Old Mark Challoner's death was emphatically a "bad business" for Dr. Barford, and he said so (to himself) quite frankly3. The Squire4 had been a very profitable and by no means a troublesome or exacting5 patient to the worthy6 doctor for a considerable time, and it was not pleasant to him to know that the attendance which brought much that was agreeable with it, in addition to liberal and regularly-paid fees, was at an end. Dr. Barford looked at Miles Challoner, and a mild despondency possessed7 itself of his soul. Miles was a model of health and strength; his complexion8 indicated unconsciousness of the presence of bile in his system, and he looked as little like a man troubled, or likely to be troubled, with nerves, or fancied ailments9 of any kind, as need be. So Dr. Barford felt his footing at Rowley Court was a thing of the past, and mentally bade it farewell with a plaintive10 sigh. He was an honest little man, and kind-hearted too, though he did think of the event, as we all think of every event in which we are concerned, from a selfish standpoint; and he was frankly, genuinely sorry for his old friend; and Miles recognised the sincerity11 of feeling in him, and threw off his absence of mind, and shook hands with him over again, thanking him for the skill and care that had availed so long, none the less warmly that it could avail no longer.
Miles Challoner's grief for his father was very deep and poignant12. His nature was acutely sensitive, and he had the power of feeling sorrow more intensely than most men, while he lacked the faculty13 for shaking it off, and betaking himself to the way of life which had been his before the trouble came upon him, which most men possess, and find very useful in a world which affords little time and has not much toleration for sentiment. Loneliness fell heavily upon him, and the society which in the winter would have been within his reach was not available now. The season was well on in London, and most of the people who formed the not very extensive neighbourhood of Rowley Court were in town; so that Miles Challoner was all uncheered by neighbourly kindness, and his evenings were especially solitary14.
Incidental to his position as sole heir to the diminished but still respectable possessions of the Challoners, a great deal of business had to be gone through which was particularly distasteful to Miles. The family lawyer lived in London, of course, but his personal services had not been needed. Old Mark Challoner had set his house very thoroughly15 in order; no rents were in arrear16, the debts were few, and the tenants17 were orderly and well-behaved. They had liked their old landlord well enough, and had been somewhat afraid of him. They were not quite sure whether they should approve altogether so much of the new one. Not that Miles had done anything to offend his father's people; not that he had saliently departed from, or violently transgressed18, the traditions of conduct of the foregone Challoners; not that there was the slightest suspicion of milk-sopism attaching to Miles; but there was an uneasy notion abroad that Miles did not take much interest in the old place, that he cared over-much for books and "Lunnon," and was rather degenerately19 ignorant in matters appertaining to agriculture. On the whole, though there was no disaffection among the Rowley-Court tenantry, there was not much enthusiasm. Men who would have thought it a desperate hardship, an entirely20 unnatural21 and unheard-of slight indeed, if they had not been, whenever they desired it, immediately admitted to an interview with old Mark Challoner, were perfectly22 satisfied to transact23 their business with Mr. Styles the steward24, and displayed to the deputy very little curiosity respecting his principal. They talked about Miles a little among themselves, wondering whether he would not marry soon, and supposing, in rather depreciatory25 accents, that he would bring a lady from "Lunnon."
"Glo'ster won't do for him, depend on it," said farmer Bewlay to the buxom26 wife of farmer Oliver; "he'll be having a fine madam, what'll want to be six months among the furriners, and save all she can at home the other six. Times have changed since the old Squire brought his pretty little wife home, and she shook hands with us all in the churchyard, after morning prayers, her first Sunday here, and told us how she knew us all already, from her husband's talk."
"I don't remember it myself," said farmer Oliver's buxom wife; "but I've heard Tummas talk of it, and how she looked up at the old Squire when she said, 'my husband,' and smiled just like a summer morning."
"Ay, indeed she did," assented27 farmer Bewlay; "but he wasn't the old Squire then, but a brave and good-looking gentleman; and she was a pretty girl, was madam, when she came to Rowley Court, and pretty up to the time they carried her out of it. I helped in that job; and the Squire had nowt but his little boys left."
"Has anybody heerd tell anything about Master Geoffrey?" said farmer Oliver's wife, dropping her voice, and looking round her, as people look who are talking of things which are not, or should not be, generally mentioned. "Does Mr. Styles say anything about him? Does Mr. Styles know where he is?"
"Mr. Styles never mentions him. I don't believe he knows any more than we do where he is, or what has become of him. A handsome child he was, and a handsome boy, though small and sly and cruel in his ways, and no more like the Squire, nor madam neither, than I am. You remember Master Geoffrey, surely?"
"O yes, I remember him. How the Squire changed after he went away! He ran away to sea, didn't he?"
"Some folk said so; but for my part I don't believe it. The sea, from all I've ever heard tell of it, ain't an easy life, nor a gay life, for the matter o' that; and wherever Master Geoffrey run to--and it's certain sure he can somewheres--it wasn't to sea, in my opinion. I don't know; I only have my own thoughts about it; and I ha'n't no means of knowin'. Anyhow he went, and Squire was never the same man after; he were always good, and fond of the place, and that he were to the last; but he never had the same smile again, and I never see him talking to the children about, or patting them on the head, or doing anything like what he used."
The honest dark eyes of Polly Oliver filled with tears. "It's all true," she said, "and more than that. When our Johnny were lying in the measles28, and very near his end, the Squire came down one day along with Dr. Barford, the physician, you know. He thought there ought to be someone beside the doctor to see the child; and when Dr. Barford told us--very kind and feeling like, I must say--as the child couldn't be left with us any longer, and I began to cry, as was only natural, and made no difference to me who was there, Squire or no Squire, he says to me, quiet like, but I can hear the words now, 'You won't believe me, Mrs. Oliver, and it would be hard to expect you should; but there are worse things in life than seeing your boy die;' and then he went away. And when Johnny was buried, and I had time to think of anything else, I thought of the Squire's words; and many a time I wondered what was the meaning that was in them, and knew it must be Master Geoffrey's doing somehow, but how I did not know, and I suppose no one knows."
"I don't know about that," said farmer Bewlay; "it's likely as Mr. Miles knows, and Mr. Geoffrey; but I'm sure Styles doesn't: and outside them two, and the Squire in his grave, I daresay nobody in this world knows the rights of the story."
While the people over whom Miles Challoner had come to reign29 in the course of nature thus curiously30, but not unkindly or with any lack of feeling, discussed the actualities and the probabilities of his life, and raked up the memory of that mysterious family secret, strongly suspected to be of a calamitous31 nature, which had long been hidden by the impenetrable silence of the Squire, and now lay buried in his grave, Miles Challoner himself was much occupied with the selfsame subject. The unanswered question which he had asked his father in his last moments,--the unsolved enigma32 which had disturbed his mind for years, which haunted him now, and made all his life seem unreal, wrong, and out of joint,--. rose up before him, and engaged his thoughts constantly, almost to the exclusion33 of every other matter for reflection except his father's death. The two linked themselves together in a strong bond of pain, and held him in their withes. This time was a very heavy one to the new master of Rowley Court.
His position was irksome to him. The privileges of proprietorship34 had no charms for Miles Challoner. He disliked the business details in which it involved him; he shrunk from the keenly painful associations it produced; he suffered much from his loneliness,--from the loneliness of the Court generally. Hitherto, whenever he had been away, he had returned to enjoy the tranquillity--tranquillity which, when it was tasted as a change, he appreciated very highly, but which as the normal state of things wearied him rapidly and excessively. He had had much companionship, in and since his boyhood, with his father, and the blank left by the old Squire's death was indeed complete. Miles Challoner, without deserving precisely35 the appellation36 of a student, was fond of books. He was well-educated, not in a very profound, but in a tolerably extensive and various sense; and his taste took a literary turn early in life, which, wholly unshared by his father, had been encouraged, fostered, and directed by his father's friend, Lord Sandilands. Miles was a man of few intimacies37. He liked society; but no one would ever have called him sociable38: he had much more the air of frequenting general, in order to keep clear of particular society; and this really was the case. Upon his sensitive disposition39 the family secret, concerning which he had vainly questioned his father on his death-bed, weighed heavily. It set him apart, and kept him apart from anything like intimacy40 with young men of his own age, because he felt that they too would be always trying to find out that of which he himself was ignorant; and he was not at ease with the older people, his father's contemporaries and neighbours, because he was not sure whether they had any inkling or certain knowledge of the family secret,--whether they were all in a conspiracy41 to keep him in the darkness to which his father had condemned42 him from the period of his brother's disappearance43. Would Mark Challoner have at last confided44 the truth to his son, had a little more life, a little longer time, been accorded to him? This was the vain question which Miles asked himself as he sat moodily45 in the library after his solitary dinner, and watched the sun go down in a sea of gold and azure46 behind the grand old woods of Rowley Court, or strolled about the terrace listlessly, until the night fell. He could never answer it--no one could ever answer it; but this did not keep Miles Challoner from pondering upon it. He felt quite certain that there was but one man in the world who could resolve his doubts, who could tell him the worst,--might it not rather be the best--of this matter, which so sorely perplexed47 him. That man was Lord Sandilands. If anyone knew the truth, it was he; but whether Miles would ever hear it from him depended, as he felt, entirely on the terms on which the communication had been made, if it had been made at all, by his father to Lord Sandilands. That the family lawyer knew nothing of it, Miles felt confident; that Mr. Styles, the steward, was as ignorant and as curious, if not as anxious, as himself, he had no doubt whatever. There was no one to share, no one to aid, his mental inquietude. Was his brother living, or was he the only--the last--one bearing the old name left?
Very shortly after Mark Challoner's funeral had taken place, his son had instituted the strictest possible search among the documents of all kinds which the house contained, for any letters or papers bearing upon the mysterious occurrences which had changed the aspect of affairs at Rowley Court while the old Squire's sons were yet boys, and had shut the younger out from his father's house into banishment48 and oblivion. This search, which Miles had conducted quite alone, and had been careful to keep from the knowledge of the servants, had been entirely unrewarded by success, and had only revealed to Miles a circumstance which still further deepened the mystery which tormented49 him, and increased its distressing50 effect. Not only did there not exist among the Squire's papers any memoranda51, letters, or documents of any description bearing upon, or having any reference to, the period at which Geoffrey Challoner had left Rowley Court, but none existed in any way, directly or indirectly52, relating to him. Not a scrap53 of his writing as a child, though Miles found his own little letters to his father and mother carefully treasured up, with the correct dates noted55 upon each packet; and his portrait, as a baby of three years old, hung over the mantelpiece of his father's bedroom. But there was no likeness56 of Geoffrey. By an effort of memory Miles recalled the taking of that little portrait; he remembered how he had sat upon his father's knee, and played with the heavy gold hunting-watch, which was his especial delight--it was ticking away still in a watch-stand in the library--while the artist did his work. He remembered how his hair had been additionally brushed and curled for the occasion; and--yes, now he distinctly remembered that Geoffrey's portrait had also been painted. Where was it? What had been done with it?
All the circumstances returned to Miles Challoner's memory. The two pictures had hung side by side for years. Where was that of the younger son? The Squire had gone abroad for a short time, and the brothers had remained at Rowley Court under the care of their tutor. They had both written regularly to their father; and Miles found all his own letters of that period carefully preserved, arranged according to their dates, and indorsed, in his father's hand, "My Son's Letters, 18-." But there was no scrap of Geoffrey's writing, there was no trace that he had ever lived, to be found within the walls of Rowley Court. Only when Miles went into the room which had been the brothers' study, only when he entered and looked round the long-unused apartments which had been their nursery and play-room, could he realise that there had been two in that stately old house eleven years ago. The room which had been his wife's had always been occupied by the Squire after her death; otherwise Miles would have hoped to find some little memento57 of his brother there,--there, where he could dimly remember--or was it fancy, and not memory?--- a gentle pale face turned wistfully towards him when, a very little child, he was brought to see the fading mother who had been early and mercifully taken away from the evil to come. From evil indeed, from terrible and irremediable evil Miles Challoner felt it must have been; else why the hopeless banishment, why the impenetrable silence, why the apparently58 complete oblivion? He brooded upon these things in the solitude59 to which the first few weeks of his proprietorship of Rowley Court were devoted60, almost to the exclusion of every other subject of thought; and Mr. Styles found him singularly inattentive and indifferent to the details of his property and his squirearchical duties, as that experienced person laid them before him.
"I can't make him out, and that's the truth," Mr. Styles remarked to Dr. Barford one day that the steward met the doctor taking his gig by a short cut through a lane which formed the boundary of Rowley Court on one side,--"I really can't make him out. He cares for nothing; and it is not natural for a young gentleman like him. I was talking to him this morning about the likely look of the turnips61 on the Lea Farm, and I'm blessed if he heard one word in ten; and when I asked him a question, just to rouse him up like, he said, 'O, ah! turnips, I think you said? Of course do as you think best;' which was altogether complete nonsense. Of course he's cut up about the Squire; and very natural and right it is he should be so; but it ain't natural and it ain't right to go on as he's going. And it's my belief," said Mr. Styles, as he removed his hat, took his checked pocket-handkerchief out of the crown, gave his face a desponding wipe with it, and replaced it,--"it's my belief as he don't know the difference between turnips and pine-apples; and there's a fine promise too, such as a man might look to getting some credit along of."
"That's bad, Styles; that's bad," said Dr. Barford; "I don't like to hear that my old friend's son is taking to moping. I'll call up at the Court and see him to-morrow. Good-day, Styles;" and the Doctor drove on, thinking gravely of the changes he had seen at Rowley Court, though he knew as little of their origin as everybody else knew.
On the following day, as Miles Challoner and the Doctor walked together upon the stone terrace, Miles stopped on the very spot whence his father had taken his last look at the lands which had called him master so long; and, looking full and earnestly at his companion, asked him: "Dr. Barford, do you know why my brother left his home? Do you know what that grief was which my father had on his mind while he lived, and when he died?"
Dr. Barford hesitated for a moment before he replied to Miles Challoner's question, but his hesitation62 arose from surprise, not from uncertainty63. There was not the least tone of doubt or reserve in his voice and manner as he answered: "No, Mr. Challoner, your question surprises me very much; but I can assure you most positively64 I know nothing of the matter."
"Did my father never mention it to you? Never, even at the last, when he knew--for he told me so--he was dying?"
"Never," said Dr. Barford; then he added, after a momentary65 pause, "he did say something to me, on the last occasion when I had any talk with him, which may have had some reference to your brother; but if it had any, it was only incidental, and quite unexplained. He said something about his sharing in the common lot--having a skeleton in the cupboard; but that was all. Nothing more explicit66 ever passed his lips to me."
"Then, or at any time?" asked Miles.
"Then, or at any time, Mr. Challoner," repeated Dr. Barford gravely; and the two fell into silence, which lasted for several minutes.
"You really advise me to leave Rowley Court?" he said.
"Certainly I do; if not as a physician--in which capacity you do not require my services, happily--as a friend. You are not naturally of a very active temperament68; and moping about here, in a place which is necessarily gloomy just now, and where you have no congenial occupation, will not improve you in that respect. Go up to town for the remainder of the season, and then go abroad for a few months; and you will find that you will come back wonderfully reconciled to being master of Rowley Court."
"I like your advice," said Miles with unusual briskness69 of tone; "and I think I will take it; at least I will take it so far as going up to town is concerned. As for the rest--"
"As for the rest, you can think of it when the time comes," said the Doctor. "And now I must bid you good-bye, and be off. I have to call at Dale and Stourton before I go home to dinner."
As Dr. Barford drove down the wide smooth avenue, between the ranks of tall stately elms which bordered the well-kept road, he thought: "That's a fine young fellow, but of rather a gloomy turn of mind. I hope he may fall in love and marry up in London, and bring a new mistress to the Court."
Miles walked up and down the terrace long after the Doctor had left him, and his face wore a brighter and more serene70 expression than it had been used to wear of late. He had remained at Rowley Court long enough; he knew how his affairs stood now; he had really nothing to keep him there. He could only learn what he most desired to know, if indeed it were possible to learn it at all, from Lord Sandilands, who was just then at his house in London. He would go and stay with Lord Sandilands. Having come to this decision, he turned into the house with a brisker step, and felt the evening which ensued the least dreary71 through which he had lived since the Squire died.
Had Mark Challoner been of a less autocratic disposition it would have been very difficult, if not impossible, for him to have carried into execution the absolute taboo72 under which he had placed the subject of Geoffrey's disappearance. But the Squire had been a man of inexorable determination of character; and as he was not at all capricious, and exerted this resolution only when and where it was necessary, he had never met with rebellion on the part of his elder son. What the story of the younger had been, no one knew; no one had any certain indication by which to guess. The tutor to whom the education of the two boys had been intrusted was absent from Rowley Court when the separation intended by Mark Challoner, and destined73 by Providence74, to be final, had taken place; and there was no reason to suppose that Mr. Mordaunt had ever received any information concerning his former pupil from the Squire. Had Miles Challoner been either older or younger at the time of the occurrence, he might have been unable to observe his father's peremptory75 command with the reluctant obedience76 he had manifested until the end, when his pent-up anxiety had found vent1 in his useless appeal to the dying Squire. But he had outlived the restless irrepressible curiosity of the child, and he had not reached the calm deliberative reasoning of the man. Now that the latter mode of thought had fully54 come to him, he suffered keenly, as only such sensitive natures have the gift to suffer, from his helpless ignorance of his brother's fate. The thought haunted him. As children, he and Geoffrey had loved each other well enough, after the childish fashion which includes any amount of quarrelling and making-up again; but as boys they had never got on very well together. They were essentially77 different, with the difference which makes discord78, not with the contrast which produces harmony. Miles had always had an unacknowledged consciousness that Geoffrey cared very little about him, and this had had its influence upon the sensitive boy, an influence even stronger than that of the want of accord in the tastes and pursuits of the brothers. As Miles had advanced into manhood, he had come to understand all the appalling79 gravity of such a sentence as that which his father had passed upon his brother when he forbade the mention of his name in the house where he had been born and bred. With this comprehension came an intense yearning80 to know the meaning of the sentence,--to be enabled to estimate its justice; a kind of revolt on behalf of the banished81 brother, in which affection had less share than an abstract love of right, happily strong in the nature of the young man. And now there was no means of satisfying this yearning; the secret had to all appearance died with the Squire, but its consequences remained, to become an almost intolerable burden to Miles Challoner.
Lord Sandilands received his young friend's letter with sincere pleasure. He liked Miles; he liked his ideas and "ways;" he liked his society The young man had a happy faculty for creating this kind of liking82 among his fellows. He was large-minded and unselfish, and so he did not neglect or trample83 upon the feelings of other people, or try their tempers much or often. He was not a brilliant person, and therefore could afford to be good-natured and unaffected; and though he possessed rather more than an average amount of information upon most subjects of general interest and importance, there were few men less inclined to display their knowledge than Miles Challoner. He was disposed to accord to everybody his or her fair share of conversation, and had an acquiescent84 uncritical way with him which made friends for him, particularly among women. Without being in the least deserving of that truly opprobrious85 epithet86, a lady's man, Miles had strong partisans87 among "the conflicting gender88;" and women who found him a very impracticable subject for flirtation89 were ready to acknowledge that his notions of friendship were peculiarly exalted90 and practical. People who knew him, but had never troubled themselves to think about him particularly, would nevertheless have answered promptly91 to any question respecting him, that he was a fine honourably-minded fellow, and rather clever than otherwise; and the few who knew him well would have said substantially the same thing in more numerous and perhaps stronger words. The truth is, it was about all that could be said of Miles Challoner at the important period of his life which witnessed his father's death and his own succession to the family property, with its penalties and privileges of squiredom92. He had reached man's estate some years before; but there had been nothing in the course and manner of his life previously93 to develop his character strongly,--to bring its good or evil traits into prominence94. It had been an even, prosperous, happy life, on which he had entered with all the advantages of high animal spirits and unblemished health. Whether he had in him the stuff which either defies or moulds destiny, the courage which is matured in suffering, the truth and steadfastness95 of character which are at once weapons and armour96 in the strife97 of human existence, it was for time to tell.
Time did tell.
"I'm uncommonly98 glad you have made up your mind to come to town," wrote Lord Sandilands to Miles Challoner; "it is the best thing you can do; and so far from being disrespectful to your father's memory, it is your best way of avoiding what might even appear disrespectful to those who are no doubt watching you pretty closely. You have not a taste for the things the Squire (God bless him!) delighted in, and you cannot affect to have; because, in the first place, it is not in you to affect, and, in the second, you would certainly be found out by Mr. Styles. (Ceres and Pomona! shall I ever forget a dialogue between your father and him about the best crop for the Bayhamsfields?) You will offend your new people much less by absence than by indifference99, depend upon it. Then you can thoroughly depend on Styles; and you can always put agricultural enthusiasm on paper. So come up, my dear boy; and the sooner the better."
Miles Challoner went to London, and very soon after he arrived there "time" began "to tell.".
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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glibness
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| n.花言巧语；口若悬河 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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thoroughly
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arrear
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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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transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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degenerately
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| 退化的； 堕落的； 变质的； 变性的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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unnatural
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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transact
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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depreciatory
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buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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calamitous
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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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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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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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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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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81
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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83
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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86
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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gender
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| n.（生理上的）性，（名词、代词等的）性 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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92
squiredom
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| n.地主，乡绅；地主(或乡绅)的身份 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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95
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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97
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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98
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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99
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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