Down this street, and underneath9 innumerable symbols of swans, and horses, and eagles, and mermaids10, and falcons11, and doves, and of all those heterogeneous12 mixtures of birds, beasts, and fishes, which the fertile fancy of man ever confounded, were riding, at the time I speak of, various groups of horsemen, while ever and anon the progress of one party or another would be stopped by some man, woman, or child, darting13 out from the arcade at the side, and holding a conversation, short or long, as the circumstances might be, with one of the equestrians14.
Amongst other groups in the gay and animated15 scene, was one which remained ungreeted by any of the good people of the town, but which was suffered to pass along uninterrupted till it reached a second-rate inn, called the Maypole. It consisted of four human beings and three beasts--namely, three men and a woman, two horses, and a sleek16, vicious-looking mule17. On one of the horses was mounted a tall sturdy man in the guise18 of a servant; on the other was evidently a fellow-labourer in the same vineyard; but he was not alone, for on a pillion behind him appeared a female from, covered with a thick veil which shrouded20 the face, so that it was impossible to see whether there was beauty beneath or not, although the figure gave indications of youth and grace which were not to be mistaken.
Jogging along upon the mule, with his legs hanging down easily by the side of the animal, and his fat stomach resting peacefully upon the saddle, was a jolly friar clothed in grey, with his capuche thrown back, the sun not being troublesome, and a bald head--the glistening22 smoothness of which had descended23 by tradition even to Shakspeare's days, and was recorded by him in his Two Gentlemen of Verona--peeping out from a narrow ring of jet black hair, scarcely streaked24 with grey.
His face was large and jovial25, which, in good sooth, was no distinction in those times between one friar and another; but there was withal a look of roguish fun about the corners of his small grey eyes; and a jeering26 smile, full of arch satire27, quivered upon his upper lip, completely neutralizing28 the somewhat sensual and food-loving expression of the under one, which moved up and down every time he spoke29, like a valve, to let out the words that could never come in again. Indeed, he seemed to be one of those easy-living friars who, knowing neither sorrow nor privation in their own persons, appeared to look upon grief and care with a ready laugh and a light joke, as if no such things in reality exist. His rosy30 gills, his double chin, and his large round ear, all spoke of marrow31 and fatness; and, indeed, at the very first sight, the spectator saw that he was not only a well-contented being, but one who had good reason to be so.
Just as they reached the entrance of the tavern6 which we have mentioned, the friar, by some mismanagement, contrived32 to get his mule's hind19 quarters towards the servant, who was riding singly on horseback, and by a touch of the heel, given, apparently33, to make the beast put itself into a more convenient position for all parties, he produced a violent fit of kicking, in the course of which the horseman received a blow upon the fleshy part of his thigh34, which made him roar with pain. The seat upon the vicious beast's back was no easy one, but yet the fat monk35 kept his position, laughing heartily36, and calling his mule a petulant37 rogue38, while he held him by his left ear, or patted his pampered39 neck. As soon as the fit was done, he rolled quietly off at the side, and looking up to his companion, saw, or appeared to see, for the first time, the wry40 faces which the servant man was making.
"Bless my heart!" he cried, "has he touched thee, the good-for-nothing rogue? I will chastise41 him for it soundly."
"If he have not broke my leg it is not his fault," replied the man, dismounting, and limping round his horse; "and you have as great a share in it, mad priest, for bringing his heels round where they had no business to be."
"Nay," rejoined the friar, "I brought not his heels round, he brought them himself, and me along with them. It was all intended to cast me off; so the offence is towards myself, and I shall punish him severely43. He shall have five barley-corns of food less for his misbehaviour."
"Psha!" said the serving-man, looking up at the inn. "You are jesting foully45, friar; I am sorry I let you join us. Is this the hostel46 you boasted had such good wine? It seems but a poor place for such commendation."
"Thou shalt find the liquor better than in any house in Hereford," replied he of the grey gown; "whether you choose mead47, or metheglin, or excellent warm Burgundy, or cool Bordeaux. Taste and try--taste and try; and if you find that I have deceived you, you shall cut me into pieces not an inch square, and sow me along the high road! There is good lodging48, too.--Canst thou not trust a friar?"
The man grumbled49 forth50 some reply not very laudatory51 of the order to which his fat friend belonged; and in a few minutes after, the whole party were seated in a hall, which, for the time being, lacked other tenants52. The usual hour of supper was over, and in many a hostelry of those days the wayfarers53 would have found no food in such a case, unless they brought it with them. But the host was a compassionate54 man, and, moreover, knew right well the twinkle of the jolly friar's eye, so that, for old friendship's sake, many a savoury mess was speedily set before them, together with a large flagon of wine, which fully21 bore out the character that had been given to it by the friar as they rode along.
Under the influence of such consolations56, the serving-man forgot his bruise57; and the lady, laying aside her veil, shewed a pretty face, with which the reader is in some part acquainted, being none other than that which, once happy and bright, graced the door of the little village inn under the name of Kate Greenly. There was some sadness upon that fair countenance58--the cheerful smile was gone, although there was a smile of a different character still left. The freshness, the ease, the lightness, were all wanting; though there was greater depth of thought and feeling in the expression than during the pleasant days of village sport and girlish coquetry. The rough touch of passion had brushed the bloom from the fruit, and Kate Greenly, in look at least, was three or four years older than a few weeks before.
As she put aside her veil to take part in the meal, the eye of the friar fixed59 upon her, till she reddened under his gaze, looking half angry, half abashed60; but the moment after, the colour became deeper still, when he said, "Methinks, fair lady, I have seen that sweet face before."
"Perhaps so," she replied--"I cannot tell. There's many a wandering friar comes to my father's door; but I heed61 them not, good sooth."
The friar laughed, answering gaily--
"Beauty, fair girl, is like the sun--
Is marked by all, but marketh none."
"Try some of these stewed62 eels42, pretty one; they are worthy63 of the Wye, whose waters have no mud to give them a foul44 flavour. Try them--try them--they are good for the complexion64: and now, Master Serving-man, what think you of the wine? Did you ever taste better out of the spare tankard which the butler hideth behind the cellar door?"
The serving-man was forced to admit that he had seldom drunk such good liquor, and gradually getting over the ill humour which had been sharpened by a lurking65 suspicion that the heels of the mule had been turned towards him by human agency rather than the brute's own obstinacy66, enjoyed his supper, and laughed and talked with the friar till the wine seemed to mount somewhat into the brain of both.
In the meanwhile, the light-o'-love, Kate Greenly, sat by for some three quarters of an hour, melancholy67 in the midst of mirth. The thoughts of home had been called up in her heart by the monk's words--the thoughts of home and happy innocence68! and she now found that in giving up every treasure with which Heaven had gifted her lot, for one trinket that, she could not always wear upon her hand, she had made a mighty69 sacrifice for an uncertain reward. The only object that could console her was away; and after enduring for the space of time we have mentioned the pangs70 of others' mirth, she rose, and said she would seek her chamber71, as they had to proceed early.
The two serving-men sat idly at the table, leaving her to find her way alone, for they reverenced73 but little their master's leman; but the jovial fat friar started up from his seat with an activity which he seemed little capable of, saying, "Stay, stay, pretty one--I will call my host or hostess to you. They are worthy, kind people, as ever lived," and he walked side by side with her towards the door.
Had the eyes of her two companions been upon her, they would have seen her start as she was quitting the room with the friar; but their looks were directed to the tankard which was passing between them, and in a moment after, the rich full voice of the grey gown was heard calling for the host and hostess. In another instant he rolled back into the room, and resuming his place at the table, did as much justice as any one to the good wine of the Maypole.
"Here's to thy lord, whosoever he may be!" cried the friar, addressing the serving-man whom his mule had kicked. "God prosper74 his good deeds, and frustrate75 his bad ones, if he commits any!"
"I'll not drink that," replied the worthy who had carried Kate Greenly behind him. "I say, God prosper my master, and all his works--good, bad, and indifferent. I have no business to take exceptions."
"Tut, man, drink the toast, and sing us a song!" cried he of the grey gown.
"Sing first, thyself, fat friar," answered the serving-man.
The friar rejoined, "That I will!" and after taking another deep draught76, he poured forth, in full mellow77 strains, the well-known old song,
"In a tavern let me die,
And a bottle near me lye,
That the angelic choir78 may cry,
God's blessing79 on the toper!" etc.
The song was much applauded, and as both the friar's companions were now sufficiently80 imbued81 with drink to be ready for any species of jollity, the same musical propensity82 seized upon them both in turn, and they poured forth a couple of strains, which, if they could be found written down in the exact terms in which they were sung, might well be considered as invaluable83 specimens84 of the English poetry of that early age. As they had no great tendency to edification, however, and contained more ribaldry than wit, the gentle render will probably excuse their omission85 in this place.
While thus with mirth and revelry three out of the personages whom we saw arrive at the inn passed more than one hour of the night, the fourth was ushered86 to a chamber hung with dark-painted cloth, while a lamp placed in the window shewed a deep recess87 projecting over the street, and making, as it were, a room within the room. The hostess accompanied Kate Greenly to her apartment, and for some time bustled88 about, seeing that all was in order, much to the poor girl's discomfort89. In vain she assured the good landlady90 that she had all she wanted; in vain she expressed weariness and a desire to retire to bed: still the hostess found something to set to rights, some table to place, some stool to dust, while ever and anon she declared that her girls were slatterns, and her chamberlain a lazy knave91. At length she turned towards the door, and Kate Greenly thought that she was going to be freed from her presence; but it was only to call for her husband, and to tell him, at the top of her voice, that he was "wonderful slow."
The poor girl could bear it no longer, but approaching the deep recess, where the lamp stood in the window, she mounted the two little steps, which separated it from the rest of the room, and standing92 close to the light, unfolded a paper which she held in her hand. At first she could scarcely see the words which were written therein, but shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed intently on the lines, and read,--
"Return to your father; leave him not broken-hearted with shame and sorrow! If you are willing to go back, I will soon find means; for I have more help at hand than you wot of. Say but one word to the hostess, and ere daylight to-morrow you shall be on the way to Barnesdale. As I know the whole, so I tell you that the last hope is before you. If you go back you may have peace and ease, though you have cast away happiness; if you go forward, you may have a few hours of joy, but a long life of misery93, neglect, destitution94, and despair, without the hope of this world or the hope of the next.
"THE FRIAR."
Kate trembled very much, and her whole thoughts seemed to refuse all direction or control; but at that moment the host of the Maypole himself appeared, bearing a small silver chalice95 of warm wine, and a plate filled with many-coloured comfits.
"I pray you, taste the sleeping-cup," he said, approaching his fair guest; and as she mechanically followed the common custom of the day in taking the cup, putting a few comfits in, and raising it for an instant to her lips, she saw the eyes of both her companions fix upon her countenance with a look of interest and inquiry96, and perceived at a glance that they also had, in some way, been made acquainted with her history.
The burning glow of shame--the first time that she had felt it fully--came into Kate Greenly's cheek, but it only roused her pride; and instead of trampling97 that viper98 of the human heart under her feet, after a moment's pause to recover herself, she said, with the look and air of a queen--
"I want nothing more. You may go! If I want aught else, I will call."
The host and hostess retired99, wishing her good night; but she thought she saw upon the man's lip one of those maddening smiles which say more than words, but do not admit of reply.
The moment they were gone she clasped her hands together, and burst into tears--tears, not calm and soothing100; tears, not bitter and purifying; but tears of fierce and passionate55 anger at meeting, perhaps, kinder treatment than she deserved. Seating herself upon the step to the window, she sobbed101 for a few minutes with uncontrollable vehemence102; and then, starting up, she approached the lamp, and once more read the lines she had received.
They seemed to change the current of her thoughts again, for her eye fixed upon vacancy103, the paper dropped from her hand, and once or twice she uttered, in a low, solemn voice, the word "Return!"
"Oh no!" she cried at length, "no; I cannot return. What! return to my father's house, with every object that my eyes could light upon crying out upon me, and telling me what I was once, and what I am now,--to have the jeers104 and smiles and nods of my companions, and be pointed105 at as the light-o'-love and the wanton!--to be marked in the walk, and in the church, to be shunned106 like a leper, to be pitied by those who hate me most, and looked cold upon by those who loved me! No, no, no! I can never return. There is no return in life from any course that we have once taken.--I feel it, I know it now. We may strive hard, we may look back, we may stretch forth our arms towards the place from which we set out; but we can never reach it again, struggle however we may. No, no; I must forward! I have chosen my path, I have sealed my own fate, and by it I must abide107!"
She paused and thought for several minutes, and as she did so, it would seem, the fears and apprehensions108, the doubts and anxieties, that dog the steps of sin, the hell-hounds that are ever ready to fall upon their prey110 the moment that lassitude overtakes it on its onward111 course, seized upon the heart of poor Kate Greenly with their envenomed teeth.
Yes, you may struggle on, poor thing; you may burst away, for an instant, from the fangs112 that hold, you may get a fresh start and run on, thinking that you have distanced them, but those fell pursuers, Fear and Apprehension109, Doubt and Anxiety, are still behind you, and shall hunt you unto death!
They were now, for the first time, tearing the sides of their victim; and the shapes they assumed may be discovered by the words that broke from her in her mental agony--"He will never surely abandon me!--he will never surely ill-treat me! after all that he has promised, after all that he has told me, after all that he has sworn! He will never surely be so base, so utterly113 base!--and yet why has he not come on with me? Why, after two poor days' companionship, send me on with serving-men? If he needs must to London, why not take me with him?--But no," she continued, soothing herself with fond hopes, "no, it cannot be; he has some weighty business on hand requiring instant dispatch. Doubtless his journey was too swift and fatiguing114 for a woman.--Oh, yes, he will come back to me soon.--Perhaps he is already at his castle--perhaps I may see him to-morrow:" and she clapped her pretty hands with joy at the happiness which imagination had called up.
At that moment, however, by one of those strange turns of thought which the mind sometimes suddenly takes, whether we will or not--like a bird struggling away from the hand that would hold it--the image of poor Ralph Harland rose up before her, and the satisfaction she felt at the idea of again seeing her seducer115, seemed to contrast itself painfully in imagination with the anguish116 which he must endure at never beholding117 more the object of his earliest love, and knowing that she was in the arms of another.
"What," she asked herself, "what would be my own feelings under such circumstances?" and the answer which naturally sprang to her lips from the eager and passionate heart that beat within her bosom118, was, "I should kill some one and die!"
The contemplation, however, was too painful; she would think of it no more. Sorrow and repentance119 had not yet sufficiently taken hold of her, to render it difficult for Kate Greenly to cast away thought with the usual lightness of her nature, and she answered the reproaches of conscience, as usually happens, with a falsehood.
"Oh, he will soon find some one to console him!" she said; and for fear of her own better judgment120 convicting her of an untruth, she hastened to employ herself on the trifles of the toilet, and to seek in sleep that repose121 of heart which her waking hours were never more to know. But there was a thorn in her pillow too, and her nights had lost no small portion of their peace.
The following morning dawned bright and clear, and Kate Greenly's state of mind was changed. Fears and apprehensions, self-reproach and regret, had vanished with the shades of night. The stillness, the darkness, the solitude--those powerful encouragers of sad thoughts--were gone; the busy, bustling122, sunshiny day was present; she heard songs coming up from the streets, she heard voices talking and laughing below; all the sounds and sights of merry life were around her; and her heart took the top of the wave, and bounded onward in the light of hope. Her only care, as she dressed herself in the morning, was, how she should meet the keen grey eye of the Friar; but that was soon resolved. She would frown upon him, she thought; she would treat him with silent contempt, and doubtless he would not dare to say another word, for fear of calling upon himself chastisement123 from her two attendants.
She was spared all trouble upon the subject, however, for the friar had departed before daybreak. She had sent him no answer by the hostess, and her silence was answer enough.
After a hasty meal the light-o'-love and those who accompanied her once more set out upon their way, and rode on some fifteen miles down the Wye without stopping. Not that the two serving-men would not willingly have paused, at one of the little towns they passed, to let the fair companion of their journey take some repose; but Kate herself was eager to proceed. Hope and expectation were busy at her heart--hope, that like a moth124, flies on to burn itself to death in the flame of disappointment.
At length, upon a high woody bank, showing a bold craggy face towards the river--the reader who has travelled that way may know it, for a little country church now crowns the trees--appeared a small castellated tower, with one or two cottages seeking protection beneath its walls. The serving-man who rode beside her pointed forward with his hand, as they passed over a slight slope in the ground, which first presented this object to their sight, saying, "There is the castle, Madam."
Kate looked forward, and her eyes sparkled; and in a few minutes more they were entering the archway under the building.
The castle was smaller than she expected to see it. It was, in fact, merely one of those strong towers which had been built about a century before, for the protection of the Norman encroachers upon that fair portion of the island, into which the earliest known possessors of the whole land had been driven by the sword of various invaders126. Many of these towers, with a small territory round them, had fallen into the possession of the younger sons of noble families; upon the mere125 tenure127 of defending them against the attacks of the enemy; and although the incursions of the Welsh upon the English lands were now much less frequent than they had been some time before, the lords of these small castles had often to hold them out against the efforts of other still more formidable assailants.
It mattered not to Kate, however, whether the place was large or small: how furnished or decorated was the same to her. It was his castle--his, to whom all her thoughts and feelings were now given; and she looked upon it but as the home of love and joy, where all the hours of the future were to be passed.
Her disappointments began almost at the threshold. An old warder who let them in, not only said in a rough tone, that Sir Richard de Ashby had not yet arrived, but gazed over the form of the female visitor with a look of harsh and somewhat sullen128 displeasure. He murmured something to himself too, the greater part of which she did not hear, but words that sounded like--"This new leman," caught her ear, and made her start, while a thrill of agony indescribable passed through her bosom at the thought of a name which might but too justly be applied129 to her. The eyes of two or three archers130, however, who were hanging about the gate, were upon her, as she knew; and, fancying that the same term might be in their hearts also, she hurried on after the old warder, who said he would show her the chamber which had been prepared for her by his master's orders.
She found it convenient, and fitted up with every comfort, some of the articles being evidently new; and she concluded, with love's eager credulity, that these objects had been sent down to decorate her apartment, and make every thing look gay and cheerful in her eyes. She was well used also; but still, amongst the men who surrounded her, there was a want of that respect, which, although she knew she had fairly forfeited131 all claim to it, she was angry and grieved not to obtain. She had fancied, in her idle vanity, that the concubine of a man of rank would approach, in a degree at least, to the station of his wife; and she now consoled herself with believing that she could easily induce Richard de Ashby, if not to punish such want of reverence72, at least to put a stop to it. But day passed by, after day, without the appearance of him for whom she had sacrificed all; and melancholy memories and vain regrets kept pouring upon her mind more and more strongly, till she could hardly bear the weight of her own thoughts.
At length, one day, towards eventide, she saw, as she wandered round the battlements, which were left unguarded, a small party of horsemen coming up over the hill; and, with impatience132 which would brook133 no restraint, she ran down to meet him who, she was convinced, was now approaching. The old warder would have prevented her from passing the gate, but she bade him stand back in so stern and peremptory134 a tone that he gave way: for few are the minds upon which the assumption of authority does not produce some effect.
Kate Greenly was not mistaken. The party consisted of her seducer, and four or five soldiers, whom he had obtained at Hereford, for the purpose of strengthening his little garrison135, war being by this time imminent136, and the post that he held considered of some importance.
Richard de Ashby sprang down from his horse to meet her, and kissed her repeatedly, with many expressions of tenderness and affection. It is true, he spoke to her lightly; called her "Pretty one," and used those terms with which he might have fondled a child, but which he would never have thought of employing to a woman he much respected. To other ears, this might have marked the difference between Kate Greenly's real situation, and that which fancy almost taught her to believe was hers; but poor Kate saw it not; for happiness swallowed up all other feeling. He was with her--he was kind--he was affectionate--she was no longer a solitary137 being, without love, or joy, or occupation, or self-respect, and that evening, and the next day, and the next, passed over in happiness, which obliterated138 every sensation of remorse139 for the past or apprehension for the future.
Gradually, however, a change came over Richard de Ashby; he lost some of his tenderness--he now and then spoke angrily--he would be out on horseback the whole day, and return at night, tired, imperious and irritable140. Kate tried to soothe141 him, but tried in vain. He uttered harsh and unkind words--he laughed at her tears--he turned from her caresses142.
It were painful to pursue and recapitulate143 the very well-known course of the events which, in nine cases out of ten, follow such conduct as she had adopted. The retribution was beginning. The pangs of ill-requited affection, of betrayed confidence, and of disappointed hope, rapidly took possession of the young, light, wilful144 heart, which had inflicted145 the same on others; and, in the gentler paroxysms of her grief, Kate would sit and think of young Ralph Harland, and his true love, of the father she had deceived and disgraced, of the happy scenes of her childhood and her youth, her village companions, her innocent sports, the flowers gathered in the early morning, and the Maypole on the green.
Of all these she would think, I say, in the gentler moments of her sorrow, and would sit and weep for many an hour together. But there were other times, when a fiercer and a haughtier146 mood would come upon her, when disappointed vanity and irritated pride would raise their voice, as well as injured love; and dark and passionate thoughts would pass through her mind, sometimes flashing forth fiery147 schemes of vengeance148, like lightning from a cloud, soon swallowed up in the obscurity again. An angry word, also, would often break from her when she saw herself trifled with, or neglected, or ill-treated, but it only excited a mocking laugh, or some insulting answer. It seemed, indeed, as if Richard de Ashby took a pleasure in seeing her fair face and beautiful figure wrought149 by strong passion; for, when he beheld150 her wrath151 kindled152, he would urge her on, with mirth or taunts153, till the fire would flash from her eyes, and then drown itself in tears.
There was still, however, so much of unsated passion yet left in his bosom, as to make him generally soothe her in the end; and, though sometimes Kate's heart would continue to burn for a whole day, after one of these scenes, they generally ended with her face hid on his bosom. The very quickness and fiery nature of her spirit, indeed, gave her charms in his cold, dissolute eyes, which none of the softer and the weaker victims who had preceded her had ever possessed154. It kept his sensations alive, amused and excited him, and he treated her as a good cavalier will sometimes treat a fiery horse, which he now spurs into fury, now reins155 and governs with a strong hand, now soothes156 and caresses into tranquillity157 and gentleness.
His servants marked all this, and smiled, and one would turn to another and say, "This has lasted longer than it ever lasted before. She must have some spell upon him, to keep his love for a whole month!" But it was clear to see that, under such constant vehemence and irritation158, affection, on her part, at least, could not long endure, or that, as will sometimes happen, love would change its own nature, and act the part of hate.
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1
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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falcons
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| n.猎鹰( falcon的名词复数 ) | |
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heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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equestrians
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| n.骑手（equestrian的复数形式） | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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23
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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24
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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25
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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26
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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27
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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28
neutralizing
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| v.使失效( neutralize的现在分词 )；抵消；中和；使（一个国家）中立化 | |
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29
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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30
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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31
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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32
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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33
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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34
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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35
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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36
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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37
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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38
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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39
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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41
chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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42
eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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43
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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44
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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45
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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46
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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47
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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48
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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49
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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50
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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52
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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53
wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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54
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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55
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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56
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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57
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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58
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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59
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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60
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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62
stewed
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|
| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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63
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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64
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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65
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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66
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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67
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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68
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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69
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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70
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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71
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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72
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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73
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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74
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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75
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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76
draught
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|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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77
mellow
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|
| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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78
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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79
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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80
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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81
imbued
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|
| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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82
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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83
invaluable
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|
| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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84
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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85
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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86
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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88
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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89
discomfort
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|
| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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90
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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91
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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92
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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93
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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94
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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95
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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96
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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97
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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98
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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99
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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100
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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101
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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102
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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103
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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104
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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106
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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108
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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109
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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110
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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111
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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112
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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113
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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114
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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115
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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116
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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117
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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118
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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119
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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120
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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121
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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122
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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123
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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124
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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125
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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126
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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127
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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128
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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129
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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130
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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131
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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133
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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134
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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135
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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136
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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137
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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138
obliterated
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|
| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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139
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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140
irritable
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|
| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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141
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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142
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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143
recapitulate
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| v.节述要旨，择要说明 | |
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144
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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145
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
haughtier
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的比较级形式 | |
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147
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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148
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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149
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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150
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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151
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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152
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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153
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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154
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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155
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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156
soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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157
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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158
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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