To the left, a smaller footpath4 turned into still another garden, and he was glad that his companion moved this way. They were in a relatively5 small inclosure, hedged upon three sides by closely knit high walls of box; the straggling, untrimmed profusion6 of this tall growth, through which a multitude of sweet-briers thrust still farther upward their dipping and interlaced green rods, gave the place a homely7 if unkempt aspect. On the fourth side rose the blue-gray masonry8 of the castle itself—an ancient curtain stretched between two towers. The autumn sunlight lay upon this stained old wall, and warmed it, and glowed softly among the leaves and saffron blossoms of the great rose-tree trained upon it. This garden preserved the outlines of some former quaint9 arrangement of walks and beds, but these were comfortably softened10 everywhere, and in part obscured, by the untrammeled freedom of vegetation. Even over the moldering red tiles of the paths mosses12 had been suffered to creep unmolested. A few late roses were in bloom here and there, and at one corner there rose a colony of graceful13 white lilies, the scent14 of which filled the air. It was all very restful and charming, and Christian, pausing to gaze about him, gave little exclamations15 of pleasure at what he saw.
In the center of the garden, surrounded by a low seat of weather-worn woodwork, was what seemed to be a fountain, culminating in a piece of statuary, so blackened and battered16 by time and storm that little could be made out of its creator’s intentions. Christian, with some murmured inquiry18, led the way toward this—and then perceived that Lord Julius, who had been sitting at the other and sunny side of the statue, was standing19 now in the path, confronting the new-comers with a friendly smile.
“This is my particular haunt at Caer-mere,” he explained to the young man.
“In so huge a place, one is lost if he does not fasten upon a special corner or nook of some sort, and send down roots in it and make it his own. This was my mother’s garden, and for over fifty years now I have bargained with one generation of head gardeners after another to leave it alone—as she left it. When Cheltnam came, he was so famous a person that I submitted to his budding some new varieties on the old wall-rose there—but, bless me, even that is thirty years ago—before either of you was born. I see you young people have lost no time in becoming acquainted.”
Edith Cressage looked into the old gentleman’s eyes for a moment before she replied. They had exchanged this same glance—on her side at once puzzled, suspicious, defiant20; on his full of a geniality21 possibly pointed23 with cynicism—very often during the last four years, without affecting by it any prepossession or prejudice in either’s mind. “We met by accident in the upper fruit-walk, and I introduced myself. It must be quite luncheon25 time. Shall we go in?” She added, as upon an afterthought, and with another steadfast26 look into his face, “I have promised to show him over the house and the castle.”
“Admirable!” said Lord Julius, cordially.
He looked at his watch. “We will follow you in a very few moments, if we may. I dare say he is as ready for luncheon as I am, but I want to show him my old garden first.”
“Oh, let me stop too!” she exclaimed, without an instant’s hesitation27. “May I confess it?—when you’re not here I call it my garden, too. I knew it was your mother’s—and I was always going to ask you to tell me about her, but the opportunity never offered. It is the one really perfect spot at Caermere, even to me. And I can understand how infinitely28 these old associations add to its charms for you! I shall truly not be in the way if I stop?”
The elder man regarded her with a twinkling eye from under his broad hat-brim as he shook his head. “To the contrary, we are both delighted,” he answered, amiably30 enough. He began leading the way at this, and the two young people, walking perforce very close together on the narrow path, followed at his heels.
He pointed out to them that the fountain, which he could not remember being in working order even in his boyhood, was built over the ancient well of the castle. The statue apparently31 dated from William and Mary’s time; at least, it was very like the objects they set up at Hampton Court. Part of its pedestal was made of three Ogham stones, which were said to have stood by the well in former times. Flint knives and other primitive32 weapons had been found in the garden. Antiquaries were not agreed as to the possibility of the well having been in existence at any very remote period, but it was not unlikely that this small garden had been the center of interest—perhaps the scene of Druidical sacrifices, or even of the famous conversion33 of the tribe resident here by St. David—at the beginning of things. These speculations34 as to precise localities were interesting, but scarcely convincing. The wall at the end was a more definite affair. It had been built after the Third Crusade by Stephen de la Tour, as the Normanized name went then.
“Ah, the name has not always been spelled the same then?” interrupted Christian here. He spoke35 with an eagerness which the abstract interest of the query36 seemed hardly to warrant.
“Heavens, no!” said Lord Julius. “It has been Tor with one ‘r’ and with two; it has been de la Tour, as I said, and Tour without the ‘de la,’ and Toure, and I know of at least one branch of the people of the name of Tower who are undoubtedly37 of our stock. It is quite conceivable that many others of them are, too.”
“Then the forms of names can be altered at will?” pursued Christian. “If a man says, ‘I will spell it so and so,’ then it is all right?”
“Oh, yes,” explained the other. “Often two spellings exist side by side. Witness the Seymours a few years ago. You had one brother writing it Seymour and another St. Maur. The latter is now the official spelling—for the present, at least.”
“This is extremely interesting to me,” the young man cried. “So I may keep my name as I have always borne it! I may write myself ‘Christian Tower’! That lifts a load from my mind. I had been unhappy to think of abandoning the name my father liked. He always both spelled and pronounced it ‘Tower,’ and that is why I shall be so glad to do the same.”
An acute kind of silence rested upon the group for an awkward minute.
“Oh, don’t let us have anymore archaeology38 before luncheon, Lord Julius,” put in the lady then. “Caermere so reeks39 with history that one must take it in small installments40 or be overwhelmed altogether. You were going to tell us about your mother, Lord Julius, and how you remember her, here in this dear old garden. And positively41 nothing has been changed since!”
“I mustn’t go quite so far as that,” said the old man, smilingly. He seemed grateful to her for the digression. “A certain systematic42 renovation43 has, of course, been necessary; I have arranged with the gardeners to manage that. I dare say there are scarcely any plants or roots here now which were individually in existence in my mother’s time; but their children, their descendants, are here in their places. Except for Cheltnam’s buds on the wall there, I don’t think any novelties have been introduced. If so, it was against my wish. The lilies in that corner, for example, are lineal progeny44, heaven knows how many times removed, of the lilies my mother planted there. These roses are slips from other slips of the old cabbage and damask and moss11 roses she used to sit and look at with her crewel-work in her lap. The old flowers are gone, and yet they are not gone. In the same way, my mother has been dead for sixty years, and yet this is still her garden, and she is still here—here in the person of me, her son, and of Christian, her great-grandson.”
“And I,” commented Lady Cressage, upon a sudden smiling impulse, “I alone am an intruding45 new species—like one of Cheltnam’s ‘niphetos’ buds on the old rose. I hasten to extricate46 myself.” And with a bright little nod and mock half-courtesy, she caught her gown in one hand, wheeled round and moved quickly down the path and through the hedge.
The two men watched her till she vanished.
“She is a beautiful lady,” observed Christian, with enthusiasm; “and very courteous47, too.”
Lord Julius offered no remark upon this, but stood for a little with his gaze apparently fixed48 on the point whence she had disappeared. Then, without turning his head, he said in a gently grave way:
“If I were you, Christian, I would make as few allusions49, in mixed company, to my father as possible.”
“Ah, yes! this is what I desired to discuss with you!” said the young man, stoutly50. He swung round to face the other, and his eyes sparkled with impatience51. “Everybody avoids mention of him; they turn to something else when I speak his name—all but those abominable52 young men who offered him insult. That is what I should very much like to talk about!”
“I had thought it might not be necessary,” replied Lord Julius. “At least, I had hoped you would pick up the information for yourself—a harmless little at a time, and guess the rest, and so spare everybody, yourself included. But that is precisely53 what you seem not to do; and I dare say I was wrong in not talking frankly54 with you at the start. But let me understand first: what do you know about your father?”
“Only that he was a soldier, a professional soldier. That I have told you,” panted Christian.
“Yes, and a very notable soldier,” responded the other. “He won the Victoria Cross in the Mutiny—the youngest man in all India to do so. That is for you to remember always—in your own mind—for your own pride and consolation55.”
“Ah, yes, always!” murmured the son.
“And in other services, too, after he left England,” the elder man went on, “I have understood that he was a loyal and very valuable officer to those he fought for. This also is something for you to be proud of—-but still inside your own mind! That it is necessary to remember—that you must keep it to yourself. Forgive my repeating the injunction.”
“Go on!” said Christian.
“Well,” Lord Julius began, speaking with more hesitation, “Ambrose as a soldier was magnificent, but you know enough from your books to know that splendid soldiers may easily be—how shall I say?—not so splendid in other walks of life. It is to be said for him that he was bare twenty-three—poor boy. It was in 1859; and, as misery56 would have it, I was in Syria, traveling with my wife. Perhaps if I had been in England, I could have done something. As it was, there was no one to help him; and of course it may be that he couldn’t have been helped. It was a case of a young man returning to London, with honors and flattery enough to turn even an old head, and walking blindfold57 into the worst company in Europe. I have no intention of going into details. You must take my word for it that suddenly four or five young men of great families fled to the Continent; and that, without much publicity58 in the papers, there was a very miserable59 sort of scandal after their flight. Other names were mentioned—but I needn’t go into that. It was to the interest of many influential60 people to hush61 the thing up, and to some extent they succeeded. After a while it became even possible for the others to come back to England—there are many ways of managing such matters—but there was one of them who never returned.”
Christian gazed into the old man’s face with mute, piteous fixity of concentration.
“This one, of course,” Lord Julius pursued, picking his words still more cautiously, and liking62 his task less than ever, “was your father. The way was smoothed for the rest to come back, but not for him—that is, at first. Later, when he could have returned, he would not. Ambrose had a stubborn and bitter temper. He was furious with his father, with his family—with all England. He would touch none of us. Why, I myself went to Sicily many years ago—it was as soon as I had got back from the East—and learned the facts, and found out what could be done; and I tried to see him, and bring him home with me, but he would not speak with me, or even remain under the same roof with me—and so I could do nothing. Or yes, there was one thing—that is to maintain some kind of watch over you—after his death, and that we did. My own idea was to have brought you over to England years ago—as soon as your mother died—but Emanuel thought otherwise.”
He paused here in his narrative63, for the reason that his companion was obviously no longer listening to him.
Christian had moved a step or two away, and with a white, set face was looking off over the hill-tops. His profile showed brows knitted and lips being bitten, under the stress of an internal tempest. It seemed to the old man a long time that he stood thus, in dry-eyed, passionate64 battle with his own mind. Then, with a sudden, decisive gesture he spread out his hands and turned impulsively65 to Lord Julius.
“You are an old man, and a wise one, and you were my father’s friend and you are my friend!” he said, with trembling earnestness. “I should be a fool not to pay heed66 to what you tell me. You advise that I do not mention my father more than is necessary. Eh bien, I take your advice. Without doubt it is right—just as it is right that I should speak less of my brother Salvator. I have remembered that since you warned me, and now I will remember this. But I should like”—he came forward as he spoke, still with extended hands, and looked with entreating67 earnestness up into the other’s face—“I should like to have you understand that Salvator is my brother not any the less, and that I love and honor and have pride in my father more than before. This I keep in my own mind, as you advise—but one thing I will do for every one to take note of. I will write my name always ‘Tower.’”
The great-uncle put a big, comforting hand on his shoulder. “I should not dream of blaming you,” he said, gently. “But there is a man to tell us luncheon is ready.”
He nodded comprehension to the servant who had appeared at the opening in the hedge, and, still with his hand on Christian’s shoulder, began to move in that direction.
“One other matter,” said the young man in lowered tones and hurriedly—“from the hill above, awhile ago, I saw my grandfather—in his chair, on the balcony. You said just now that my father hated him—was furious with him. Did he behave cruelly to my father?”
“Oh, no-o,” replied Julius, with an indefinite upward inflection on the deliberate negative. “Not cruelly.”
“But unjustly?”
“Oh, no, not unjustly, either—if only because he never in his life possessed68 the dimmest inkling of what justice meant. The duke is my brother, and I know him much better than any one else living, and so I am free to speak frankly about him. He has been a duke nearly eighty years—which is, I believe, unprecedented—but he has been an ass29 still longer than that.” After a pause he added: “I am going to take you to him this afternoon.”
Christian hung his head as they walked along, and framed in his depressed69 mind more than one further inquiry about this grandsire of his, who held so august a station, and yet had been dismissed so contemptuously, but they did not translate themselves into speech. Nor, later, during the luncheon, was this great personage more than indirectly70 alluded71 to.
The way to this luncheon had led through three or four large rooms, opening one upon the other by small doors, the immediate72 approaches to which were given the effect of passageways by means of screens. What these apartments were used for, or how the residents of the castle distinguished73 them apart in their own minds, Christian could not imagine. To his rapid and curious inspection74, they seemed all alike—each with its bare, indifferently polished floor, its huge stone fireplace, its wainscoting, walls and ceiling of dark, umber-hued wood, and its scant75 store of furniture which only heightened the ruling impression of big empty spaces. An occasional portrait was dimly to be discerned up in the duskiness of the oak panels, but the light from the narrow and small-paned windows was too faint to examine them by. More cheerless or apparently useless rooms the young man had never seen.
Lord Julius seemed to guess his thoughts. “This is all an old part—what might be called mid-Plantagenet,” he explained, as they went along. “My father had these rooms pulled about a good deal, and done up according to Georgian standards, but it was time and money wasted. Even if big windows were cut through they would be too dark for comfort, to our notions. The men who made them, of course, cared nothing at all about daylight, at least inside a house. They spent as little time as possible under roofs, to begin with; they rose at daybreak and went to bed at dark. When they were forced to be under cover, they valued security above all things, and the fewer openings there were in the walls, the better they liked it. They did no reading whatever, but after they had gorged76 themselves with food, sat around the fire and drank as much as they could hold, and listened to the silly rubbish of their professional story-tellers and ballad-singers till they fell asleep. If it happened that they wanted to gamble instead, a handful of rush-lights or a torch on the wall was enough to see the dice24 by.
“Really, what did they want more? And for that matter, what do most of their lineal descendants want more either? Light enough to enable them to tell a spade from a heart, and perhaps to decipher the label on a bottle now and then. Nothing more. The fashion of the day builds plate-glass windows round them, but it is truly a gross superfluity.” The room in which Lady Cressage and the luncheon-table awaited them was of a more hospitable77 aspect. A broad expanse of lawn, and of distant trees and sky-line fading away in the sunny autumn haze78, made a luminous79 picture of the high embrasured window stretching almost from corner to corner across one side. By contrast with the other apartments, the light here was brilliant. Christian, with a little apologetic bow and gesture to the others, dallied80 before the half-dozen portraits on the walls, examined the modeling of the blackened oak panels about them, and lingered in admiring scrutiny81 of the great carved chimney-piece above the cavernous hearth82, on which a fire of logs crackled pleasantly. This chimney-piece was fairly architectural in its dimensions. It was as full of detail, and seemed almost as big, as the west front of a church, and he tipped his head back to look up at its intricate, yet flowing scheme of scrollwork, its heraldic symbolism used now for decoration, now to point the significance, as it were, of the central escutcheon—and all in old wood of so ripe a nut-brown color that one seemed to catch a fragrance83 exhaled84 from it.
“That is the best thing here,” said Edith Cressage, moving over to stand beside him. “It came from Ludlow Castle. Those are the arms of the Mortimers. It is the Mortimers, isn’t it?” She turned to Lord Julius for support. “I always confuse them with the De Lacys.”
“Yes, the Mortimers,” answered Julius, as servants entered, and they took their seats. “But almost every other family of the Marches is represented in the devices scattered85 about. You can see the arrows of the Egertons, the eagles of the Grandisons, and up above, the corbies or ravens86 of the Corbets, and so on. That was the period when the Marches ruled England, and their great families, all married and intermarried and bolstered87 up by the feudal88 structure, were like a nation by themselves. The Mortimers, you know,” he added, turning to Christian, “became practically kings of England. At least they had their grandsons on the throne—but they couldn’t hold it after they had got it. The day of these parts was really over before Bosworth Field. The printing press and Protestantism finished the destruction of its nobility. Only a house here and there has survived among us. Some few of the old names are preserved, like flies in amber89, over in Ireland, but I should not know where to look to-day for a De Lacy, or a Tregoz, or a west country Le Strange, let alone a Mortimer. I suppose, in fact, we have more of the Mortimer blood among us than there is anywhere else.”
Christian, seated so that he faced the great armorial pageant90 spread as a background to the fair head of the lady, smiled wistfully at his companions, but said nothing. The words about his sharing the blood of kings were like some distant, soft music in his ears. He looked at the escutcheons and badges, and sought in a dreamy way to familiarize himself with the fact that they were a part of his own history—that the grandeur92 they told of was in truth his personal heritage.
There was some talk going on between the others—conversation which, for a time, he scarcely strove to follow. Lord Julius had begun by expressing his joy at the absence from luncheon of the physician whom circumstances kept on the premises93, and from this he drifted to an attack upon doctors as a class. He denounced them root and branch, as impostors and parasites94, who darkened and embittered95 human life by fostering all the mean cowardices of smallbrained people, in order that they might secure a dishonest livelihood96 by pretending to dispel97 the horrors their own low tricks had conjured98 up. The robust99 old gentleman developed these violent theories without heat or any trace of excitement, and even maintained a genial22 expression of countenance100 while he spoke. Lady Cressage seemed entertained, and even helped on the diatribe101 now and again with pertinent102 quips of her own. But Christian could see very little sense in such an assault upon a respectable profession, and his attention wandered willingly again to the splendid chimney-piece. He resolved to learn all there was to learn of the heraldry and local history embodied103 in this sumptuous104 decoration, without delay. But then, on every conceivable side there was so much to learn!
Suddenly he became aware that his thoughts had concentrated themselves on the extraordinary badness of the luncheon he was eating. Here at least was something Caermere could not teach him about—nor, for that matter, as it seemed, all England either. Since his arrival in the country, he reflected, he had not encountered one even tolerable dish. Vegetables and fish half raw, meats tasteless and without sauce or seasoning105, bread heavy and sour, coffee unrecognizable, the pastry106 a thing too ridiculous for words—so his indictment107 shaped itself. He felt it his duty to argue to himself that quite likely this graceless and repellent diet was the very thing which made the English such physical and temperamental masters of the world, but the effort left him sad. He made a resolution that if ever Caermere were his a certain white-capped Agostino, in Cannes, should be imported forthwith. Then he became conscious again of what was being said at the table.
“If you could only imagine,” Lady Cressage was saying to Lord Julius, “what a boon109 your coming has been! I had positively almost forgotten what intelligent conversation was like. It seems ages since I last heard ten consecutive110 words strung together on a thought of any description. Let me see—it was June when you were last down, with Sir Benjamin Alstead; he has been here once since—but in your absence he put on such a pompous111 ‘eminent-physician’ manner that really I oughtn’t to count him at all—and with that exception, from June to October, civilization has left poor me entirely112 out of its reckoning. But perhaps”—they had risen now, and there was a certain new frankness, almost confidence of appeal in her glance into his face—“perhaps, as matters have turned, you will come oftener henceforth?”
Lord Julius nodded. “It is quite likely,” he said, and stretched forth108 his hand significantly to Christian’s shoulder. “But you were going to show him the house—and I suppose I may come along too. There is half an hour before we go to my brother—and our train does not leave Clune till nearly six.”
“You are not going to-day! and he too?” she exclaimed, hurriedly.
The old man nodded again. “We are expected at Emanuel’s to-night,” he answered. Then, as Christian had moved toward the window and seemed beyond hearing, he added, in a smiling aside, “There is one reason for dragging him away that is comical enough. It wouldn’t do for him to dine at Caermere in morning clothes, and so far as I can see he has no others.”
“He could be too tired to dine,” she suggested, quickly, in a confidential113 murmur17. “Or, for that matter, there is a room full of Porlock’s things—I suppose—I suppose poor Cressage’s—would be too big for him. Oh, it’s too dreadful to have him whisked off like this! Can’t you send a telegram instead?”
Her tone was as frank as her speech—and on the instant her glance at his face made keen inquiry whether it had not been too frank.
He smiled in a tolerant, almost amused way. “Oh, he will return all in good time,” he assured her, gently enough. “Caermere will see plenty of him, later on.”
“Yes, but who can tell where I shall be then?” The necessity for speaking in an undertone gave her words an added intensity114 of feeling. “And it isn’t only him—I had hoped you would be stopping some days at least—for I wanted to speak with you about this very thing. My position here—the uncertainty115 of everything—is intolerable to bear.” She lifted her head, and turned her direct gaze into his eyes.
“If only you liked me a little better, I could discuss the matter more freely with you.”
“Humbug!” replied Lord Julius, with a geniality which was at least superficially reassuring116. “You shouldn’t say such things, much less think them. I can understand your impatience—but it will be possible to straighten out affairs very soon now. I don’t think you will be found to have suffered by the delay.”
“Oh, that is all right,” she answered, almost pettishly117. “Everybody assures me of the most magnanimous intentions—but in the meantime”—she checked herself, tossed her head in resentment118, apparently, at the tears which had started to her eyes, and forced herself to smile—“in the meantime, you must forgive my tantrums. It is so depressing here—all alone—or worse than alone! I’m really no longer fit to receive anybody. But now”—she raised her voice in an eager simulation of gaiety—“shall the personally conducted tour begin?”
Caermere had been inaccessible119 to so many generations of sightseers that no formula for its exhibition remained. The party seemed to Christian to wander at haphazard120 through an interminable succession of rooms, many of them small, some of them what he could only think of as over-large, but all insufficiently121 lighted, and all suggesting in their meager122 appointments and somber123 dejection of aspect a stage of existence well along on the downward path to ruin. He had only to look about him to perceive why Caermere had long ago been removed from the list of England’s show-places. His companions between them kept his attention busy with comments upon the history and purpose of the apartments they passed through, but beyond a general sense of futile124 and rather shabby immensity he gained very little from the inspection. The mood to postpone125 comprehension of what he was seeing to another and a more convenient time was upon him, and he almost willfully yielded to it.
Once, when impulse prompted him to climb a little ladder-like staircase, and push open a door from which the black dust fell in a shower, and he discerned in the gloom of the attic126 chamber127 piles of armor and ancient weapons, a thrill of fleeting128 excitement ran through his veins129.
“They say that Prince Llewelyn’s armor is there,” called up Lord Julius from the landing below. “Some day we will have it all out, and cleaned and furbished up. But don’t go in now! You’ll get covered with dirt. I used to venture in there and rummage130 about once in a while when I was a boy,” he added as Christian came down. “But even then one came out black as a sweep.”
There were fine broad stretches of rugged131 landscape to be seen here and there from narrow casements132 in the older, higher parts they were now traversing, and occasionally Christian was able to interest himself as well in details of primitive, half-obliterated ornamentation over arches and doorways133 of early periods, but he was none the less almost glad when they came out at last into a spacious134 upper hallway, and halted in tacit token that the journey was at an end.
“Now I will leave you,” said the lady, with lifted skirt and a foot poised135 tentatively over the first step of the broad descending136 stairs. “I shall have tea in the conservatory when you come down.”
Christian felt that something must be said. “It has all been very wonderful to me,” he assured her. “I am afraid I did not seem very appreciative—but that is because the place is too huge, too vast, to be understood quite at once. And I am so new to it all—you will understand what I mean. But I thank you very much.”
She smiled brightly on him and nodded to them both, and passed down the stairway. Christian was all at once conscious, as his eyes followed her, that there was a novel quickening or fluttering of his heart’s action. For a brief second, the sensation somehow linked itself in his thoughts with the tall, graceful figure receding137 from him, and he bent138 forward to grasp more fully91 the picture she made, moving sedately139 along, with a hand like a lily on the wide black rail. Then he suddenly became aware that this was an error, and that he was trembling instead because the moment for confronting his grandfather had come.
Lord Julius, indeed, had already opened a massive mahogany door at the right of the stairs, and signaled to him now to follow.
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1
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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domed
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| adj. 圆屋顶的, 半球形的, 拱曲的 动词dome的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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18
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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19
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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20
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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21
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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22
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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23
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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24
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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25
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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26
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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27
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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28
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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29
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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30
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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31
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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32
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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33
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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34
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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35
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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36
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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37
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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38
archaeology
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| n.考古学 | |
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39
reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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40
installments
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| 部分( installment的名词复数 ) | |
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41
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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42
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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43
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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44
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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45
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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46
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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47
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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48
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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49
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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50
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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51
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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52
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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53
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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54
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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55
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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56
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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57
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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58
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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59
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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60
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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61
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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62
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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63
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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64
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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65
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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66
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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67
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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68
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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69
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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70
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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71
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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73
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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74
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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75
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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76
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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77
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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78
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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79
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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80
dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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81
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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82
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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83
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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84
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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85
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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86
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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87
bolstered
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| v.支持( bolster的过去式和过去分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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88
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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89
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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90
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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91
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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92
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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93
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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94
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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95
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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97
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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98
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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99
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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100
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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101
diatribe
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| n.抨击，抨击性演说 | |
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102
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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103
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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104
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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105
seasoning
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| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
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106
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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107
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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108
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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109
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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110
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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111
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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112
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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113
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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114
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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115
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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116
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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117
pettishly
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118
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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119
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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120
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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121
insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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122
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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123
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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124
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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125
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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126
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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127
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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128
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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129
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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130
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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131
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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132
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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133
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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134
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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135
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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136
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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137
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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138
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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139
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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