"For shame!" says Master Ned, looking down from his galloway upon Betty, with a frown that had sat well on thrice his years.
"Ay, shame indeed," says Betty, yet blushing to the color of a well-boiled beet7; for she well knew it was at herself his words were aimed; "ay, 't is shame indeed for a great maid like little mistress here to sit in the road and weep."
Now Betty spoke8 in the broad fashion of our parts—the Doric, as Mr. Telgrove calls it, that I have heard is well-nigh a foreign language to many. For the not giving this outlandish speech to my readers there are two reasons: the one, that, though I do well understand it myself, as is but natural, and do love the sound of it at times, and can even, at a pinch, shape my own mouth to it as well as my ear, I yet have by no means the skill to set it down, knowing, indeed, no combination of letters able to convey its sounds; and the second reason is, that could I make shift so to write, none could read what I had written—which perhaps, by the well-disposed at least, might be held a blemish9 in my book.
But Master Ned, brushing aside her endeavor to hand on her shame to me, at once declared himself my champion.
"You do not take me," he said, the dark cleft10 of his frown growing deeper between his brows, so that it was a marvel12 to see so much austerity on so smooth and young a face. "When little maids weep, my lass, 't is most times the blame of the great ones."
I know not indeed if Colonel Royston yet hold in this belief; but from that point did I love Master Ned, if, indeed, I had not begun to do so some seconds before. And I was glad that he sat upon his horse, that raised his head some few inches above Betty's cap, for she was indeed a great lass, and twice his age, and his reproof13 had in great measure lost its force had he stood dwarfed14 beside her great body.
From Betty he turned to me, as I sat in the road, and—"Thou art tired, little one," he cried, with a great tenderness in his young countenance15, that to me seemed so old. "If you will ride before me, sweetheart," he said, patting the pommel of his saddle, which was new and fine, as all about his person, "I and Noll will take most gentle care of thee."
At which kind words I rose to my sore feet, stretching out my arms, and crying to him that I would go with him. And, while Betty stood aghast, yet with never a thought her timid and sickly nursling would venture such a deed, I had reached his down-reached hands, had scrambled16 or was pulled into the saddle before my knight-errant, the little horse had plunged17 beneath his double burden, and we were away. As I swayed and bounced on the pommel in the first strides of that gallop18 along the sward that lies between the elm trees and the road, where the air rushed by so cool and green in the shade, he seized me with his right arm, fetching me round against his body so that my chin lay on the arm above the elbow. As my eyes, close shut in the first shock of our flight, came wide in the great comfort of this security, I was gazing back over the way we had sped, and I laughed aloud to see the vain pursuit of Betty. For all but her great self seemed streaming behind her in the wind of her going—cap, hair, and petticoat, while the fatness of her trembled as she ran.
For all this, long as it has been in the telling, happened, as it were, in a single stroke of time, and we were yet little parted from the pursuer. And, as I laughed, Master Royston, between his chidings of his nag20 for so serving us, would know the reason of my mirth—so "Do but see," I cried, "how Betty runs, and you will laugh too." But he could not, till he had tamed and admonished21 little Noll to a better pace for my ease. And when it was time for him to laugh at the quaint22 figure Betty did cut, I had already begun to pity her. But Master Royston would none of it.
"She is very well served," he said, "for her rude manners to thee, little one. I have a mind to give her some more of it. She is weary, is she not?"
"Ay, indeed, poor Bet!" I answered, "else had she not so handled me."
Upon that he drew rein23, saying we should wait till she drew near. After a while, as Noll did crop the grass at his feet, Master Royston asked me if I could sit astride. "It is no shame," he said, "thou art so small a maid." And when I was so set, grasping a double handful of the pony's mane, he said: "When she is close I shall run to the house. Hold thou fast, little love, for Betty must run as never before if she would catch us." And as I would have pleaded she drew near, all spent and blowing, and I felt his knee move, and little Noll did also feel it, and was gone.
Oh, that I had a pen to tell of that ride! This time I was not afraid. This time there was no starting aside, no uneasy casting of my poor small person from side to side in grievous oscillation. And, oh! I say again, for the pen of some poet (yet I cannot tell whose to wish) in order to describe this my first taste of the joy there is in a horse when he is between us and turf good and plenty! Many a mile and many a beast have I ridden since that summer afternoon, and I hope so to ride, by the goodness of God, many a year hence; and yet that long, clean, resilient flight through an air that seemed of liquid green, flecked with the gold of the sun dropping here and there through the elms; the soft, fresh thud of hoof6 meeting turf but to part anew with the impact—that meeting with the soil that gave so lively assurance that Mother Earth was yet kindly24 and strong beneath; the strong rushing of the wind cooling my face and lifting the tangled25 curls back over the close cap; the new-born trust, moreover, in the arm that held me—all these things are with me now, distilled26 into one golden drop of life's very elixir27, being, indeed, one of those gems28 of memory whereof the sweetness can as little be set fast by words as the stamp of them can be erased29 from the mind so sweetly and strangely impressed.
So much for my memory rather of a frame of being than of an ordered consecution of events. The curtain of childish oblivion here descends30, as it is wont31 to fall, swift and dark, on these pregnant spoils of recollection. I think my dear and honored father's arms were those that lifted me from the saddle. I have since heard that Betty was saved by my new friend from the rating Sir Michael had ready for her, receiving privily32 from that youthful master of craft a mint-new crown in earnest of future subsidies33, did she prove thenceforth tender to the little maid. And, indeed, I think she did deserve whatever wage of kindness the future may have brought her. For I have of her no further memory of harsh entreatment.
For Philippa Drayton there now began a new life of the happiest. I had found what all, at one time or another of life, will look for, yet find most often, I truly believe, when they seek him not—I mean a true friend. And there is none but his children and mine that can tell what a friendship it was my friend did give me. He was my playmate, yet of age and wit to control. He was at whiles my tutor, for I would learn of him when none else had the art to keep my eyes five minutes fast on the book. He was my master of equitation, and did teach me in such manner not only to sit upon a horse's back, but also to understand what the animal would be at, that I learned in time to back many a beast that some could not mount with impunity34. Before the five years of our early comradeship were past I would ride the colts round the paddock, often without bridle35 or saddle, and seated astride, as in my first ride with Ned, which I have described above. And he would blame me for a madcap, and yet, if none else were by to see, would laugh at the frolic, and praise my sitting of the nag, and my tricks of control. With his coming into my story, which before was none at all, my old dread36 of animals, along with the ill-health of my earlier days, had vanished, to be replaced by a pure confidence in all that breathed, which in itself, maybe, was to the full as childish, but, without controversy37, far safer for the child. Anon, Ned was himself my steed, to be guided by tuggings of the hair and ears often, I doubt me, little merciful. And, if not the swiftest, he was surely of all I have ridden the most willing. It could not fail that, thus together, we should quarrel often. I mean, it could not fail where such a child as I made one of the pair. But Ned would bear my poutings, my bickerings, and every wayward mood with a smile when he might, and without it when he must. But did some act of mine wrong some other than himself, as when I would cuff38 Betty, or strike dog or horse for the easing of my own passion rather than the fit correction of the animal, then would he show the sterner mettle39 that was in him. Then he would not forgive till confession40 of wrong or pardon was asked. And, was I stubborn, he would stay away, even days together, but I must submit. Once it was a week—seven days, most long and dark for erring41 Mistress Philippa. For he said: "You are my friend, little Phil, and some day I shall wed42 thee, and it is not for my honor that you do thus, or so."
Thus Master Edward Royston, aged43 some fourteen years. Yet was my Ned no untimely saint, fitted but for the fatal love of the gods. Passion and frolic were in him, laughter, and—no, not tears—only twice have I seen them in his eyes, heard them mar11 the government of his speech. Boyish escapades were plentiful44 enough with him to give his mother and my father some knowledge of the unbending nicety in the point of honor which was yet seen in his most boyish prank45 or his strongest passion of anger. For the power also of anger was in him, growing, indeed, in its outburst less frequent as he grew in stature46, but gaining rather than losing force with its rarer manifestation47. I touch on this note of his character designedly, inasmuch as it was the cause of the great change that was soon, I mean at the end of twelve years from our first meeting, to come into my life. But of that in its place.
Sir Michael Drayton, of Drayton Manor48, in the southward part of the county of Somerset, was already well on in years when I, the second child of his second wife, was born. And that was in the eighth year of the second Charles. For he, my father, first saw the light in the year of grace 1609, and thus, at the time of my meeting with Ned, which was in the summer of the year 1673, and in the sixth year of my little life, he had fulfilled sixty-four years, of which number some five and forty had brought him trouble sufficient, on moderate computation, to furnish out a fair portion of strife49 and affliction to six ordinary men. For, ardent50 and devoted51 Cavalier though he was, 't was not the outburst of the great war of the Rebellion that marked the worst point of his troubles. Often in his old age have I heard my dear father tell how, after the tedious and ever embittering52 doubts and hesitations53 of that civil strife that had endured in England since the coming of the first Stuart, to him as to many another the resort to arms came as a clearing of the vexed54 mind and settlement of conscience perturbed55. Of the momentous56 action of the Long Parliament, in the year 1642, I have heard him say: "Then at length our duty was plain. I, for one, slept better o' nights thereafter than I had done since the meeting of the Short Parliament." For Sir Michael had been elected of the shire for that hapless assembly, as subsequently for its successor, the Long Parliament; of his seat in the latter he was illegally deprived when he withdrew from Westminster to join the King at Oxford57, which he did in the late spring of that same year (I mean 1642), in the excellent company of my Lord Falkland and the late Lord Chancellor58 Clarendon, then Sir Edward Hyde. And thenceforth his life was war, and raising of money in order to its prosecution59; in both which perilous60 and comfortless means of assisting his sovereign and of hurting his foes61 Sir Michael Drayton was ever forward, to the most lamentable62 detriment63 of his own person and estate. He raised on his own land, and maintained at his own expense, a troop of horse that were ever with him throughout the first period of that long and evil war, I mean until the fight at Naseby in Yorkshire. There he lost great part of his following upon the field, and was himself grievously hurt. Yet with that scent64, as I may say, which led him in all those years ever where the work was hottest, he was found again in the Welsh rising three years later, whence, escaping after the fall of Pembroke Castle, he joined himself with his little remnant of troopers to the Scots, in bare time to share their overthrow65 at Warrington by the late Protector (although he had not then that title).
Sore in mind, sick in body,—for he was never wholly healed of his great wound in the right thigh66 which he took at Naseby,—he reached home only to hear of his King's terrible end. 'T is perhaps strange to tell that this awful deed of murder and sacrilege put a new heart in that much-buffeted and enduring gentleman, my father. That Martyrdom, I think, went far to atone68, in Sir Michael's mind and heart, for certain wrongs and fickle69 veerings of purpose, proceeding70 as much from the complexion71 as the misfortunes of that pious72 Martyr67 and unhappy King. No word did he ever utter to asperse73 the royal memory; yet once in the passage of these more recent transactions of state, which have brought into my life, as into that of the nation at large, so much of betterment, did I hear him murmur74 (though but as for his own ear alone), "Ay, ay—he served us best, when they served him worst." Be that as it may, from that hour until the happy restoration of King Charles the Second, all that he had—the remnant of health, much of his land, the lives of his sons, the thoughts of his mind, and the prayer of his heart, were given to forward that happy end, which was achieved, as all men know and many remember, in the year 1660—but, for the house of Drayton, at what a cost!
But my father's story I must not make overlong, lest I never come at my own. In brief, then, all his money and much of the Drayton timber, with here and there a fair slice of his land, were gone while the head of the royal Martyr was yet where God had set it. From that fatal day, however, he set himself to the husbanding what God and the rebels had left to him. Here again was disaster in wait for him; for when, by dint75 of living as a peasant, and by help of his breeding of horses (for which he was already famous in the west, and, in the early years of the war, well known to the farriers of Prince Rupert's Horse), he had begun to lay by the means of one day aiding the cause to which his life was given, he was, through the lust76 and malice77 of a certain Puritan neighbor, denounced as a Malignant78, and most heavily fined by the despotic rule of the late Lord Protector Cromwell. Through Mr. Nathaniel Royston (of whom more in good time), he was warned of this instant spoliation, and was so enabled privily to convey his store of gold into France, and to lay it in the hands of his exiled sovereign, to be spent, no doubt, in far other fashion than the earning of it. And though he proved to the commissioners79 sent down upon that proditorious information to be less worth the plucking than had been supposed, yet his acts in the late troubles being known, and somewhat, perhaps, of that sending of money into France leaking out, the blow fell upon him even as his psalm-singing but ungodly neighbor had designed. So, the gold in France, land must be sold. And sold it was, but not as that godly brewer80 of Yeovil did intend—to wit, into his own hand; for here again Mr. N. Royston did us great service, buying of the land which adjoined his own a small portion at so high a price that the great fine was paid with the loss of a few fields.
Yet none the less was the work all to begin again. So begun again it was, and that most stubbornly. And it was well the land was fat, and the breed of horses unmatched in the west country, for, when our western discontent grew to a head in the year 1655, Rupert, his youngest son by his first lady, was with Penruddock at Salisbury, whither he carried and left, on his own undertaking81, most of that painful saving. Some few of his following drifted back to Drayton, but Rupert had spent the gold and himself for his King, even as Sir Michael had now spent all his family. For Henry and Maurice, the elder sons, had fallen, the one at Worcester fight, the other in duel82 with a Frenchman at The Hague, whither he had followed his sovereign, his opponent, it was said, being a spy of Cardinal83 Mazarin, and suspected by my brother of some ill intent to his exiled prince. Over and above all these troubles, that same affair of Penruddock's, so foolish and ill-devised, cost Sir Michael within the year the life of his wife, after a union with her of six and twenty years of that nature as to soften84 much the sting of his many afflictions, though it could not keep her own heart from bursting with the loss of the last child of their love.
His thereafter speedy marriage with my own dear mother, whom I do but faintly remember, had in it no token, whatever the show may have been, of disrespect to the former Lady Drayton. But here again is a story to excel, perhaps, in the right telling of it, the length of my own. Yet I do not purpose a full relation of so much sorrow, holding that the strong hand only of a master in letters should essay the portraiture85 of such tragedy as was in those days often enacted86 in the houses of many an old Royalist family.
Mr. Denzil Holroyd's only surviving child, the lady who afterwards became my mother, had passed a jejune87 childhood in a house impoverished88 by her father's loyalty89 to the Stuart cause, and persecuted90 in the latter days, even to bitterness, for its stanch91 adherence92 to the faith of Rome. She had been the close and tender friend of the first Lady Drayton. Following hard upon the death of that lady came fresh ill-fortune upon the Holroyd family, of which the death of Denzil, its head, was a part; and Mistress Alicia Holroyd, left without a natural protector, and stripped by cruel laws and wicked informers of her last acres, flung herself late of a bitter winter's night against my father's door, begging shelter from the inclemency93 of Nature, and protection from the baseness of her Puritan cousin, who, not content with the filching94 her inheritance, would have added her person to his plunder95 as the price of food and lodging96, hoping thus to make sure his title against future turns of fate. Silas Holroyd pursuing, found her clinging as some frightened child to my father. Silas soon returned the way he came, but after what words with my father was never known, since he dared tell no man what passed between them, and none dared question Sir Michael. Yet Alicia could not dwell in the house where now was no mistress, so out of this difficulty, as of so many another, my father must needs find a way; which indeed he did, as the words he used in telling me of the matter shall now inform any that has read so far in my narrative97. "I told your good mother, little daughter Phil," he said, "that I had little power or credit in the land to help my friend. 'But,' said I, that bitter night that she came to me, 'if you will wed an old man and a broken, there is yet left in Drayton the strength to make some show of cover for the mistress of his board and the partner of his bed. 'T is a poor thing to offer, but it will serve to make a fool of that knave98 Silas, when he shall try, as well I know he will, to recover the custody99 of your person by a process of law, charging me with your abduction. I will cherish you well, if you will have me for husband.'" And if the poor lady let gratitude100 usurp101 the place of love who shall blame her, being in such straits? Not I, her most happy daughter. Were it but for the father she gave me, I will thank her next in order only to her God and mine till I die, and after, I do firmly trust.
And so out of hand they were married, nor do I think either found cause of regret. For the lady found peace, and license102 to practise, as far as might be, the duties of her faith, with now and again the comfort of its holiest offices at the hands of some wandering or hunted priest. For my father's old and loud-spoken hatred103 of Rome, now indeed much softened104 by the mellowing105 of his own temper and the fellow-feeling of a common persecution106, was yet so well fixed107 in the memory of that countryside, that Mistress Alicia Holroyd was generally held to have abjured108 the errors of Rome in committing the error of becoming Lady Drayton. Certain it is, that none ever discovered the secret chapel109 so cunningly hid among the wine vaults110, devised by Sir Michael, and painted and floored, dressed and furnished by no hands save his and those of Simon Emmet. I have heard that Simon would grumble111 as he worked, predicting ill to come of this idolatry. For his own soul, he would say, he cared not so greatly, in the pleasing of so sweet a lady—but, for Sir Michael's, his same sweet lady's, and their children's to come, he would the cursed job were not to do. But, if bidden then to lay down his tools, "Nay," he would say, "you cannot do alone in the business. And if it be sin, as I verily think it, I will not hand it on to another."
From the few and petty memories of my infancy112, antecedent to my first encounter with Ned, there stands out the vision of my mother's face, as she would ascend113 the stair that led, as I understood then, and for many a year thereafter, but from the cellars; the vision of a face shedding upon all a shining calm, so tender, and withal so glorious, as no cunning of the greatest painter's brush, I think, has ever coaxed114 into the nimbus of his saint. It is how I recall her face in my dreams, sleeping or waking. And when I learned at length the secret of the chapel I understood many things that each must find for himself.
Her first child was my brother Philip, born in the year 1658. Ten years later she gave my father his only girl and last child,—me, Philippa, to wit,—and died herself in the first days of the year 1673, some five months before my rescue from Betty at the hands of Master Royston, to which, in this opening chapter, as in my life, I will yet be referring all things, as it were an Hegira115.
And all this time, though I am ever dinning116 this Master Royston, this Ned, this time-worn but, I hope, sempiternal lover, in your ears, as yet introduction of him into these pages does as much lack formal ceremony as did the beginning of our friendship.
Mr. Nathaniel Royston, of Cheapside, in the City of London, was of a well-known and highly respected west-country parentage. Apprenticed117 in London at an early age to a merchant of repute, he had soon displayed considerable sagacity, not only in the intricacies of the Turkey trade, but also in the more perilous and no less subtile labyrinth118 of matters political. As in the first, after winning his way to a large share in the undertakings119 of him who had been his master, he had devoted himself to the patient amassing120 of a large fortune, so in the second he had used his judgment121 and foresight122 to the one end of retaining intact what he had so laboriously123 gathered. I would not be understood to throw anything of blame on his conduct of his life. Ned hath often told me that to his father all governments were alike, for all, he would say, were equally at fault, and that it became a man of his temper and estate to make in each case the best of a bad business. The Turkey trade thriving, Mr. Royston continued to increase by this means of regarding affairs of state, in despite of King and Parliament, Army and Protector, Presbyterian and Independent. And this in so great measure that, in the year 1653, he acquired by honest purchase those lands of the family whose scion124 he was, which lay in the county of Somerset. So he came to live among us, but it was not until two years after the Restoration that his son Edward was born, that being six years after his marriage to the Lady Mary Harlowe. He was wont to say that it was indeed strange that the sole precarious125 venture in the life of a solid and cautious merchant should prove his most profitable, referring in this to his marriage with a lady whose family had been proscribed126 for its affection to the royal cause. In this circumstance, indeed, there would appear to be some resemblance between the fates of my mother and Ned's; with this difference, however, that in Mr. Royston's case love impelled127 to the single hazardous128 act of a lifetime, while in my dear father's, duty and the very danger itself brought about a union ultimately rewarded with affection.
This Mr. Nathaniel Royston, after some twenty years spent mostly at his estate of Royston Chase in our neighborhood, during which time he had much endeared himself to my father by many acts of a thoughtful and temperate129 goodness, which his wealth and general esteem130 well enabled him to perform, died quietly in his bed in the same winter as my dear mother.
Of my own brother Philip, my early recollection is most slender. His was, I believe, ever a studious and contemplative complexion of mind, which had led him at an early age to adopt, against the earnest wish of his father, the erroneous opinions in the matter of religion pressed on him, I am sure, far more earnestly by his mother's spiritual advisers131 than by herself. I have neither wish nor ability to expatiate132 on this subject, and will only say, in justice to both sides, that it was more on account of the sorrow I had seen deeply graved upon my father's face when Philip's adhesion to the Church of Rome was mentioned, than from any ecclesiastical predilection133 of my own, that I found means to resist certain assaults by Philip and others on my own acquiescence134 in the position and authority of the Church of England as by law established.
It fell shortly after the Restoration that the death of the childless Silas Holroyd much simplified the process at law whereby the attempt was making to recover my mother's property. The matter being brought to a successful issue, the revenues of our family became so vastly improved that in the year 1676, when I was eight years of age, and Philip eighteen, he was sent travelling on the continent of Europe with a governor. I heard my father murmur, as he returned to the house after bidding his son farewell: "Pray God it drive some of the folly135 out of him!"
This, in my father's view of it, was far from the result of that foreign tour. After a while he ceased to tell me of Philip and his letters, reading them ever in a clouded silence; till at length I was bidden not to speak of my brother, and I knew some bad thing had befallen, but what, for many years, I did not learn. Nor did I see him after that departure for a space of twelve years. And when at length I did see him—but that I will tell in its place.
I had thought clearly to lay, as it were, the groundwork of my narrative in far fewer words than these that stretch already behind me like a dusty and winding136 road at the traveller's back.
Now, when as a child I would read a tale or history (after that Ned had coaxed and driven both desire and skill of reading into my little head), I did use to pass over the early pages in scorn, and "to come to the part," I would tell the chiding19 Ned, "where things fall to happening." Since many in graver years do keep lively this desire of action and movement in what they read, I am now resolved to reach, as quickly as may be, the place "where things begin happening."
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1
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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2
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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3
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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4
hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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5
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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6
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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7
beet
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| n.甜菜；甜菜根 | |
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8
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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blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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13
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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14
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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21
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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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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23
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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24
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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25
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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26
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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27
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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28
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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29
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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30
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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31
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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32
privily
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| adv.暗中，秘密地 | |
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33
subsidies
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| n.补贴，津贴，补助金( subsidy的名词复数 ) | |
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34
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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35
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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36
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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37
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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38
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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39
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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40
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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41
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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42
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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43
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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44
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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45
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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46
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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47
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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48
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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49
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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50
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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51
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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52
embittering
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
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53
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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54
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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55
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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57
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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58
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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59
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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60
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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61
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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62
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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63
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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64
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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65
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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66
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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67
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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68
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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69
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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70
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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71
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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72
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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73
asperse
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| v.流言；n.流言 | |
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74
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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75
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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76
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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77
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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78
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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79
commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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80
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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81
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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82
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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83
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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84
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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85
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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86
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
jejune
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| adj.枯燥无味的，贫瘠的 | |
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88
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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89
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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90
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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91
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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92
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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93
inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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94
filching
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的现在分词 ) | |
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95
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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96
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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97
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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98
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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99
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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100
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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101
usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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102
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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103
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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104
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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105
mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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106
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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107
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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108
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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109
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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110
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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111
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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112
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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113
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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114
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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115
hegira
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| n.逃亡 | |
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116
dinning
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| vt.喧闹（din的现在分词形式） | |
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117
apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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119
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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120
amassing
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的现在分词 ) | |
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121
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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122
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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123
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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124
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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125
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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126
proscribed
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| v.正式宣布（某事物）有危险或被禁止( proscribe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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129
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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130
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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131
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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132
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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133
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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134
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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135
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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136
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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