In a sequestered2 district of the county of Limerick, there stood my early life, some forty years ago, one of those strong stone buildings, half castle, half farm-house, which are not unfrequent in the South of Ireland, and whose solid masonry3 and massive construction seem to prove at once the insecurity and the caution of the Cromwellite settlers who erected4 them. At the time of which I speak, this building was tenanted by an elderly man, whose starch5 and puritanic mien6 and manners might have become the morose7 preaching parliamentarian captain, who had raised the house and ruled the household more than a hundred years before; but this man, though Protestant by descent as by name, was not so in religion; he was a strict, and in outward observances, an exemplary Catholic; his father had returned in early youth to the true faith, and died in the bosom8 of the church.
Martin Heathcote was, at the time of which I speak, a widower9, but his house-keeping was not on that account altogether solitary10, for he had a daughter, whose age was now sufficiently11 advanced to warrant her father in imposing12 upon her the grave duties of domestic superintendence.
This little establishment was perfectly13 isolated14, and very little intruded15 upon by acts of neighbourhood; for the rank of its occupants was of that equivocal kind which precludes17 all familiar association with those of a decidedly inferior rank, while it is not sufficient to entitle its possessors to the society of established gentility, among whom the nearest residents were the O’Maras of Carrigvarah, whose mansion19-house, constructed out of the ruins of an old abbey, whose towers and cloisters20 had been levelled by the shot of Cromwell’s artillery21, stood not half a mile lower upon the river banks.
Colonel O’Mara, the possessor of the estates, was then in a declining state of health, and absent with his lady from the country, leaving at the castle, his son young O’Mara, and a kind of humble22 companion, named Edward Dwyer, who, if report belied23 him not, had done in his early days some PECULIAR24 SERVICES for the Colonel, who had been a gay man — perhaps worse — but enough of recapitulation.
It was in the autumn of the year 17 — that the events which led to the catastrophe25 which I have to detail occurred. I shall run through the said recital26 as briefly27 as clearness will permit, and leave you to moralise, if such be your mood, upon the story of real life, which I even now trace at this distant period not without emotion.
It was upon a beautiful autumn evening, at that glad period of the season when the harvest yields its abundance, that two figures were seen sauntering along the banks of the winding28 river, which I described as bounding the farm occupied by Heathcote; they had been, as the rods and landing-nets which they listlessly carried went to show, plying29 the gentle, but in this case not altogether solitary craft of the fisherman. One of those persons was a tall and singularly handsome young man, whose dark hair and complexion30 might almost have belonged to a Spaniard, as might also the proud but melancholy31 expression which gave to his countenance32 a character which contrasts sadly, but not uninterestingly, with extreme youth; his air, as he spoke33 with his companion, was marked by that careless familiarity which denotes a conscious superiority of one kind or other, or which may be construed34 into a species of contempt; his comrade afforded to him in every respect a striking contrast. He was rather low in stature35 — a defect which was enhanced by a broad and square-built figure — his face was sallow, and his features had that prominence36 and sharpness which frequently accompany personal deformity — a remarkably37 wide mouth, with teeth white as the fangs38 of a wolf, and a pair of quick, dark eyes, whose effect was heightened by the shadow of a heavy black brow, gave to his face a power of expression, particularly when sarcastic39 or malignant40 emotions were to be exhibited, which features regularly handsome could scarcely have possessed41.
‘Well, sir,’ said the latter personage, ‘I have lived in hall and abbey, town and country, here and abroad for forty years and more, and should know a thing or two, and as I am a living man, I swear I think the girl loves you.’
‘You are a fool, Ned,’ said the younger.
‘I may be a fool,’ replied the first speaker, ‘in matters where my own advantage is staked, but my eye is keen enough to see through the flimsy disguise of a country damsel at a glance; and I tell you, as surely as I hold this rod, the girl loves you.’
‘Oh I this is downright headstrong folly42,’ replied the young fisherman. ‘Why, Ned, you try to persuade me against my reason, that the event which is most to be deprecated has actually occurred. She is, no doubt, a pretty girl — a beautiful girl — but I have not lost my heart to her; and why should I wish her to be in love with me? Tush, man, the days of romance are gone, and a young gentleman may talk, and walk, and laugh with a pretty country maiden43, and never breathe aspirations44, or vows45, or sighs about the matter; unequal matches are much oftener read of than made, and the man who could, even in thought, conceive a wish against the honour of an unsuspecting, artless girl, is a villain46, for whom hanging is too good.’
This concluding sentence was uttered with an animation47 and excitement, which the mere48 announcement of an abstract moral sentiment could hardly account for.
‘You are, then, indifferent, honestly and in sober earnest, indifferent to the girl?’ inquired Dwyer.
‘Altogether so,’ was the reply.
‘Then I have a request to make,’ continued Dwyer, ‘and I may as well urge it now as at any other time. I have been for nearly twenty years the faithful, and by no means useless, servant of your family; you know that I have rendered your father critical and important services ——’ he paused, and added hastily: ‘you are not in the mood — I tire you, sir.’
‘Nay49,’ cried O’Mara, ‘I listen patiently — proceed.’
‘For all these services, and they were not, as I have said, few or valueless, I have received little more reward than liberal promises; you have told me often that this should be mended — I’ll make it easily done — I’m not unreasonable50 — I should be contented51 to hold Heathcote’s ground, along with this small farm on which we stand, as full quittance of all obligations and promises between us.’
‘But how the devil can I effect that for you; this farm, it is true, I, or my father, rather, may lease to you, but Heathcote’s title we cannot impugn52; and even if we could, you would not expect us to ruin an honest man, in order to make way for YOU, Ned.’
‘What I am,’ replied Dwyer, with the calmness of one who is so accustomed to contemptuous insinuations as to receive them with perfect indifference53, ‘is to be attributed to my devotedness55 to your honourable56 family — but that is neither here nor there. I do not ask you to displace Heathcote, in order to made room for me. I know it is out of your power to do so. Now hearken to me for a moment; Heathcote’s property, that which he has set out to tenants57, is worth, say in rents, at most, one hundred pounds: half of this yearly amount is assigned to your father, until payment be made of a bond for a thousand pounds, with interest and soforth. Hear me patiently for a moment and I have done. Now go you to Heathcote, and tell him your father will burn the bond, and cancel the debt, upon one condition — that when I am in possession of this farm, which you can lease to me on what terms you think suitable, he will convey over his property to me, reserving what life-interest may appear fair, I engaging at the same time to marry his daughter, and make such settlements upon her as shall be thought fitting — he is not a fool — the man will close with the offer.’
O’Mara turned shortly upon Dwyer, and gazed upon him for a moment with an expression of almost unmixed resentment59.
‘How,’ said he at length, ‘YOU contract to marry Ellen Heathcote? the poor, innocent, confiding60, light-hearted girl. No, no, Edward Dwyer, I know you too well for that — your services, be they what they will, must not, shall not go unrewarded — your avarice61 shall be appeased62 — but not with a human sacrifice! Dwyer, I speak to you without disguise; you know me to be acquainted with your history, and what’s more, with your character. Now tell me frankly63, were I to do as you desire me, in cool blood, should I not prove myself a more uncompromising and unfeeling villain than humanity even in its most monstrous64 shapes has ever yet given birth to?’
Dwyer met this impetuous language with the unmoved and impenetrable calmness which always marked him when excitement would have appeared in others; he even smiled as he replied: (and Dwyer’s smile, for I have seen it, was characteristically of that unfortunate kind which implies, as regards the emotions of others, not sympathy but derision).
‘This eloquence65 goes to prove Ellen Heathcote something nearer to your heart than your great indifference would have led me to suppose.’
There was something in the tone, perhaps in the truth of the insinuation, which at once kindled66 the quick pride and the anger of O’Mara, and he instantly replied:
‘Be silent, sir, this is insolent67 folly.’
Whether it was that Dwyer was more keenly interested in the success of his suit, or more deeply disappointed at its failure than he cared to express, or that he was in a less complacent68 mood than was his wont69, it is certain that his countenance expressed more emotion at this direct insult than it had ever exhibited before under similar circumstances; for his eyes gleamed for an instant with savage70 and undisguised ferocity upon the young man, and a dark glow crossed his brow, and for the moment he looked about to spring at the throat of his insolent patron; but the impulse whatever it might be, was quickly suppressed, and before O’Mara had time to detect the scowl71, it had vanished.
‘Nay, sir,’ said Dwyer, ‘I meant no offence, and I will take none, at your hands at least. I will confess I care not, in love and soforth, a single bean for the girl; she was the mere channel through which her father’s wealth, if such a pittance72 deserves the name, was to have flowed into my possession —’twas in respect of your family finances the most economical provision for myself which I could devise — a matter in which you, not I, are interested. As for women, they are all pretty much alike to me. I am too old myself to make nice distinctions, and too ugly to succeed by Cupid’s arts; and when a man despairs of success, he soon ceases to care for it. So, if you know me, as you profess73 to do, rest satisfied “caeteris paribus;” the money part of the transaction being equally advantageous74, I should regret the loss of Ellen Heathcote just as little as I should the escape of a minnow from my landing-net.’
They walked on for a few minutes in silence, which was not broken till Dwyer, who had climbed a stile in order to pass a low stone wall which lay in their way, exclaimed:
‘By the rood, she’s here — how like a philosopher you look.”
The conscious blood mounted to O’Mara’s cheek; he crossed the stile, and, separated from him only by a slight fence and a gate, stood the subject of their recent and somewhat angry discussion.
‘God save you, Miss Heathcote,’ cried Dwyer, approaching the gate.
The salutation was cheerfully returned, and before anything more could pass, O’Mara had joined the party.
My friend, that you may understand the strength and depth of those impetuous passions, that you may account for the fatal infatuation which led to the catastrophe which I have to relate, I must tell you, that though I have seen the beauties of cities and of courts, with all the splendour of studied ornament76 about them to enhance their graces, possessing charms which had made them known almost throughout the world, and worshipped with the incense77 of a thousand votaries78, yet never, nowhere did I behold79 a being of such exquisite80 and touching81 beauty, as that possessed by the creature of whom I have just spoken. At the moment of which I write, she was standing82 near the gate, close to which several brown-armed, rosy-cheeked damsels were engaged in milking the peaceful cows, who stood picturesquely83 grouped together. She had just thrown back the hood16 which is the graceful84 characteristic of the Irish girl’s attire85, so that her small and classic head was quite uncovered, save only by the dark-brown hair, which with graceful simplicity86 was parted above her forehead. There was nothing to shade the clearness of her beautiful complexion; the delicately-formed features, so exquisite when taken singly, so indescribable when combined, so purely87 artless, yet so meet for all expression. She was a thing so very beautiful, you could not look on her without feeling your heart touched as by sweet music. Whose lightest action was a grace — whose lightest word a spell — no limner’s art, though ne’er so perfect, could shadow forth58 her beauty; and do I dare with feeble words try to make you see it?5 Providence88 is indeed no respecter of persons, its blessings89 and its inflictions are apportioned90 with an undistinguishing hand, and until the race is over, and life be done, none can know whether those perfections, which seemed its goodliest gifts, many not prove its most fatal; but enough of this.
5 Father Purcell seems to have had an admiration91 for the beauties of nature, particularly as developed in the fair sex; a habit of mind which has been rather improved upon than discontinued by his successors from Maynooth. — ED,
Dwyer strolled carelessly onward92 by the banks of the stream, leaving his young companion leaning over the gate in close and interesting parlance93 with Ellen Heathcote; as he moved on, he half thought, half uttered words to this effect:
‘Insolent young spawn94 of ingratitude95 and guilt96, how long must I submit to be trod upon thus; and yet why should I murmur97 — his day is even now declining — and if I live a year, I shall see the darkness cover him and his for ever. Scarce half his broad estates shall save him — but I must wait — I am but a pauper98 now — a beggar’s accusation99 is always a libel — they must reward me soon — and were I independent once, I’d make them feel my power, and feel it SO, that I should die the richest or the best avenged100 servant of a great man that has ever been heard of — yes, I must wait — I must make sure of something at least — I must be able to stand by myself — and then — and then —’ He clutched his fingers together, as if in the act of strangling the object of his hatred101. ‘But one thing shall save him — but one thing only — he shall pay me my own price — and if he acts liberally, as no doubt he will do, upon compulsion, why he saves his reputation — perhaps his neck — the insolent young whelp yonder would speak in an humbler key if he but knew his father’s jeopardy102 — but all in good time.’
He now stood upon the long, steep, narrow bridge, which crossed the river close to Carrigvarah, the family mansion of the O’Maras; he looked back in the direction in which he had left his companion, and leaning upon the battlement, he ruminated103 long and moodily104. At length he raised himself and said:
‘He loves the girl, and WILL love her more — I have an opportunity of winning favour, of doing service, which shall bind105 him to me; yes, he shall have the girl, if I have art to compass the matter. I must think upon it.’
He entered the avenue and was soon lost in the distance.
Days and weeks passed on, and young O’Mara daily took his rod and net, and rambled106 up the river; and scarce twelve hours elapsed in which some of those accidents, which invariably bring lovers together, did not secure him a meeting of longer or shorter duration, with the beautiful girl whom he so fatally loved.
One evening, after a long interview with her, in which he had been almost irresistibly107 prompted to declare his love, and had all but yielded himself up to the passionate108 impulse, upon his arrival at home he found a letter on the table awaiting his return; it was from his father to the following effect:
‘To Richard O’Mara.
‘September, 17 — L——m, England.
‘MY DEAR SON —
‘I have just had a severe attack of my old and almost forgotten enemy, the gout. This I regard as a good sign; the doctors telling me that it is the safest development of peccant humours; and I think my chest is less tormenting109 and oppressed than I have known it for some years. My chief reason for writing to you now, as I do it not without difficulty, is to let you know my pleasure in certain matters, in which I suspect some shameful110, and, indeed, infatuated neglect on your part, “quem perdere vult deus prius dementat:” how comes it that you have neglected to write to Lady Emily or any of that family? the understood relation subsisting111 between you is one of extreme delicacy113, and which calls for marked and courteous114, nay, devoted54 attention upon your side. Lord —— is already offended; beware what you do; for as you will find, if this match be lost by your fault or folly, by —— I will cut you off with a shilling. I am not in the habit of using threats when I do not mean to fulfil them, and that you well know; however I do not think you have much real cause for alarm in this case. Lady Emily, who, by the way, looks if possible more charming than ever, is anything but hard-hearted, at least when YOU solicit115; but do as I desire, and lose no time in making what excuse you may, and let me hear from you when you can fix a time to join me and your mother here.
‘Your sincere well-wisher and father,
‘RICHARD O’MARA.’
In this letter was inclosed a smaller one, directed to Dwyer, and containing a cheque for twelve pounds, with the following words:
‘Make use of the enclosed, and let me hear if Richard is upon any wild scheme at present: I am uneasy about him, and not without reason; report to me speedily the result of your vigilance.
‘R. O’MARA.’
Dwyer just glanced through this brief, but not unwelcome, epistle; and deposited it and its contents in the secret recesses116 of his breeches pocket, and then fixed117 his eyes upon the face of his companion, who sat opposite, utterly118 absorbed in the perusal119 of his father’s letter, which he read again and again, pausing and muttering between whiles, and apparently120 lost in no very pleasing reflections. At length he very abruptly121 exclaimed:
‘A delicate epistle, truly — and a politic122 — would that my tongue had been burned through before I assented123 to that doubly-cursed contract. Why, I am not pledged yet — I am not; there is neither writing, nor troth, nor word of honour, passed between us. My father has no right to pledge me, even though I told him I liked the girl, and would wish the match. ’Tis not enough that my father offers her my heart and hand; he has no right to do it; a delicate woman would not accept professions made by proxy124. Lady Emily! Lady Emily! with all the tawdry frippery, and finery of dress and demeanour — compare HER with —— Pshaw! Ridiculous! How blind, how idiotic125 I have been.’
He relapsed into moody126 reflections, which Dwyer did not care to disturb, and some ten minutes might have passed before he spoke again. When he did, it was in the calm tone of one who has irrevocably resolved upon some decided18 and important act.
‘Dwyer,’ he said, rising and approaching that person, ‘whatever god or demon127 told you, even before my own heart knew it, that I loved Ellen Heathcote, spoke truth. I love her madly — I never dreamed till now how fervently128, how irrevocably, I am hers — how dead to me all other interests are. Dwyer, I know something of your disposition129, and you no doubt think it strange that I should tell to you, of all persons, SUCH a secret; but whatever be your faults, I think you are attached to our family. I am satisfied you will not betray me. I know ——’
‘Pardon me,’ said Dwyer, ‘if I say that great professions of confidence too frequently mark distrust. I have no possible motive130 to induce me to betray you; on the contrary, I would gladly assist and direct whatever plans you may have formed. Command me as you please; I have said enough.’
‘I will not doubt you, Dwyer,’ said O’Mara; ‘ I have taken my resolution — I have, I think, firmness to act up to it. To marry Ellen Heathcote, situated131 as I am, were madness; to propose anything else were worse, were villainy not to be named. I will leave the country to-morrow, cost what pain it may, for England. I will at once break off the proposed alliance with Lady Emily, and will wait until I am my own master, to open my heart to Ellen. My father may say and do what he likes; but his passion will not last. He will forgive me; and even were he to disinherit me, as he threatens, there is some property which must descend132 to me, which his will cannot affect. He cannot ruin my interests; he SHALL NOT ruin my happiness. Dwyer, give me pen and ink; I will write this moment.’
This bold plan of proceeding133 for many reasons appeared inexpedient to Dwyer, and he determined134 not to consent to its adoption135 without a struggle.
‘I commend your prudence136,’ said he, ‘in determining to remove yourself from the fascinating influence which has so long bound you here; but beware of offending your father. Colonel O’Mara is not a man to forgive an act of deliberate disobedience, and surely you are not mad enough to ruin yourself with him by offering an outrageous138 insult to Lady Emily and to her family in her person; therefore you must not break off the understood contract which subsists139 between you by any formal act — hear me out patiently. You must let Lady Emily perceive, as you easily may, without rudeness or even coldness of manner, that she is perfectly indifferent to you; and when she understands this to be the case, it she possesses either delicacy or spirit, she will herself break off the engagement. Make what delay it is possible to effect; it is very possible that your father, who cannot, in all probability, live many months, may not live as many days if harassed140 and excited by such scenes as your breaking off your engagement must produce.’
‘Dwyer,’ said O’Mara, ‘I will hear you out — proceed.’
‘Besides, sir, remember,’ he continued, ‘the understanding which we have termed an engagement was entered into without any direct sanction upon your part; your father has committed HIMSELF, not YOU, to Lord ——. Before a real contract can subsist112, you must be an assenting141 party to it. I know of no casuistry subtle enough to involve you in any engagement whatever, without such an ingredient. Tush! you have an easy card to play.’
‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘I will think on what you have said; in the meantime, I will write to my father to announce my immediate142 departure, in order to join him.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Dwyer, ‘but I would suggest that by hastening your departure you but bring your dangers nearer. While you are in this country a letter now and then keeps everything quiet; but once across the Channel and with the colonel, you must either quarrel with him to your own destruction, or you must dance attendance upon Lady Emily with such assiduity as to commit yourself as completely as if you had been thrice called with her in the parish church. No, no; keep to this side of the Channel as long as you decently can. Besides, your sudden departure must appear suspicious, and will probably excite inquiry143. Every good end likely to be accomplished144 by your absence will be effected as well by your departure for Dublin, where you may remain for three weeks or a month without giving rise to curiosity or doubt of an unpleasant kind; I would therefore advise you strongly to write immediately to the colonel, stating that business has occurred to defer145 your departure for a month, and you can then leave this place, if you think fit, immediately, that is, within a week or so.’
Young O’Mara was not hard to be persuaded. Perhaps it was that, unacknowledged by himself, any argument which recommended his staying, even for an hour longer than his first decision had announced, in the neighbourhood of Ellen Heathcote, appeared peculiarly cogent146 and convincing; however this may have been, it is certain that he followed the counsel of his cool-headed follower147, who retired148 that night to bed with the pleasing conviction that he was likely soon to involve his young patron in all the intricacies of disguise and intrigue149 — a consummation which would leave him totally at the mercy of the favoured confidant who should possess his secret.
Young O’Mara’s reflections were more agitating150 and less satisfactory than those of his companion. He resolved upon leaving the country before two days had passed. He felt that he could not fairly seek to involve Ellen Heathcote in his fate by pledge or promise, until he had extricated151 himself from those trammels which constrained152 and embarrassed all his actions. His determination was so far prudent153; but, alas154! he also resolved that it was but right, but necessary, that he should see her before his departure. His leaving the country without a look or a word of parting kindness interchanged, must to her appear an act of cold and heartless caprice; he could not bear the thought.
‘No,’ said he, ‘I am not child enough to say more than prudence tells me ought to say; this cowardly distrust of my firmness I should and will contemn155. Besides, why should I commit myself? It is possible the girl may not care for me. No, no; I need not shrink from this interview. I have no reason to doubt my firmness — none — none. I must cease to be governed by impulse. I am involved in rocks and quicksands; and a collected spirit, a quick eye, and a steady hand, alone can pilot me through. God grant me a safe voyage!’
The next day came, and young O’Mara did not take his fishing-rod as usual, but wrote two letters; the one to his father, announcing his intention of departing speedily for England; the other to Lady Emily, containing a cold but courteous apology for his apparent neglect. Both these were despatched to the post-office that evening, and upon the next morning he was to leave the country.
Upon the night of the momentous156 day of which we have just spoken, Ellen Heathcote glided157 silently and unperceived from among the busy crowds who were engaged in the gay dissipation furnished by what is in Ireland commonly called a dance (the expenses attendant upon which, music, etc., are defrayed by a subscription158 of one halfpenny each), and having drawn159 her mantle160 closely about her, was proceeding with quick steps to traverse the small field which separated her from her father’s abode161. She had not walked many yards when she became aware that a solitary figure, muffled162 in a cloak, stood in the pathway. It approached; a low voice whispered:
‘Ellen.’
‘Is it you, Master Richard?’ she replied.
He threw back the cloak which had concealed163 his features.
‘It is I, Ellen, he said; ‘I have been watching for you. I will not delay you long.’
He took her hand, and she did not attempt to withdraw it; for she was too artless to think any evil, too confiding to dread164 it.
‘Ellen,’ he continued, even now unconsciously departing from the rigid165 course which prudence had marked out; ‘Ellen, I am going to leave the country; going to-morrow. I have had letters from England. I must go; and the sea will soon be between us.’
He paused, and she was silent.
‘There is one request, one entreaty166 I have to make,’ he continued; ‘I would, when I am far away, have something to look at which belonged to you. Will you give me — do not refuse it — one little lock of your beautiful hair?’
With artless alacrity167, but with trembling hand, she took the scissors, which in simple fashion hung by her side, and detached one of the long and beautiful locks which parted over her forehead. She placed it in his hand.
Again he took her hand, and twice he attempted to speak in vain; at length he said:
‘Ellen, when I am gone — when I am away — will you sometimes remember, sometimes think of me?’
Ellen Heathcote had as much, perhaps more, of what is noble in pride than the haughtiest169 beauty that ever trod a court; but the effort was useless; the honest struggle was in vain; and she burst into floods of tears, bitterer than she had ever shed before.
I cannot tell how passions rise and fall; I cannot describe the impetuous words of the young lover, as pressing again and again to his lips the cold, passive hand, which had been resigned to him, prudence, caution, doubts, resolutions, all vanished from his view, and melted into nothing. ’Tis for me to tell the simple fact, that from that brief interview they both departed promised and pledged to each other for ever.
Through the rest of this story events follow one another rapidly.
A few nights after that which I have just mentioned, Ellen Heathcote disappeared; but her father was not left long in suspense170 as to her fate, for Dwyer, accompanied by one of those mendicant171 friars who traversed the country then even more commonly than they now do, called upon Heathcote before he had had time to take any active measures for the recovery of his child, and put him in possession of a document which appeared to contain satisfactory evidence of the marriage of Ellen Heathcote with Richard O’Mara, executed upon the evening previous, as the date went to show; and signed by both parties, as well as by Dwyer and a servant of young O’Mara’s, both these having acted as witnesses; and further supported by the signature of Peter Nicholls, a brother of the order of St. Francis, by whom the ceremony had been performed, and whom Heathcote had no difficulty in recognising in the person of his visitant.
This document, and the prompt personal visit of the two men, and above all, the known identity of the Franciscan, satisfied Heathcote as fully75 as anything short of complete publicity172 could have done. And his conviction was not a mistaken one.
Dwyer, before he took his leave, impressed upon Heathcote the necessity of keeping the affair so secret as to render it impossible that it should reach Colonel O’Mara’s ears, an event which would have been attended with ruinous consequences to all parties. He refused, also, to permit Heathcote to see his daughter, and even to tell him where she was, until circumstances rendered it safe for him to visit her.
Heathcote was a harsh and sullen173 man; and though his temper was anything but tractable174, there was so much to please, almost to dazzle him, in the event, that he accepted the terms which Dwyer imposed upon him without any further token of disapprobation than a shake of the head, and a gruff wish that ‘it might prove all for the best.’
Nearly two months had passed, and young O’Mara had not yet departed for England. His letters had been strangely few and far between; and in short, his conduct was such as to induce Colonel O’Mara to hasten his return to Ireland, and at the same time to press an engagement, which Lord — — his son Captain N— — and Lady Emily had made to spend some weeks with him at his residence in Dublin.
A letter arrived for young O’Mara, stating the arrangement, and requiring his attendance in Dublin, which was accordingly immediately afforded.
He arrived, with Dwyer, in time to welcome his father and his distinguished175 guests. He resolved to break off his embarrassing connection with Lady Emily, without, however, stating the real motive, which he felt would exasperate176 the resentment which his father and Lord —— would no doubt feel at his conduct.
He strongly felt how dishonourably he would act if, in obedience137 to Dwyer’s advice, he seemed tacitly to acquiesce177 in an engagement which it was impossible for him to fulfil. He knew that Lady Emily was not capable of anything like strong attachment178; and that even if she were, he had no reason whatever to suppose that she cared at all for him.
He had not at any time desired the alliance; nor had he any reason to suppose the young lady in any degree less indifferent. He regarded it now, and not without some appearance of justice, as nothing more than a kind of understood stipulation179, entered into by their parents, and to be considered rather as a matter of business and calculation than as involving anything of mutual180 inclination181 on the part of the parties most nearly interested in the matter.
He anxiously, therefore, watched for an opportunity of making known his feelings to Lord — — as he could not with propriety182 do so to Lady Emily; but what at a distance appeared to be a matter of easy accomplishment183, now, upon a nearer approach, and when the immediate impulse which had prompted the act had subsided184, appeared so full of difficulty and almost inextricable embarrassments186, that he involuntarily shrunk from the task day after day.
Though it was a source of indescribable anxiety to him, he did not venture to write to Ellen, for he could not disguise from himself the danger which the secrecy187 of his connection with her must incur188 by his communicating with her, even through a public office, where their letters might be permitted to lie longer than the gossiping inquisitiveness189 of a country town would warrant him in supposing safe.
It was about a fortnight after young O’Mara had arrived in Dublin, where all things, and places, and amusements; and persons seemed thoroughly190 stale, flat, and unprofitable, when one day, tempted168 by the unusual fineness of the weather, Lady Emily proposed a walk in the College Park, a favourite promenade191 at that time. She therefore with young O’Mara, accompanied by Dwyer (who, by-the-by, when he pleased, could act the gentleman sufficiently well), proceeded to the place proposed, where they continued to walk for some time.
‘Why, Richard,’ said Lady Emily, after a tedious and unbroken pause of some minutes, ‘you are becoming worse and worse every day. You are growing absolutely intolerable; perfectly stupid! not one good thing have I heard since I left the house.’
O’Mara smiled, and was seeking for a suitable reply, when his design was interrupted, and his attention suddenly and painfully arrested, by the appearance of two figures, who were slowly passing the broad walk on which he and his party moved; the one was that of Captain N— — the other was the form of — Martin Heathcote!
O’Mara felt confounded, almost stunned192; the anticipation193 of some impending194 mischief195 — of an immediate and violent collision with a young man whom he had ever regarded as his friend, were apprehensions196 which such a juxtaposition197 could not fail to produce.
‘Is Heathcote mad?’ thought he. ‘What devil can have brought him here?’
Dwyer having exchanged a significant glance with O’Mara, said slightly to Lady Emily:
‘Will your ladyship excuse me for a moment? I have a word to say to Captain N— — and will, with your permission, immediately rejoin you.’
He bowed, and walking rapidly on, was in a few moments beside the object of his and his patron’s uneasiness.
Whatever Heathcote’s object might be, he certainly had not yet declared the secret, whose safety O’Mara had so naturally desired, for Captain N—— appeared in good spirits; and on coming up to his sister and her companion, he joined them for a moment, telling O’Mara, laughingly, that an old quiz had come from the country for the express purpose of telling tales, as it was to be supposed, of him (young O’Mara), in whose neighbourhood he lived.
During this speech it required all the effort which it was possible to exert to prevent O’Mara’s betraying the extreme agitation198 to which his situation gave rise. Captain N— — however, suspected nothing, and passed on without further delay.
Dinner was an early meal in those days, and Lady Emily was obliged to leave the Park in less than half an hour after the unpleasant meeting which we have just mentioned.
Young O’Mara and, at a sign from him, Dwyer having escorted the lady to the door of Colonel O’Mara’s house, pretended an engagement, and departed together.
Richard O’Mara instantly questioned his comrade upon the subject of his anxiety; but Dwyer had nothing to communicate of a satisfactory nature. He had only time, while the captain had been engaged with Lady Emily and her companion, to say to Heathcote:
‘Be secret, as you value your existence: everything will be right, if you be but secret.’
To this Heathcote had replied: ‘Never fear me; I understand what I am about.’
This was said in such an ambiguous manner that it was impossible to conjecture199 whether he intended or not to act upon Dwyer’s exhortation200. The conclusion which appeared most natural, was by no means an agreeable one.
It was much to be feared that Heathcote having heard some vague report of O’Mara’s engagement with Lady Emily, perhaps exaggerated, by the repetition, into a speedily approaching marriage, had become alarmed for his daughter’s interest, and had taken this decisive step in order to prevent, by a disclosure of the circumstances of his clandestine201 union with Ellen, the possibility of his completing a guilty alliance with Captain N——‘s sister. If he entertained the suspicions which they attributed to him, he had certainly taken the most effectual means to prevent their being realised. Whatever his object might be, his presence in Dublin, in company with Captain N— — boded202 nothing good to O’Mara.
They entered ——‘s tavern203, in Dame204 Street, together; and there, over a hasty and by no means a comfortable meal, they talked over their plans and conjectures205. Evening closed in, and found them still closeted together, with nothing to interrupt, and a large tankard of claret to sustain their desultory206 conversation.
Nothing had been determined upon, except that Dwyer and O’Mara should proceed under cover of the darkness to search the town for Heathcote, and by minute inquiries207 at the most frequented houses of entertainment, to ascertain208 his place of residence, in order to procuring209 a full and explanatory interview with him. They had each filled their last glass, and were sipping210 it slowly, seated with their feet stretched towards a bright cheerful fire; the small table which sustained the flagon of which we have spoken, together with two pair of wax candles, placed between them, so as to afford a convenient resting-place for the long glasses out of which they drank.
‘One good result, at all events, will be effected by Heathcote’s visit,’ said O’Mara. ‘Before twenty-four hours I shall do that which I should have done long ago. I shall, without reserve, state everything. I can no longer endure this suspense — this dishonourable secrecy — this apparent dissimulation211. Every moment I have passed since my departure from the country has been one of embarrassment185, of pain, of humiliation212. To-morrow I will brave the storm, whether successfully or not is doubtful; but I had rather walk the high roads a beggar, than submit a day longer to be made the degraded sport of every accident — the miserable213 dependent upon a successful system of deception214. Though PASSIVE deception, it is still unmanly, unworthy, unjustifiable deception. I cannot bear to think of it. I despise myself, but I will cease to be the despicable thing I have become. To-morrow sees me free, and this harassing216 subject for ever at rest.’
He was interrupted here by the sound of footsteps heavily but rapidly ascending217 the tavern staircase. The room door opened, and Captain N— — accompanied by a fashionably-attired young man, entered the room.
Young O’Mara had risen from his seat on the entrance of their unexpected visitants; and the moment Captain N—— recognised his person, an evident and ominous218 change passed over his countenance. He turned hastily to withdraw, but, as it seemed, almost instantly changed his mind, for he turned again abruptly.
‘This chamber219 is engaged, sir,’ said the waiter.
‘Leave the room, sir,’ was his only reply.
‘The room is engaged, sir,’ repeated the waiter, probably believing that his first suggestion had been unheard.
‘Leave the room, or go to hell!’ shouted Captain N——; at the same time seizing the astounded220 waiter by the shoulder, he hurled221 him headlong into the passage, and flung the door to with a crash that shook the walls. ‘Sir,’ continued he, addressing himself to O’Mara, ‘I did not hope to have met you until to-morrow. Fortune has been kind to me — draw, and defend yourself.’
At the same time he drew his sword, and placed himself in an attitude of attack.
‘I will not draw upon YOU,’ said O’Mara. ‘I have, indeed, wronged you. I have given you just cause for resentment; but against your life I will never lift my hand.’
‘You are a coward, sir,’ replied Captain N— — with almost frightful222 vehemence223, ‘as every trickster and swindler IS. You are a contemptible224 dastard225 — a despicable, damned villain! Draw your sword, sir, and defend your life, or every post and pillar in this town shall tell your infamy226.’
‘Perhaps,’ said his friend, with a sneer227, ‘the gentleman can do better without his honour than without his wife.’
‘Yes,’ shouted the captain, ‘his wife — a trull — a common ——’
‘Silence, sir!’ cried O’Mara, all the fierceness of his nature roused by this last insult —‘your object is gained; your blood be upon your own head.’ At the same time he sprang across a bench which stood in his way, and pushing aside the table which supported the lights, in an instant their swords crossed, and they were engaged in close and deadly strife228.
Captain N—— was far the stronger of the two; but, on the other hand, O’Mara possessed far more skill in the use of the fatal weapon which they employed. But the narrowness of the room rendered this advantage hardly available.
Almost instantly O’Mara received a slight wound upon the forehead, which, though little more than a scratch, bled so fast as to obstruct229 his sight considerably230.
Those who have used the foil can tell how slight a derangement231 of eye or of hand is sufficient to determine a contest of this kind; and this knowledge will prevent their being surprised when I say, that, spite of O’Mara’s superior skill and practice, his adversary’s sword passed twice through and through his body, and he fell heavily and helplessly upon the floor of the chamber.
Without saying a word, the successful combatant quitted the room along with his companion, leaving Dwyer to shift as best he might for his fallen comrade.
With the assistance of some of the wondering menials of the place, Dwyer succeeded in conveying the wounded man into an adjoining room, where he was laid upon a bed, in a state bordering upon insensibility — the blood flowing, I might say WELLING, from the wounds so fast as to show that unless the bleeding were speedily and effectually stopped, he could not live for half an hour.
Medical aid was, of course, instantly procured232, and Colonel O’Mara, though at the time seriously indisposed, was urgently requested to attend without loss of time. He did so; but human succour and support were all too late. The wound had been truly dealt — the tide of life had ebbed233; and his father had not arrived five minutes when young O’Mara was a corpse234. His body rests in the vaults235 of Christ Church, in Dublin, without a stone to mark the spot.
The counsels of the wicked are always dark, and their motives236 often beyond fathoming237; and strange, unaccountable, incredible as it may seem, I do believe, and that upon evidence so clear as to amount almost to demonstration238, that Heathcote’s visit to Dublin — his betrayal of the secret — and the final and terrible catastrophe which laid O’Mara in the grave, were brought about by no other agent than Dwyer himself.
I have myself seen the letter which induced that visit. The handwriting is exactly what I have seen in other alleged239 specimens240 of Dwyer’s penmanship. It is written with an affectation of honest alarm at O’Mara’s conduct, and expresses a conviction that if some of Lady Emily’s family be not informed of O’Mara’s real situation, nothing could prevent his concluding with her an advantageous alliance, then upon the tapis, and altogether throwing off his allegiance to Ellen — a step which, as the writer candidly241 asserted, would finally conduce as inevitably242 to his own disgrace as it immediately would to her ruin and misery243.
The production was formally signed with Dwyer’s name, and the postscript244 contained a strict injunction of secrecy, asserting that if it were ascertained245 that such an epistle had been despatched from such a quarter, it would be attended with the total ruin of the writer.
It is true that Dwyer, many years after, when this letter came to light, alleged it to be a forgery246, an assertion whose truth, even to his dying hour, and long after he had apparently ceased to feel the lash247 of public scorn, he continued obstinately248 to maintain. Indeed this matter is full of mystery, for, revenge alone excepted, which I believe, in such minds as Dwyer’s, seldom overcomes the sense of interest, the only intelligible249 motive which could have prompted him to such an act was the hope that since he had, through young O’Mara’s interest, procured from the colonel a lease of a small farm upon the terms which he had originally stipulated250, he might prosecute251 his plan touching the property of Martin Heathcote, rendering252 his daughter’s hand free by the removal of young O’Mara. This appears to me too complicated a plan of villany to have entered the mind even of such a man as Dwyer. I must, therefore, suppose his motives to have originated out of circumstances connected with this story which may not have come to my ear, and perhaps never will.
Colonel O’Mara felt the death of his son more deeply than I should have thought possible; but that son had been the last being who had continued to interest his cold heart. Perhaps the pride which he felt in his child had in it more of selfishness than of any generous feeling. But, be this as it may, the melancholy circumstances connected with Ellen Heathcote had reached him, and his conduct towards her proved, more strongly than anything else could have done, that he felt keenly and justly, and, to a certain degree, with a softened253 heart, the fatal event of which she had been, in some manner, alike the cause and the victim.
He evinced not towards her, as might have been expected, any unreasonable resentment. On the contrary, he exhibited great consideration, even tenderness, for her situation; and having ascertained where his son had placed her, he issued strict orders that she should not be disturbed, and that the fatal tidings, which had not yet reached her, should be withheld255 until they might be communicated in such a way as to soften254 as much as possible the inevitable256 shock.
These last directions were acted upon too scrupulously258 and too long; and, indeed, I am satisfied that had the event been communicated at once, however terrible and overwhelming the shock might have been, much of the bitterest anguish259, of sickening doubts, of harassing suspense, would have been spared her, and the first tempestuous260 burst of sorrow having passed over, her chastened spirit might have recovered its tone, and her life have been spared. But the mistaken kindness which concealed from her the dreadful truth, instead of relieving her mind of a burden which it could not support, laid upon it a weight of horrible fears and doubts as to the affection of O’Mara, compared with which even the certainty of his death would have been tolerable.
One evening I had just seated myself beside a cheerful turf fire, with that true relish261 which a long cold ride through a bleak262 and shelterless country affords, stretching my chilled limbs to meet the genial263 influence, and imbibing264 the warmth at every pore, when my comfortable meditations265 were interrupted by a long and sonorous266 ringing at the door-bell evidently effected by no timid hand.
A messenger had arrived to request my attendance at the Lodge267 — such was the name which distinguished a small and somewhat antiquated268 building, occupying a peculiarly secluded269 position among the bleak and heathy hills which varied270 the surface of that not altogether uninteresting district, and which had, I believe, been employed by the keen and hardy271 ancestors of the O’Mara family as a convenient temporary residence during the sporting season.
Thither272 my attendance was required, in order to administer to a deeply distressed273 lady such comforts as an afflicted274 mind can gather from the sublime275 hopes and consolations276 of Christianity.
I had long suspected that the occupant of this sequestered, I might say desolate277, dwelling-house was the poor girl whose brief story we are following; and feeling a keen interest in her fate — as who that had ever seen her DID NOT? — I started from my comfortable seat with more eager alacrity than, I will confess it, I might have evinced had my duty called me in another direction.
In a few minutes I was trotting278 rapidly onward, preceded by my guide, who urged his horse with the remorseless rapidity of one who seeks by the speed of his progress to escape observation. Over roads and through bogs279 we splashed and clattered280, until at length traversing the brow of a wild and rocky hill, whose aspect seemed so barren and forbidding that it might have been a lasting281 barrier alike to mortal sight and step, the lonely building became visible, lying in a kind of swampy282 flat, with a broad reedy pond or lake stretching away to its side, and backed by a farther range of monotonous283 sweeping284 hills, marked with irregular lines of grey rock, which, in the distance, bore a rude and colossal285 resemblance to the walls of a fortification.
Riding with undiminished speed along a kind of wild horse-track, we turned the corner of a high and somewhat ruinous wall of loose stones, and making a sudden wheel we found ourselves in a small quadrangle, surmounted286 on two sides by dilapidated stables and kennels287, on another by a broken stone wall, and upon the fourth by the front of the lodge itself.
The whole character of the place was that of dreary288 desertion and decay, which would of itself have predisposed the mind for melancholy impressions. My guide dismounted, and with respectful attention held my horse’s bridle289 while I got down; and knocking at the door with the handle of his whip, it was speedily opened by a neatly-dressed female domestic, and I was admitted to the interior of the house, and conducted into a small room, where a fire in some degree dispelled290 the cheerless air, which would otherwise have prevailed to a painful degree throughout the place.
I had been waiting but for a very few minutes when another female servant, somewhat older than the first, entered the room. She made some apology on the part of the person whom I had come to visit, for the slight delay which had already occurred, and requested me further to wait for a few minutes longer, intimating that the lady’s grief was so violent, that without great effort she could not bring herself to speak calmly at all. As if to beguile291 the time, the good dame went on in a highly communicative strain to tell me, amongst much that could not interest me, a little of what I had desired to hear. I discovered that the grief of her whom I had come to visit was excited by the sudden death of a little boy, her only child, who was then lying dead in his mother’s chamber.
‘And the mother’s name?’ said I, inquiringly.
The woman looked at me for a moment, smiled, and shook her head with the air of mingled292 mystery and importance which seems to say, ‘I am unfathomable.’ I did not care to press the question, though I suspected that much of her apparent reluctance293 was affected294, knowing that my doubts respecting the identity of the person whom I had come to visit must soon be set at rest, and after a little pause the worthy215 Abigail went on as fluently as ever. She told me that her young mistress had been, for the time she had been with her — that was, for about a year and a half — in declining health and spirits, and that she had loved her little child to a degree beyond expression — so devotedly295 that she could not, in all probability, survive it long.
While she was running on in this way the bell rang, and signing me to follow, she opened the room door, but stopped in the hall, and taking me a little aside, and speaking in a whisper, she told me, as I valued the life of the poor lady, not to say one word of the death of young O’Mara. I nodded acquiescence296, and ascending a narrow and ill-constructed staircase, she stopped at a chamber door and knocked.
‘Come in,’ said a gentle voice from within, and, preceded by my conductress, I entered a moderately-sized, but rather gloomy chamber.
There was but one living form within it — it was the light and graceful figure of a young woman. She had risen as I entered the room; but owing to the obscurity of the apartment, and to the circumstance that her face, as she looked towards the door, was turned away from the light, which found its way in dimly through the narrow windows, I could not instantly recognise the features.
‘You do not remember me, sir?’ said the same low, mournful voice. ‘I am — I WAS— Ellen Heathcote.’
‘I do remember you, my poor child,’ said I, taking her hand; ‘I do remember you very well. Speak to me frankly — speak to me as a friend. Whatever I can do or say for you, is yours already; only speak.’
‘You were always very kind, sir, to those — to those that WANTED kindness.’
The tears were almost overflowing297, but she checked them; and as if an accession of fortitude298 had followed the momentary299 weakness, she continued, in a subdued300 but firm tone, to tell me briefly the circumstances of her marriage with O’Mara. When she had concluded the recital, she paused for a moment; and I asked again:
‘Can I aid you in any way — by advice or otherwise?’
‘I wish, sir, to tell you all I have been thinking about,’ she continued. ‘I am sure, sir, that Master Richard loved me once — I am sure he did not think to deceive me; but there were bad, hard-hearted people about him, and his family were all rich and high, and I am sure he wishes NOW that he had never, never seen me. Well, sir, it is not in my heart to blame him. What was I that I should look at him? — an ignorant, poor, country girl — and he so high and great, and so beautiful. The blame was all mine — it was all my fault; I could not think or hope he would care for me more than a little time. Well, sir, I thought over and over again that since his love was gone from me for ever, I should not stand in his way, and hinder whatever great thing his family wished for him. So I thought often and often to write him a letter to get the marriage broken, and to send me home; but for one reason, I would have done it long ago: there was a little child, his and mine — the dearest, the loveliest.’ She could not go on for a minute or two. ‘The little child that is lying there, on that bed; but it is dead and gone, and there is no reason NOW why I should delay any more about it.’
She put her hand into her breast, and took out a letter, which she opened. She put it into my hands. It ran thus:
‘DEAR MASTER RICHARD,
‘My little child is dead, and your happiness is all I care about now. Your marriage with me is displeasing301 to your family, and I would be a burden to you, and in your way in the fine places, and among the great friends where you must be. You ought, therefore, to break the marriage, and I will sign whatever YOU wish, or your family. I will never try to blame you, Master Richard — do not think it — for I never deserved your love, and must not complain now that I have lost it; but I will always pray for you, and be thinking of you while I live.’
While I read this letter, I was satisfied that so far from adding to the poor girl’s grief, a full disclosure of what had happened would, on the contrary, mitigate302 her sorrow, and deprive it of its sharpest sting.
‘Ellen,’ said I solemnly, ‘Richard O’Mara was never unfaithful to you; he is now where human reproach can reach him no more.’
As I said this, the hectic303 flush upon her cheek gave place to a paleness so deadly, that I almost thought she would drop lifeless upon the spot.
‘Is he — is he dead, then?’ said she, wildly.
I took her hand in mine, and told her the sad story as best I could. She listened with a calmness which appeared almost unnatural304, until I had finished the mournful narration305. She then arose, and going to the bedside, she drew the curtain and gazed silently and fixedly306 on the quiet face of the child: but the feelings which swelled307 at her heart could not be suppressed; the tears gushed308 forth, and sobbing309 as if her heart would break, she leant over the bed and took the dead child in her arms.
She wept and kissed it, and kissed it and wept again, in grief so passionate, so heartrending, as to draw bitter tears from my eyes. I said what little I could to calm her — to have sought to do more would have been a mockery; and observing that the darkness had closed in, I took my leave and departed, being favoured with the services of my former guide.
I expected to have been soon called upon again to visit the poor girl; but the Lodge lay beyond the boundary of my parish, and I felt a reluctance to trespass310 upon the precincts of my brother minister, and a certain degree of hesitation311 in intruding312 upon one whose situation was so very peculiar, and who would, I had no doubt, feel no scruple313 in requesting my attendance if she desired it.
A month, however, passed away, and I did not hear anything of Ellen. I called at the Lodge, and to my inquiries they answered that she was very much worse in health, and that since the death of the child she had been sinking fast, and so weak that she had been chiefly confined to her bed. I sent frequently to inquire, and often called myself, and all that I heard convinced me that she was rapidly sinking into the grave.
Late one night I was summoned from my rest, by a visit from the person who had upon the former occasion acted as my guide; he had come to summon me to the death-bed of her whom I had then attended. With all celerity I made my preparations, and, not without considerable difficulty and some danger, we made a rapid night-ride to the Lodge, a distance of five miles at least. We arrived safely, and in a very short time — but too late.
I stood by the bed upon which lay the once beautiful form of Ellen Heathcote. The brief but sorrowful trial was past — the desolate mourner was gone to that land where the pangs314 of grief, the tumults315 of passion, regrets and cold neglect, are felt no more. I leant over the lifeless face, and scanned the beautiful features which, living, had wrought316 such magic on all that looked upon them. They were, indeed, much wasted; but it was impossible for the fingers of death or of decay altogether to obliterate317 the traces of that exquisite beauty which had so distinguished her. As I gazed on this most sad and striking spectacle, remembrances thronged318 fast upon my mind, and tear after tear fell upon the cold form that slept tranquilly319 and for ever.
A few days afterwards I was told that a funeral had left the Lodge at the dead of night, and had been conducted with the most scrupulous257 secrecy. It was, of course, to me no mystery.
Heathcote lived to a very advanced age, being of that hard mould which is not easily impressionable. The selfish and the hard-hearted survive where nobler, more generous, and, above all, more sympathising natures would have sunk for ever.
Dwyer certainly succeeded in extorting320, I cannot say how, considerable and advantageous leases from Colonel O’Mara; but after his death he disposed of his interest in these, and having for a time launched into a sea of profligate321 extravagance, he became bankrupt, and for a long time I totally lost sight of him.
The rebellion of ‘98, and the events which immediately followed, called him forth from his lurking-places, in the character of an informer; and I myself have seen the hoary-headed, paralytic322 perjurer323, with a scowl of derision and defiance324, brave the hootings and the execrations of the indignant multitude.
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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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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starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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hood
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precludes
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| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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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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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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31
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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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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33
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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34
construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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35
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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36
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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37
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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38
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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39
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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40
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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41
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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42
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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43
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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44
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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45
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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46
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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47
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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50
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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51
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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52
impugn
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| v.指责，对…表示怀疑 | |
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53
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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54
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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55
devotedness
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56
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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57
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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58
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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59
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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60
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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61
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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62
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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63
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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64
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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65
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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66
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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67
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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68
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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69
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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70
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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71
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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72
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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73
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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74
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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75
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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76
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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77
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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78
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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79
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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80
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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81
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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82
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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83
picturesquely
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84
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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85
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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86
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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87
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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88
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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89
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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90
apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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91
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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92
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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93
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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94
spawn
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| n.卵，产物，后代，结果；vt.产卵，种菌丝于，产生，造成；vi.产卵，大量生产 | |
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95
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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96
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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97
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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98
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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99
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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100
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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101
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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102
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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103
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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104
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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105
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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106
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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107
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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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
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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110
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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111
subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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112
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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113
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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114
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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115
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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116
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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117
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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118
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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119
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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120
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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121
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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122
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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123
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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125
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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126
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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127
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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128
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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129
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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130
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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131
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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132
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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133
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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134
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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135
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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136
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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137
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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138
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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139
subsists
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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141
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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142
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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143
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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144
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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145
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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146
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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147
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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148
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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149
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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150
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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151
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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153
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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154
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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155
contemn
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| v.蔑视 | |
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156
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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157
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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158
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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159
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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160
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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161
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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162
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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163
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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164
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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165
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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166
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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167
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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168
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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169
haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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170
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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171
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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172
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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173
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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174
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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175
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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176
exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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177
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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178
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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179
stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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180
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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181
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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182
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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183
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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184
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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185
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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186
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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187
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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188
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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189
inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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190
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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191
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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192
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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193
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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194
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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195
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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196
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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197
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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198
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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199
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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200
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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201
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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202
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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203
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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204
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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205
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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206
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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207
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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208
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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209
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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210
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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211
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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212
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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213
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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214
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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215
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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216
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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217
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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218
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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219
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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220
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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221
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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222
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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223
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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224
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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225
dastard
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| n.卑怯之人，懦夫；adj.怯懦的，畏缩的 | |
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226
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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227
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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228
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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229
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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230
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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231
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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232
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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233
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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234
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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235
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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236
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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237
fathoming
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| 测量 | |
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238
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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239
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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240
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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241
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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242
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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243
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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244
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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245
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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246
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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247
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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248
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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249
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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250
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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251
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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252
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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253
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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254
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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255
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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256
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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257
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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258
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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259
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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260
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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261
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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262
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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263
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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264
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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265
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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266
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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267
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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268
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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269
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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270
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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271
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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272
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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273
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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274
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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275
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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276
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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277
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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278
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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279
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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280
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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281
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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282
swampy
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| adj.沼泽的，湿地的 | |
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283
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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284
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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285
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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286
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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287
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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288
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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289
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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290
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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291
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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292
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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293
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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294
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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295
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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296
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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297
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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298
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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299
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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300
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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301
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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302
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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303
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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304
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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305
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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306
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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307
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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308
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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309
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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310
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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311
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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312
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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313
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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314
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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315
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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316
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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317
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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318
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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319
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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320
extorting
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| v.敲诈( extort的现在分词 )；曲解 | |
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321
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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322
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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323
perjurer
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| n.伪誓者，伪证者 | |
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324
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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