong, and Christie found a never-failing pleasure in watching them together, for then Helen showed what she once had been, and Harry was his best self. A boy still, in spite of his one-and-twenty years, he seemed to feel that Helen's room was a safe refuge from the temptations that beset87 one of his thoughtless and impetuous nature. Here he came to confess his faults and follies88 with the frankness which is half sad, half comical, and wholly charming in a good-hearted young scatter-brain. Here he brought gay gossip, lively descriptions, and masculine criticisms of the world he moved in. All his hopes and plans, joys and sorrows, successes and defeats, he told to Helen. And she, poor soul, in this one happy love of her sad life, forgot a little the burden of despair that darkened all the world to her. For his sake she smiled, to him she talked when others got no word from her, and Harry's salvation90 was the only duty that she owned or tried to fulfil.
A younger sister was away at school, but the others seldom spoke of her, and Christie tired herself with wondering why Bella never wrote to Helen, and why Harry seemed to have nothing but a gloomy sort of pity to bestow91 upon the blooming girl whose picture hung in the great drawing-room below.
It was a very quiet winter, yet a very pleasant one to Christie, for she felt herself loved and trusted, saw that she suited, and believed that she was doing good, as women best love to do it, by bestowing92 sympathy and care with generous devotion.
Helen and Harry loved her like an elder sister; Augustine showed that he was grateful, and Mrs. Carrol sometimes forgot to put on her mask before one who seemed fast becoming confidante as well as companion.
In the spring the family went to the fine old country-house just out of town, and here Christie and her charge led a freer, happier life. Walking and driving, boating and gardening, with pleasant days on the wide terrace, where Helen swung idly in her hammock, while Christie read or talked to her; and summer twilights beguiled93 with music, or the silent reveries more eloquent than speech, which real friends may enjoy together, and find the sweeter for the mute companionship.
Harry was with them, and devoted94 to his sister, who seemed slowly to be coming out of her sad gloom, won by patient tenderness and the cheerful influences all about her.
Christie's heart was full of pride and satisfaction, as she saw the altered face, heard the tone of interest in that once hopeless voice, and felt each day more sure that Helen had outlived the loss that seemed to have broken her heart.
Alas95, for Christie's pride, for Harry's hope, and for poor Helen's bitter fate! When all was brightest, the black shadow came; when all looked safest, danger was at hand; and when the past seemed buried, the ghost which haunted it returned, for the punishment of a broken law is as inevitable96 as death.
When settled in town again Bella came home, a gay, young girl, who should have brought sunshine and happiness into her home. But from the hour she returned a strange anxiety seemed to possess the others. Mrs. Carrol watched over her with sleepless97 care, was evidently full of maternal98 pride in the lovely creature, and began to dream dreams about her future. She seemed to wish to keep the sisters apart, and said to Christie, as if to explain this wish:
"Bella was away when Helen's trouble and illness came, she knows very little of it, and I do not want her to be saddened by the knowledge. Helen cares only for Hal, and Bella is too young to be of any use to my poor girl; therefore the less they see of each other the better for both. I am sure you agree with me?" she added, with that covert scrutiny99 which Christie had often felt before.
She could but acquiesce100 in the mother's decision, and devote herself more faithfully than ever to Helen, who soon needed all her care and patience, for a terrible unrest grew upon her, bringing sleepless nights again, moody101 days, and all the old afflictions with redoubled force.
Bella "came out" and began her career as a beauty and a belle102 most brilliantly. Harry was proud of her, but seemed jealous of other men's admiration103 for his charming sister, and would excite both Helen and himself over the flirtations into which "that child" as they called her, plunged with all the zest104 of a light-hearted girl whose head was a little turned with sudden and excessive adoration105.
In vain Christie begged Harry not to report these things, in vain she hinted that Bella had better not come to show herself to Helen night after night in all the dainty splendor106 of her youth and beauty; in vain she asked Mrs. Carrol to let her go away to some quieter place with Helen, since she never could be persuaded to join in any gayety at home or abroad. All seemed wilful, blind, or governed by the fear of the gossiping world. So the days rolled on till an event occurred which enlightened Christie, with startling abruptness107, and showed her the skeleton that haunted this unhappy family.
Going in one morning to Helen she found her walking to and fro as she often walked of late, with hurried steps and excited face as if driven by some power beyond her control.
"Good morning, dear. I'm so sorry you had a restless night, and wish you had sent for me. Will you come out now for an early drive? It's a lovely day, and your mother thinks it would do you good," began Christie, troubled by the state in which she found the girl.
But as she spoke Helen turned on her, crying passionately109:
"My mother! don't speak of her to me, I hate her!"
"Oh, Helen, don't say that. Forgive and forget if she has displeased you, and don't exhaust yourself by brooding over it. Come, dear, and let us soothe64 ourselves with a little music. I want to hear that new song again, though I can never hope to sing it as you do."
"Sing!" echoed Helen, with a shrill110 laugh, "you don't know what you ask. Could you sing when your heart was heavy with the knowledge of a sin about to be committed by those nearest to you? Don't try to quiet me, I must talk whether you listen or not; I shall go frantic111 if I don't tell some one; all the world will know it soon. Sit down, I'll not hurt you, but don't thwart112 me or you'll be sorry for it."
Speaking with a vehemence113 that left her breathless, Helen thrust Christie down upon a seat, and went on with an expression in her face that bereft114 the listener of power to move or speak.
"Harry has just told me of it; he was very angry, and I saw it, and made him tell me. Poor boy, he can keep nothing from me. I've been dreading115 it, and now it's coming. You don't know it, then? Young Butler is in love with Bella, and no one has prevented it. Think how wicked when such a curse is on us all."
The question, "What curse?" rose involuntarily to Christie's lips, but did not pass them, for, as if she read the thought, Helen answered it in a whisper that made the blood tingle116 in the other's veins117, so full of ominous118 suggestion was it.
"The curse of insanity119 I mean. We are all mad, or shall be; we come of a mad race, and for years we have gone recklessly on bequeathing this awful inheritance to our descendants. It should end with us, we are the last; none of us should marry; none dare think of it but Bella, and she knows nothing. She must be told, she must be kept from the sin of deceiving her lover, the agony of seeing her children become what I am, and what we all may be."
Here Helen wrung120 her hands and paced the room in such a paroxysm of impotent despair that Christie sat bewildered and aghast, wondering if this were true, or but the fancy of a troubled brain. Mrs. Carrol's face and manner returned to her with sudden vividness, so did Augustine's gloomy expression, and the strange wish uttered over his sleeping sister long ago. Harry's reckless, aimless life might be explained in this way; and all that had perplexed her through that year. Every thing confirmed the belief that this tragical122 assertion was true, and Christie covered up her face, murmuring, with an involuntary shiver:
"My God, how terrible!"
Helen came and stood before her with such grief and penitence123 in her countenance124 that for a moment it conquered the despair that had broken bounds.
"We should have told you this at first; I longed to do it, but I was afraid you'd go and leave me. I was so lonely, so miserable125, Christie. I could not give you up when I had learned to love you; and I did learn very soon, for no wretched creature ever needed help and comfort more than I. For your sake I tried to be quiet, to control my shattered nerves, and hide rny desperate thoughts. You helped me very much, and your unconsciousness made me doubly watchful126. Forgive me; don't desert me now, for the old horror may be coming back, and I want you more than ever."
Too much moved to speak, Christie held out her hands, with a face full of pity, love, and grief. Poor Helen clung to them as if her only help lay there, and for a moment was quite still. But not long; the old anguish127 was too sharp to be borne in silence; the relief of confidence once tasted was too great to be denied; and, breaking loose, she went to and fro again, pouring out the bitter secret which had been weighing upon heart and conscience for a year.
"You wonder that I hate my mother; let me tell you why. When she was beautiful and young she married, knowing the sad history of my father's family. He was rich, she poor and proud; ambition made her wicked, and she did it after being warned that, though he might escape, his children were sure to inherit the curse, for when one generation goes free it falls more heavily upon the rest. She knew it all, and yet she married him. I have her to thank for all I suffer, and I cannot love her though she is my mother. It may be wrong to say these things, but they are true; they burn in my heart, and I must speak out; for I tell you there comes a time when children judge their parents as men and women, in spite of filial duty, and woe35 to those whose actions change affection and respect to hatred128 or contempt."
The bitter grief, the solemn fervor129 of her words, both touched and awed130 Christie too much for speech. Helen had passed beyond the bounds of ceremony, fear, or shame: her hard lot, her dark experience, set her apart, and gave her the right to utter the bare truth. To her heart's core Christie felt that warning; and for the first time saw what many never see or wilfully131 deny, - the awful responsibility that lies on every man and woman's soul forbidding them to entail132 upon the innocent the burden of their own infirmities, the curse that surely follows their own sins.
Sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most unhappy daughter spoke:
"If ever a woman had cause to repent133, it is my mother; but she will not, and till she does, God has forsaken135 us. Nothing can subdue136 her pride, not even an affliction like mine. She hides the truth; she hides me, and lets the world believe I am dying of consumption; not a word about insanity, and no one knows the secret beyond ourselves, but doctor, nurse, and you. This is why I was not sent away, but for a year was shut up in that room yonder where the door is always locked. If you look in, you'll see barred windows, guarded fire, muffled137 walls, and other sights to chill your blood, when you remember all those dreadful things were meant for me."
"Don't speak, don't think of them! Don't talk any more; let me do something to comfort you, for my heart is broken with all this," cried Christie, panic-stricken at the picture Helen's words had conjured138 up.
"I must go on! There is no rest for me till I have tried to lighten this burden by sharing it with you. Let me talk, let me wear myself out, then you shall help and comfort me, if there is any help and comfort for such as I. Now I can tell you all about my Edward, and you'll listen, though mamma forbade it. Three years ago my father died, and we came here. I was well then, and oh, how happy!"
Clasping her hands above her head, she stood like a beautiful, pale image of despair; tearless and mute, but with such a world of anguish in the eyes lifted to the smiling picture opposite that it needed no words to tell the story of a broken heart.
"How I loved him!" she said, softly, while her whole face glowed for an instant with the light and warmth of a deathless passion. "How I loved him, and how he loved me! Too well to let me darken both our lives with a remorse83 which would come too late for a just atonement. I thought him cruel then, - I bless him for it now. I had far rather be the innocent sufferer I am, than a wretched woman like my mother. I shall never see him any more, but I know he thinks of me far away in India, and when I die one faithful heart will remember me."
There her voice faltered139 and failed, and for a moment the fire of her eyes was quenched140 in tears. Christie thought the reaction had come, and rose to go and comfort her. But instantly Helen's hand was on her shoulder, and pressing her back into her seat, she said, almost fiercely:
"I'm not done yet; yon must hear the whole, and help me to save Bella. We knew nothing of the blight141 that hung over us till father told Augustine upon his death-bed. August, urged by mother, kept it to himself, and went away to bear it as he could. He should have spoken out and saved me in time. But not till he came home and found me engaged did he have courage to warn me of the fate in store for us. So Edward tore himself away, although it broke his heart, and I - do you see that?"
With a quick gesture she rent open her dress, and on her bosom142 Christie saw a scar that made her turn yet paler than before.
"Yes, I tried to kill myself; but they would not let me die, so the old tragedy of our house begins again. August became a priest, hoping to hide his calamity143 and expiate144 his father's sin by endless penances and prayers. Harry turned reckless; for what had he to look forward to? A short life, and a gay one, he says, and when his turn comes he will spare himself long suffering, as I tried to do it. Bella was never told; she was so young they kept her ignorant of all they could, even the knowledge of my state. She was long away at school, but now she has come home, now she has learned to love, and is going blindly as I went, because no one tells her what she must know soon or late. Mamma will not. August hesitates, remembering me. Harry swears he will speak out, but I implore145 him not to do it, for he will be too violent; and I am powerless. I never knew about this man till Hal told me to-day. Bella only comes in for a moment, and I have no chance to tell her she must not love him."
Pressing her hands to her temples, Helen resumed her restless march again, but suddenly broke out more violently than before:
"Now do you wonder why I am half frantic? Now will you ask me to sing and smile, and sit calmly by while this wrong goes on? You have done much for me, and God will bless you for it, but you cannot keep me sane146. Death is the only cure for a mad Carrol, and I'm so young, so strong, it will be long in coming unless I hurry it."
She clenched147 her hands, set her teeth, and looked about her as if ready for any desperate act that should set her free from the dark and dreadful future that lay before her.
For a moment Christie feared and trembled; then pity conquered fear. She forgot herself, and only remembered this poor girl, so hopeless, helpless, and afflicted148. Led by a sudden impulse, she put both arms about her, and held her close with a strong but silent tenderness better than any bonds. At first, Helen seemed unconscious of it, as she stood rigid149 and motionless, with her wild eyes dumbly imploring help of earth and heaven. Suddenly both strength and excitement seemed to leave her, and she would have fallen but for the living, loving prop150 that sustained her.
Still silent, Christie laid her down, kissed her white lips, and busied herself about her till she looked up quite herself again, but so wan1 and weak, it was pitiful to see her.
"It's over now," she whispered, with a desolate151 sigh. "Sing to me, and keep the evil spirit quiet for a little while. To-morrow, if I'm strong enough, we'll talk about poor little Bella."
And Christie sang, with tears dropping fast upon the keys, that made a soft accompaniment to the sweet old hymns152 which soothed this troubled soul as David's music brought repose153 to Saul.
When Helen slept at last from sheer exhaustion154, Christie executed the resolution she had made as soon as the excitement of that stormy scene was over. She went straight to Mrs. Carrol's room, and, undeterred by the presence of her sons, told all that had passed. They were evidently not unprepared for it, thanks to old Hester, who had overheard enough of Helen's wild words to know that something was amiss, and had reported accordingly; but none of them had ventured to interrupt the interview, lest Helen should be driven to desperation as before.
"Mother, Helen is right; we should speak out, and not hide this bitter fact any longer. The world will pity us, and we must bear the pity, but it would condemn155 us for deceit, and we should deserve the condemnation156 if we let this misery157 go on. Living a lie will ruin us all. Bella will be destroyed as Helen was; I am only the shadow of a man now, and Hal is killing158 himself as fast as he can, to avoid the fate we all dread62."
Augustine spoke first, for Mrs. Carrol sat speechless with her trouble as Christie paused.
"Keep to your prayers, and let me go my own way, it's the shortest," muttered Harry, with his face hidden, and his head down on his folded arms.
"Boys, boys, you'll kill me if you say such things! I have more now than I can bear. Don't drive me wild with your reproaches to each other!" cried their mother, her heart rent with the remorse that came too late.
"No fear of that; you are not a Carrol," answered Harry, with the pitiless bluntness of a resentful and rebellious159 boy.
Augustine turned on him with a wrathful flash of the eye, and a warning ring in his stern voice, as he pointed52 to the door.
"You shall not insult your mother! Ask her pardon, or go!"
"She should ask mine! I'll go. When you want me, you'll know where to find me." And, with a reckless laugh, Harry stormed out of the room.
Augustine's indignant face grew full of a new trouble as the door banged below, and he pressed his thin hands tightly together, saying, as if to himself:
"Heaven help me! Yes, I do know; for, night after night, I find and bring the poor lad home from gambling-tables and the hells where souls like his are lost."
Here Christie thought to slip away, feeling that it was no place for her now that her errand was done. But Mrs. Carrol called her back.
"Miss Devon - Christie - forgive me that I did not trust you sooner. It was so hard to tell; I hoped so much from time; I never could believe that my poor children would be made the victims of my mistake. Do not forsake134 us: Helen loves you so. Stay with her, I implore you, and let a most unhappy mother plead for a most unhappy child." Then Christie went to the poor woman, and earnestly assured her of her love and loyalty160; for now she felt doubly bound to them because they trusted her.
"What shall we do?" they said to her, with pathetic submission161, turning like sick people to a healthful soul for help and comfort.
"Tell Bella all the truth, and help her to refuse her lover. Do this just thing, and God will strengthen you to bear the consequences," was her answer, though she trembled at the responsibility they put upon her.
"Not yet," cried Mrs. Carrol. "Let the poor child enjoy the holidays with a light heart, - then we will tell her; and then Heaven help us all!"
So it was decided162; for only a week or two of the old year remained, and no one had the heart to rob poor Bella of the little span of blissful ignorance that now remained to her.
A terrible time was that to Christie; for, while one sister, blessed with beauty, youth, love, and pleasure, tasted life at its sweetest, the other sat in the black shadow of a growing dread, and wearied Heaven with piteous prayers for her relief.
"The old horror is coming back; I feel it creeping over me. Don't let it come, Christie! Stay by me! Help me! Keep me sane! And if you cannot, ask God to take me quickly!"
With words like these, poor Helen clung to Christie; and, soul and body, Christie devoted herself to the afflicted girl. She would not see her mother; and the unhappy woman haunted that closed door, hungering for the look, the word, that never came to her. Augustine was her consolation163, and, during those troublous days, the priest was forgotten in the son. But Harry was all in all to Helen then; and it was touching164 to see how these unfortunate young creatures clung to one another, she tenderly trying to keep him from the wild life that was surely hastening the fate he might otherwise escape for years, and he patiently bearing all her moods, eager to cheer and soothe the sad captivity165 from which he could not save her.
These tender ministrations seemed to be blessed at last; and Christie began to hope the haunting terror would pass by, as quiet gloom succeeded to wild excitement. The cheerful spirit of the season seemed to reach even that sad room; and, in preparing gifts for others, Helen seemed to find a little of that best of all gifts, - peace for herself.
On New Year's morning, Christie found her garlanding her lover's picture with white roses and the myrtle sprays brides wear.
"These were his favorite flowers, and I meant to make my wedding wreath of this sweet-scented myrtle, because he gave it to me," she said, with a look that made Christie's eyes grow dim. "Don't grieve for me, dear; we shall surely meet hereafter, though so far asunder166 here. Nothing can part us there, I devoutly167 believe; for we leave our burdens all behind us when we go." Then, in a lighter tone, she said, with her arm on Christie's neck:
"This day is to be a happy one, no matter what comes after it. I'm going to be my old self for a little while, and forget there's such a word as sorrow. Help me to dress, so that when the boys come up they may find the sister Nell they have not seen for two long years."
"Will you wear this, my darling? Your mother beads168 it, and she tried to have it dainty and beautiful enough to please you. See, your own colors, though the bows are only laid on that they may be changed for others if you like."
As she spoke Christie lifted the cover of the box old Hester had just brought in, and displayed a cashmere wrapper, creamy-white, silk-lined, down-trimmed, and delicately relieved by rosy169 knots, like holly89 berries lying upon snow. Helen looked at it without a word for several minutes, then gathering170 up the ribbons, with a strange smile, she said:
"I like it better so; but I'll not wear it yet."
"Bless and save us, deary; it must have a bit of color somewhere, else it looks just like a shroud," cried Hester, and then wrung her hands in dismay as Helen answered, quietly:
"Ah, well, keep it for me, then. I shall be happier when I wear it so than in the gayest gown I own, for when you put it on, this poor head and heart of mine will be quiet at last."
Motioning Hester to remove the box, Christie tried to banish171 the cloud her unlucky words had brought to Helen's face, by chatting cheerfully as she helped her make herself "pretty for the boys."
All that day she was unusually calm and sweet, and seemed to yield herself wholly to the happy influences of the hour, gave and received her gifts so cheerfully that her brothers watched her with delight; and unconscious Bella said, as she hung about her sister, with loving admiration in her eyes:
"I always thought you would get well, and now I'm sure of it, for you look as you used before I went away to school, and seem just like our own dear Nell."
"I'm glad of that; I wanted you to feel so, my Bella. I'll accept your happy prophecy, and hope I may get well soon, very soon."
So cheerfully she spoke, so tranquilly172 she smiled, that all rejoiced over her believing, with love's blindness, that she might yet conquer her malady173 in spite of their forebodings.
It was a very happy day to Christie, not only that she was generously remembered and made one of them by all the family, but because this change for the better in Helen made her heart sing for joy. She had given time, health, and much love to the task, and ventured now to hope they had not been given in vain. One thing only marred174 her happiness, the sad estrangement175 of the daughter from her mother, and that evening she resolved to take advantage of Helen's tender mood, and plead for the poor soul who dared not plead for herself.
As the brothers and sisters said good-night, Helen clung to them as if loth to part, saying, with each embrace:
"Keep hoping for me, Bella; kiss me, Harry; bless me, Augustine, and all wish for me a happier New Year than the last."
When they were gone she wandered slowly round the room, stood long before the picture with its fading garland, sung a little softly to herself, and came at last to Christie, saying, like a tired child:
"I have been good all day; now let me rest."
"One thing has been forgotten, dear," began Christie, fearing to disturb the quietude that seemed to have been so dearly bought.
Helen understood her, and looked up with a sane sweet face, out of which all resentful bitterness had passed.
"No, Christie, not forgotten, only kept until the last. To-day is a good day to forgive, as we would be forgiven, and I mean to do it before I sleep," Then holding Christie close, she added, with a quiver of emotion in her voice: "I have no words warm enough to thank you, my good angel, for all you have been to me, but I know it will give you a great pleasure to do one thing more. Give dear mamma my love, and tell her that when I am quiet for the night I want her to come and get me to sleep with the old lullaby she used to sing when I was a little child."
No gift bestowed176 that day was so precious to Christie as the joy of carrying this loving message from daughter to mother. How Mrs. Carrol received it need not be told. She would have gone at once, but Christie begged her to wait till rest and quiet, after the efforts of the day, had prepared Helen for an interview which might undo177 all that had been done if too hastily attempted.
Hester always waited upon her child at night; so, feeling that she might be wanted later, Christie went to her own room to rest. Quite sure that Mrs. Carrol would come to tell her what had passed, she waited for an hour or two, then went to ask of Hester how the visit had sped.
"Her mamma came up long ago, but the dear thing was fast asleep, so I wouldn't let her be disturbed, and Mrs. Carrol went away again," said the old woman, rousing from a nap.
Grieved at the mother's disappointment, Christie stole in, hoping that Helen might rouse. She did not, and Christie was about to leave her, when, as she bent to smooth the tumbled coverlet, something dropped at her feet. Only a little pearl-handled penknife of Harry's; but her heart stood still with fear, for it was open, and, as she took it up, a red stain came off upon her hand.
Helen's face was turned away, and, bending nearer, Christie saw how deathly pale it looked in the shadow of the darkened room. She listened at her lips; only a faint flutter of breath parted them; she lifted up the averted178 head, and on the white throat saw a little wound, from which the blood still flowed. Then, like a flash of light, the meaning of the sudden change which came over her grew clear, - her brave efforts to make the last day happy, her tender good-night partings, her wish to be at peace with every one, the tragic121 death she had chosen rather than live out the tragic life that lay before her.
Christie's nerves had been tried to the uttermost; the shock of this discovery was too much for her, and, in the act of calling for help, she fainted, for the first time in her life.
When she was herself again, the room was full of people; terror-stricken faces passed before her; broken voices whispered, "It is too late," and, as she saw the group about the bed, she wished for unconsciousness again.
Helen lay in her mother's arms at last, quietly breathing her life away, for though every thing that love and skill could devise had been tried to save her, the little knife in that desperate hand had done its work, and this world held no more suffering for her. Harry was down upon his knees beside her, trying to stifle179 his passionate108 grief. Augustine prayed audibly above her, and the fervor of his broken words comforted all hearts but one. Bella was clinging, panic-stricken, to the kind old doctor, who was sobbing180 like a boy, for he had loved and served poor Helen as faithfully as if she had been his own.
"Can nothing save her?" Christie whispered, as the prayer ended, and a sound of bitter weeping filled the room.
"Nothing; she is sane and safe at last, thank God!"
Christie could not but echo his thanksgiving, for the blessed tranquillity181 of the girl's countenance was such as none but death, the great healer, can bring; and, as they looked, her eyes opened, beautifully clear and calm before they closed for ever. From face to face they passed, as if they looked for some one, and her lips moved in vain efforts to speak.
Christie went to her, but still the wide, wistful eyes searched the room as if unsatisfied; and, with a longing182 that conquered the mortal weakness of the body, the heart sent forth183 one tender cry:
"My mother - I want my mother!"
There was no need to repeat the piteous call, for, as it left her lips, she saw her mother's face bending over her, and felt her mother's arms gathering her in an embrace which held her close even after death had set its seal upon the voiceless prayers for pardon which passed between those reunited hearts.
When she was asleep at last, Christie and her mother made her ready for her grave; weeping tender tears as they folded her in the soft, white garment she had put by for that sad hour; and on her breast they laid the flowers she had hung about her lover as a farewell gift. So beautiful she looked when all was done, that in the early dawn they called her brothers, that they might not lose the memory of the blessed peace that shone upon her face, a mute assurance that for her the new year had happily begun.
"Now my work here is done, and I must go," thought Christie, when the waves of life closed over the spot where another tired swimmer had gone down. But she found that one more task remained for her before she left the family which, on her coming, she had thought so happy.
Mrs. Carrol, worn out with the long effort to conceal14 her secret cross, broke down entirely184 under this last blow, and besought185 Christie to tell Bella all that she must know. It was a hard task, but Christie accepted it, and, when the time came, found that there was very little to be told, for at the death-bed of the elder sister, the younger had learned much of the sad truth. Thus prepared, she listened to all that was most carefully and tenderly confided186 to her, and, when the heavy tale was done, she surprised Christie by the unsuspected strength she showed. No tears, no lamentations, for she was her mother's daughter, and inherited the pride that can bear heavy burdens, if they are borne unseen.
"Tell me what I must do, and I will do it," she said, with the quiet despair of one who submits to the inevitable, but will not complain.
When Christie with difficulty told her that she should give up her lover, Bella bowed her head, and for a moment could not speak, then lifted it as if defying her own weakness, and spoke out bravely:
"It shall be done, for it is right. It is very hard for me, because I love him; he will not suffer much, for he can love again. I should be glad of that, and I'll try to wish it for his sake. He is young, and if, as Harry says, he cares more for my fortune than myself, so much the better. What next, Christie?"
Amazed and touched at the courage of the creature she had fancied a sort of lovely butterfly to be crushed by a single blow, Christie took heart, and, instead of soothing187 sympathy, gave her the solace188 best fitted for strong natures, something to do for others. What inspired her, Christie never knew; perhaps it was the year of self-denying service she had rendered for pity's sake; such devotion is its own reward, and now, in herself, she discovered unsuspected powers.
"Live for your mother and your brothers, Bella; they need you sorely, and in time I know you will find true consolation in it, although you must relinquish189 much. Sustain your mother, cheer Augustine, watch over Harry, and be to them what Helen longed to be."
"Listen, and let me give you this hope, for I sincerely do believe it. Since I came here, I have read many books, thought much, and talked often with Dr. Shirley about this sad affliction. He thinks you and Harry may escape it, if you will. You are like your mother in temperament191 and temper; you have self-control, strong wills, good nerves, and cheerful spirits. Poor Harry is willfully spoiling all his chances now; but you may save him, and, in the endeavor, save yourself."
"Oh, Christie, may I hope it? Give me one chance of escape, and I will suffer any hardship to keep it. Let me see any thing before me but a life and death like Helen's, and I'll bless you for ever!" cried Bella, welcoming this ray of light as a prisoner welcomes sunshine in his cell.
Christie trembled at the power of her words, yet, honestly believing them, she let them uplift this disconsolate192 soul, trusting that they might be in time fulfilled through God's mercy and the saving grace of sincere endeavor.
Holding fast to this frail193 spar, Bella bravely took up arms against her sea of troubles, and rode out the storm. When her lover came to know his fate, she hid her heart, and answered "no," finding a bitter satisfaction in the end, for Harry was right, and, when the fortune was denied him, young Butler did not mourn the woman long. Pride helped Bella to bear it; but it needed all her courage to look down the coming years so bare of all that makes life sweet to youthful souls, so desolate and dark, with duty alone to cheer the thorny194 way, and the haunting shadow of her race lurking195 in the background.
Submission and self-sacrifice are stern, sad angels, but in time one learns to know and love them, for when they have chastened, they uplift and bless. Dimly discerning this, poor Bella put her hands in theirs, saying, "Lead me, teach me; I will follow and obey you."
All soon felt that they could not stay in a house so full of heavy memories, and decided to return to their old home. They begged Christie to go with them, using every argument and entreaty196 their affection could suggest. But Christie needed rest, longed for freedom, and felt that in spite of their regard it would be very hard for her to live among them any longer. Her healthy nature needed brighter influences, stronger comrades, and the memory of Helen weighed so heavily upon her heart that she was eager to forget it for a time in other scenes and other work.
So they parted, very sadly, very tenderly, and laden197 with good gifts Christie went on her way weary, but well satisfied, for she had earned her rest.
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1
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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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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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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retrieving
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| n.检索（过程），取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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56
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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57
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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58
aquariums
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| n.养鱼缸，水族馆( aquarium的名词复数 ) | |
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59
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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60
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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61
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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62
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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63
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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64
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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65
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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66
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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67
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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68
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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69
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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70
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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71
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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72
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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73
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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74
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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75
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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76
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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77
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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78
sleeper
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|
| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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79
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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80
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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81
perplexed
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|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
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82
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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83
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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84
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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85
penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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86
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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87
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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88
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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89
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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90
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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91
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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92
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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93
beguiled
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|
| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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94
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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95
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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96
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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97
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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98
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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99
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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100
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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101
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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102
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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103
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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104
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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105
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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106
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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107
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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108
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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109
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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110
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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111
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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112
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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113
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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114
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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115
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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116
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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117
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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118
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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119
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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120
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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121
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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122
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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123
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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124
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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125
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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126
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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127
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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128
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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129
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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130
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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132
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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133
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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134
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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135
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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136
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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137
muffled
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| 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） | |
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138
conjured
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|
| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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139
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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140
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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141
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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142
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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143
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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144
expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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145
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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146
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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147
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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150
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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151
desolate
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|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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152
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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153
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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154
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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155
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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156
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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157
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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158
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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159
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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160
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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161
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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162
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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163
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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164
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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165
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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166
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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167
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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168
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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169
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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170
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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171
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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172
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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173
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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174
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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175
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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176
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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178
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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179
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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180
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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181
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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182
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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183
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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184
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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185
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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186
confided
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| 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） | |
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187
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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188
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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189
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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190
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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191
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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192
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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193
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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194
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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195
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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196
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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197
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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