Jane Eyre 简爱 Chapter 21
时间：2014-10-09 03:24:32
（单词翻译:单击）
PRESENTIMENTS1 are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged2 relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation3, the unity4 of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.
When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven6 say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's kin5. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.
Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling7 its hands in running water.
It was a wailing9 child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition10 evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber11.
I did not like this iteration of one idea- this strange recurrence12 of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax's room. On repairing thither13, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.
'I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,' he said, rising as I entered; 'but my name is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still.'
'Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony14. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?'
'Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty15, thank you; she brought me another little one about two months since- we have three now- and both mother and child are thriving.'
'And are the family well at the house, Robert?'
'I am sorry I can't give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present- in great trouble.'
'I hope no one is dead,' I said, glancing at his black dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied-
'Mr. John?'
'Yes.'
'And how does his mother bear it?'
'Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap19: his life has been very wild: these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was shocking.'
'I heard from Bessie he was not doing well.'
'Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women. He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his old companions and habits. His head was not strong: the knaves20 he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard.
He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to him. Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again, and the next news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!- they say he killed himself.'
'Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout22, but was not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. The information about Mr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling23. It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name; and at last she made out the words, "Bring Jane- fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her." Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you. The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said, "Jane, Jane," so many times, that at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to-morrow morning.'
'Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought to go.'
'I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?'
'Yes; and I will do it now'; and having directed him to the servants' hall, and recommended him to the care of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr. Rochester.
He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;- yes: she believed he was playing billiards24 with Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded25 thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game. It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however, was one I could not defer26, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily27: her eyes seemed to demand, 'What can the creeping creature want now?' and when I said, in a low voice, 'Mr. Rochester,' she made a movement as if tempted28 to order me away. I remember her appearance at the moment- it was very graceful29 and very striking: she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure30 scarf was twisted in her hair. She had been all animation31 with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty32 lineaments.
'Does that person want you?' she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the 'person' was. He made a curious grimace- one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations- threw down his cue and followed me from the room.
'Well, Jane?' he said, as he rested his back against the school-room door, which he had shut.
'If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two.'
'What to do?- where to go?'
'To see a sick lady who has sent for me.'
'What sick lady?- where does she live?'
for people to see her that distance?'
'Her name is Reed sir- Mrs. Reed.'
'Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate33.'
'It is his widow, sir.'
'And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?'
'Mr. Reed was my uncle- my mother's brother.'
'The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations.'
'None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off.'
'Why?'
'Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me.'
'But Reed left children?- you must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals34 on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London.'
'John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic35 attack.'
'And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off.'
'Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now.'
'How long will you stay?'
'As short a time as possible, sir.'
'Promise me only to stay a week-'
'I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it.'
'At all events you will come back: you will not be induced under any pretext36 to take up a permanent residence with her?'
'Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well.'
'And who goes with you? You don't travel a hundred miles alone.'
'No, sir, she has sent her coachman.'
'A person to be trusted?'
'Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family.'
'Early to-morrow morning, sir.'
'Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money, and I daresay you have not much: I have given you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?' he asked, smiling.
I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. 'Five shillings, sir.' He took the purse, poured the hoard38 into his palm, and chuckled39 over it as if its scantiness40 amused him. Soon he produced his pocket-book: 'Here,' said he, offering me a note; it was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.
'I don't want change; you know that. Take your wages.'
I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled41 at first; then, as if recollecting42 something, he said-
'Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?'
'Yes, sir, but now you owe me five.'
'Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds.'
'Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity.'
'Matter of business? I am curious to hear it.'
'You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?'
'Yes; what then?'
'In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the necessity of it.'
'To get her out of my bride's way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically? There's sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adele, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to- the devil?'
'I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere.'
'In course!' he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.
'And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited43 by you to seek a place, I suppose?'
'No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify44 me in asking favours of them- but I shall advertise.'
'You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!' he growled45. 'At your peril46 you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a use for it.'
'And so have I, sir,' I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. 'I could not spare the money on any account.'
'Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.'
'Just let me look at the cash.'
'No, sir; you are not to be trusted.'
'Jane!'
'Sir?'
'Promise me one thing.'
'I'll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform.'
'Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I'll find you one in time.'
'I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.'
'Very well! very well! I'll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?'
'Yes, sir; early.'
'Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?'
'No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.'
'Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?'
'I suppose so, sir.'
'And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me; I'm not quite up to it.'
'They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer.'
'Then say it.'
'Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.'
'What must I say?'
'The same, if you like, sir.'
'Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?'
'Yes.'
'It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else: a little addition to the rite48. If one shook hands, for instance; but no- that would not content me either.
So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?'
'It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.'
'Very likely; but it is blank and cool- "Farewell."'
'How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?'
I asked myself; 'I want to commence my packing.' The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable49: I saw him no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning.
I reached the lodge50 at Gateshead about five o'clock in the afternoon of the first of May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall. It was very clean and neat: the ornamental52 windows were hung with little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished53 bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth54, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a corner.
'Bless you!- I knew you would come!' exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered.
'Yes, Bessie,' said I, after I had kissed her; 'and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. Reed?- Alive still, I hope.'
'Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was.
The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally recover.'
'Has she mentioned me lately?'
'She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come: but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?'
Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet55 and having some tea; for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb56 just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.
Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling57 about- setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks.
Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory58 tones. I must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate me with some privately59 purloined60 dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.
She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he treated me kindly61, and I was content. Then I went on to describe to her the gay company that had lately been staying at the house; and to these details Bessie listened with interest: they were precisely62 of the kind she relished63.
In such conversation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to me my bonnet, etc., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the path I was now ascending64. On a dark, misty65, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered66 heart- a sense of outlawry67 and almost of reprobation- to seek the chilly68 harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects69 were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering70 dread71 of oppression. The gaping72 wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment73 extinguished.
'You shall go into the breakfast-room first,' said Bessie, as she preceded me through the hall; 'the young ladies will be there.'
In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.
Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram- very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien74. There was something ascetic75 in her look, was augmented76 by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched77 linen78 collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament51 of a string of ebony beads79 and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated80 and colourless visage.
The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I remembered- the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork81, with handsome and regular features, languishing83 blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair.
The hue85 of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister's- so much more flowing and becoming- it looked as stylish86 as the other's looked puritanical87.
In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother- and only one; the thin and pallid88 elder daughter had her parent's Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw89 and chin- perhaps a little softened90, but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance91, otherwise so voluptuous92 and buxom93.
Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of 'Miss Eyre.' Eliza's greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt94 voice, without a smile; and then she sat down again, fixed95 her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me.
Georgiana added to her 'How d 'ye do?' several commonplaces about my journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and accompanied by sundry96 side-glances that measured me from head to foot-now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable97 way of letting you know that they think you a 'quiz' without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness98 of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance99 of tone, express fully100 their sentiments on the point, without committing them by any positive rudeness in word or deed.
A sneer101, however, whether covert102 or open, had now no longer that power over me it once possessed103: as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other- Eliza did not mortify104, nor Georgiana ruffle105 me. The fact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potent106 than any they could raise- pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite107 had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict108 or bestow- that their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad.
'How is Mrs. Reed?' I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle109 at the direct address, as if it were an unexpected liberty.
'Mrs. Reed? Ah, mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you can see her to-night.'
'If,' said I, 'you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should be much obliged to you.'
Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. 'I know she had a particular wish to see me,' I added, 'and I would not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely necessary.'
'Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,' remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie- who was, I dared say, in the kitchen- and ask her to ascertain110 whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me or not to-night. I went, and having found Bessie and despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures.
It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance111: received as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till she was better- or dead: as to her daughters' pride or folly112, I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed the housekeeper113; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber16, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing.
'Missis is awake,' said she; 'I have told her you are here: come and let us see if she will know you.'
I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement114 or reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber18 hangings as of old; there the toilet-table, the arm-chair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundred times been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded115 switch which used to lurk116 there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows.
Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells117 the longings119 of vengeance120 and hushes121 the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong yearning122 to forget and forgive all injuries- to be reconciled and clasp hands in amity123.
The well-known face was there: stern, relentless124 as ever- there was that peculiar125 eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow126. How often had it lowered on me menace and hate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me.
'Is this Jane Eyre?' she said.
'Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?'
I had once vowed128 that I would never call her aunt again: I thought it no sin to forget and break that vow127 now. My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies129 so readily eradicated130. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me- her feeling towards me- was unchanged and unchangeable.
I knew by her stony131 eye- opaque132 to tenderness, indissoluble to tears- that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification133.
I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue134 her- to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over the pillow.
'You sent for me,' I said, 'and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get on.'
'Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?'
'Yes.'
'Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say- let me see-'
The wandering look and changed utterance135 told what wreck136 had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down: she was at once irritated.
'Sit up!' said she; 'don't annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?'
'I am Jane Eyre.'
'I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands- and so much annoyance137 as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition138, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural139 watchings of one's movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend- no child ever spoke140 or looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die: but I said she did- I wish she had died!'
'A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?'
'I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband's only sister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family's disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby; though I entreated141 him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it- a sickly, whining142, pining thing! It would wail8 in its cradle all night long- not screaming heartily143 like any other child, but whimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that age. He would try to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought continually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have been charged with a pauper144 brat145 out of a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and like my brothers- he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting147 me with letters for money! I have no more money to give him: we are getting poor. I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I can never submit to do that- yet how are we to get on?
Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses- poor boy! He is beset148 by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded- his look is frightful- I feel ashamed for him when I see him.'
She was getting much excited. 'I think I had better leave her now,' said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.
'Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night- in the morning she is calmer.'
I rose. 'Stop!' exclaimed Mrs. Reed, 'there is another thing I wished to say. He threatens me- he continually threatens me with his own death, or mine: and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen149 and blackened face. I am come to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles. What is to be done? How is the money to be had?'
Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative150 draught151: she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing152 state. I then left her.
More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with her. She continued either delirious153 or lethargic154; and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister.
Georgiana would chatter155 nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me. But I was determined156 not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I had brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.
Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in sketching158 fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad's head, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow's nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom.
One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively159 to fill it with features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows160 must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge161 and full nostrils162; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided163 cleft164 down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last, because they required the most careful working. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous165 and large.
'Good! but not quite the thing,' I thought, as I surveyed the effect: 'they want more force and spirit'; and I wrought166 the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly- a happy touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend's face under my gaze; and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs on me? I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness167: I was absorbed and content.
'Is that a portrait of some one you know?' asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she called that 'an ugly man.' They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch157 their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential168 conversation: she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago- of the admiration169 she had there excited- the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and sentimental170 scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised171 by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same theme- herself, her loves, and woes172. It was strange she never once adverted173 either to her mother's illness, or her brother's death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations174 after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother's sick-room, and no more.
Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted175 task.
Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on inspection176, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she said, 'the Rubric.' Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson177 cloth, almost large enough for a carpet. In answer to my inquiries178 after the use of this article, she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected179 near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted180 to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity181.
She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual, that John's conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affliction to her: but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died- and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly182 remarked, that she should either recover or linger long- she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a retirement183 where punctual habits would be permanently184 secured from disturbance185, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous186 world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.
'Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration. Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers.'
Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting187 about the dulness of the house, and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town. 'It would be so much better,' she said, 'if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over.' I did not ask what she meant by 'all being over,' but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites188. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister's indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery189, she suddenly took her up thus-
'Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber190 the earth. You had no right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person's strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable191. Then, too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon192: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered- you must have music, dancing, and society- or you languish82, you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion193 its task: leave no stray unemployed194 quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes- include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid195 regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping196 you to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no one's company, conversation, sympathy forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may. Neglect it-go on as heretofore, craving197, whining, and idling- and suffer the results of your idiocy198, however bad and insufferable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily199 act on it. After my mother's death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin200 is carried to the vault201 in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this- if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new.'
She closed her lips.
'You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade,' answered Georgiana. 'Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence: and I know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a specimen202 of it before in the trick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever.' Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassible, and assiduously industrious203.
True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were two natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid204, the other despicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgment205 is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel206 for human deglutition.
It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the perusal207 of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a saint's-day service at the new church- for in matters of religion she was a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge of what she considered her devotional duties; fair or foul208, she went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were prayers.
I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out of the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the hall. I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window.
The rain beat strongly against the panes210, the wind blew tempestuously211: 'One lies there,' I thought, 'who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spirit- now struggling to quit its material tenement- flit when at length released?'
In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dying words- her faith- her doctrine212 of the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered tones- still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face and sublime213 gaze, as she lay on her placid214 deathbed, and whispered her longing118 to be restored to her divine Father's bosom- when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind:
'Who is that?'
I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I went up to her.
'It is I, Aunt Reed.'
'Who- I?' was her answer. 'Who are you?' looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. 'You are quite a stranger to me- where is Bessie?'
'She is at the lodge, aunt.'
'Aunt,' she repeated. 'Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you- that face, and the eyes and forehead, are quite familiar to me: you are like- why, you are like Jane Eyre!' I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity.
'Yet,' said she, 'I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in eight years she must be so changed.' I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be: and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield.
'I am very ill, I know,' she said ere long. 'I was trying to turn myself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as well I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of in health, burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me. Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?' I assured her we were alone.
'Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own child; the other-' she stopped. 'After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps,' she murmured to herself: 'and then I may get better; and to humble215 myself so to her is painful.'
She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed; she seemed to experience some inward sensation- the precursor216, perhaps, of the last pang217.
'Well, I must get it over. Eternity218 is before me: I had better tell her.- Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see there.'
I obeyed her directions. 'Read the letter,' she said.
It was short, and thus conceived:-
'MADAM,- Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providence219 has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.- I am, Madam, etc., etc.,
'JOHN EYRE, Madeira.'
It was dated three years back.
'Why did I never hear of this?' I asked.
'Because I disliked you too fixedly220 and thoroughly221 ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane- the fury with which you once turned on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorred222 me the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with miserable cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up and poured out the venom223 of your mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man's voice.- Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!'
'Dear Mrs. Reed,' said I, as I offered her the draught she required, 'think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind.
Forgive me for my passionate224 language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have passed since that day.'
She heeded209 nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and drawn225 breath, she went on thus-
'I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion- expose my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my torment146: my last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted to commit.'
'If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to regard me with kindness and forgiveness-'
'You have a very bad disposition,' said she, 'and one to this day I feel it impossible to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and quiescent226 under any treatment, and in the tenth break out all fire and violence, I can never comprehend.'
'My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not vindictive227. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love you if you would have let me; and I long earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt.'
I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water.
As I laid her down- for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she drank- I covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers shrank from my touch- the glazing228 eyes shunned229 my gaze. 'Love me, then, or hate me, as you will,' I said at last, 'you have my full and free forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace.'
Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to change her habitual230 frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me- dying, she must hate me still.
The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half an hour longer, hoping to see some sign of amity: but she gave none.
She was fast relapsing into stupor231; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o'clock that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor were either of her daughters. They came to tell us the next morning that all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to look at her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched Sarah Reed's once robust232 and active frame, rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and solemn object was that corpse233 to me. I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing234 did it inspire; only a grating anguish84 for her woes- not my loss- and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form.
Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she observed- 'With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: her life was shortened by trouble.' And then a spasm235 constricted236 her mouth for an instant: as it passed away she turned and left the room, and so did I. Neither of us had dropt a tear.
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1
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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dabbling
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| v.涉猎( dabble的现在分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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10
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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11
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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15
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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18
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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19
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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20
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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21
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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stout
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| adj.强壮的，粗大的，结实的，勇猛的，矮胖的 | |
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23
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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24
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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25
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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27
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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28
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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29
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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30
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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38
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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39
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scantiness
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| n.缺乏 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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43
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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44
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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45
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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46
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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47
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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48
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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49
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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50
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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51
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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52
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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53
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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54
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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55
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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56
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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57
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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58
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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59
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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60
purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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62
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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63
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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64
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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65
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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66
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
outlawry
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| 宣布非法，非法化，放逐 | |
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68
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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69
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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70
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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71
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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72
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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73
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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74
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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75
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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76
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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77
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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79
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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80
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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82
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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83
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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84
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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85
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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86
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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87
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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88
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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89
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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90
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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91
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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92
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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93
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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94
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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95
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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96
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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97
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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98
superciliousness
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| n.高傲，傲慢 | |
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99
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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100
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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101
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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102
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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103
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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104
mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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105
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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106
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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107
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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108
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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109
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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110
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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111
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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112
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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113
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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114
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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115
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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116
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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117
quells
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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119
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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120
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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121
hushes
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| n.安静，寂静( hush的名词复数 ) | |
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122
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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123
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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124
relentless
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|
| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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125
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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126
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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127
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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128
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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129
antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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130
eradicated
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| 画着根的 | |
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131
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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132
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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133
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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134
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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135
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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136
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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137
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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138
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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139
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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140
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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141
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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143
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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144
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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145
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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146
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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147
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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148
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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149
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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150
sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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151
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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152
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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153
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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154
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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155
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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156
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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157
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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158
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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159
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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160
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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161
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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162
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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163
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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164
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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165
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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166
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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167
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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168
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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169
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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170
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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171
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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172
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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173
adverted
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| 引起注意（advert的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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174
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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175
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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177
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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178
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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179
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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180
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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181
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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182
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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183
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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184
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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185
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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186
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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187
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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188
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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189
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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190
cumber
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|
| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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191
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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192
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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193
apportion
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| vt.（按比例或计划）分配 | |
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194
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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196
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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197
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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202
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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206
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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209
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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tempestuously
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| adv.剧烈地，暴风雨似地 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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222
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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225
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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228
glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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234
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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constricted
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| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
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