The swallow twittering from its straw built shed;
No more shall rouse him from his lowly bed.”—Gray.
The weakness which Amanda felt in consequence of her late illness, and the excessive sickness she always suffered at sea, made her retire to bed immediately on entering the packet, where she continued till the evening of the second day, when, about five o’clock, she was landed at the marine4 hotel. She directly requested the waiter to procure5 her a messenger to go into town, which being done, she sent to engage a place in the northern mail-coach, that went within a few miles of Castle Carberry. If a place could not be procured6, she ordered a chaise might be hired, that would immediately set out with her, as the nights were moonlight; but to her great joy the man speedily returned and informed her he had secured a seat in the coach, which she thought a much safer mode of travelling for her than in a hired carriage without any attendant. She took some slight refreshment7, and then proceeded to the mail hotel, from whence, at eleven o’clock, she set out in company with an old gentleman, who very composedly put on a large woollen nightcap, buttoned up his great coat, and fell into a profound sleep. He was, perhaps, just such a kind of companion as Amanda desired, as he neither teased her with insipid8 conversation or impertinent questions, but left her undisturbed to indulge her meditations9 during the journey. The second evening, about eight o’clock, she arrived at the nearest town to Castle Carberry, for which she directly procured a chaise and set off. Her spirits were painfully agitated10. She dreaded11 the shock her father would receive from hearing of her sufferings, which it would be impossible to conceal12 from him. She trembled at what they would both feel on the approaching interview. Sometimes she feared he had already heard of her distress13, and a gloomy presage14 rose in her mind of the anguish15 she should find him in on that account. Yet again, when she reflected on the fortitude16 he had hitherto displayed in his trials, under the present, she trusted, he would not lose it; and that he would not only support himself, but her, and[Pg 302] bind17 up those wounds in her heart which perfidy18, cruelty, and ingratitude19 had made. And oh! thought she to herself, when I find myself again in his arms, no temptation shall allure21 me from them—allure me into a world where my peace and fame have already suffered such a wreck22. Thus alternately fluctuating between hope and fear, Amanda pursued the road to Castle Carberry; but the latter sensation was predominant in her mind.
The uncommon23 gloominess of the evening added to her dejection—the dark and lowering clouds threatened a violent storm—already a shower of sleet24 and rain was falling, and everything looked cold and cheerless. Amanda thought the cabins infinitely25 more wretched than when she had first seen them. Many of their miserable27 inhabitants were now gathering28 their little flocks together, and driving them under shelter from the coming storm. The laborers29 were seen hastening to their respective homes, whilst the ploughboy, with a low and melancholy30 whistle, drove his slow and wearied team along. The sea looked rough and black, and as Amanda drew nearer to it, she heard it breaking with fury against the rocks. She felt herself extremely ill. She had left the hamlet ere her fever was subdued31, and fatigue32, joined to want of rest, now brought it back with all its former violence. She longed for rest and quiet, and trusted and believed these would conquer her malady33.
The chaise stopped at the entrance of the lawn, as she wished to have her father prepared for her arrival by one of the servants. On alighting from it, it returned to town, and she struck into the grove34, and by a winding35 path reached the castle. Her limbs trembled, and she knocked with an unsteady hand at the door. The sound was awfully36 reverberated37 through the building. Some minutes elapsed and no being appeared, neither could she perceive a ray of light from any of the windows. The wind blew the rain directly in her face, and her weakness increased, so that she could scarcely stand. She recollected38 a small door at the back of the castle, which led to the apartments appropriated to the domestics. She walked feebly to this, to try and gain admittance, and found it open. She proceeded through a long dark passage, on each side of which were small rooms, till she came to the kitchen. Here she found the old woman sitting (to whom the care of the castle was usually consigned), before a large turf fire. On hearing a footstep, she looked behind, and when she saw Amanda, started, screamed, and betrayed symptoms of the utmost terror.
“Are you frightened at seeing me, my good Kate!” cried[Pg 303] Amanda. “Oh, holy Virgin39!” replied Kate, crossing her breast, “one could not help being frightened, to have a body steal unawares upon them.”
“My father is well, I hope?” said Amanda.
“Alack-a-day,” cried Kate, “the poor dear captain has gone through a sea of troubles since you went away.” “Is he ill?” exclaimed Amanda. “Ill, ay, and the Lord knows he has reason enough to be ill. But, my dear jewel, do you know nothing at all of what has happened at the castle since you went away?” “No, nothing in the world.” “Heaven help you, then,” said Kate; “but, my dear soul, sit down upon this little stool, and warm yourself before the fire, for you look pale and cold, and I will tell you all about it. You must know, about three weeks ago, my Johnaten brought the captain a letter from the post-office; he knew by the mark it was a letter from England, and so, when he comes into the kitchen to me, ‘Katie,’ says he, ‘the captain has got something now to cheer his spirits, for he has heard from miss, I am sure.’ So, to be sure, I said I was glad of it, for, you must know, my dear, he was low in spirits, and peaking, as one may say, for a few days before. Well, it was always my custom, when he got a letter from England, to go to him as soon as I thought he had read it, and ask about you; so I put on a clean apron40, and up I goes to the parlor41, and I opened the door, and walked in. Well, sir, says I, I hope there is good news from miss?”
“The captain was sitting with the letter open before him on a table; he had a handkerchief to his eyes, but when I spoke42 he took it down, and I saw his face, which generally looked so pale, now quite flushed.
“‘This letter, my good Kate,’ says he, ‘is not from my daughter, but I am glad you are come, for I wanted to speak to you. I am going to leave the castle, and I want you to look over all the things, and see they are in the same state as when I came to it. I shall then settle with the servants I hired, and discharge them.’ I was struck all of a heap. The Lord forbid you should be going to leave us, sir, says I.”
“The captain got up—he walked to the window—he sighed heavily, and I saw a tear upon his cheek. He spoke to me again, and begged I would do as he had desired me. So, with a heavy heart, I went and told my Johnaten the sad tidings, who was as sorry as myself, for he loved the captain dearly, not only from his being so mild a gentleman, but because he was a soldier, as he himself had been in his youth—and a soldier has always a love for one of his cloth. And Johnaten[Pg 304] had often said he knew the captain in America, and that he was a brave officer and a real gentleman.
“Well, the captain came out to us, and said he was to be Lord Cherbury’s agent no longer. And being a good penman, he settled all his own accounts and the servants in the course of the day, and discharged them, giving them both characters, which I warrant will soon get them good places again. Well, he said he must set off for England the next day. So everything was got ready; but in the middle of the night he was seized with spasms43 in his stomach. He thought himself dying, and at last rung the bell; and as good luck would have it, my Johnaten heard it, and went up to him directly. Had he been without relief much longer, I think he would have died. Johnaten called me up. I had a choice bottle of old brandy lying by me, so I soon blew up a fire, and heating a cup of it, gave it to him directly. He grew a little easier, but was too bad in the morning to think of going on his journey, which grieved him sadly. He got up, however, and wrote a large packet, which he sent by Johnaten to the post-office; packed up some things in a trunk, and put his seal upon his desk. He said he would not stay in the castle on any account, so he went out as soon as Johnaten came back from the post-office, leaning upon his arm, and got a little lodging44 at Thady Byrne’s cabin.” “Merciful heaven!” exclaimed the agonized45 and almost fainting Amanda, “support and strengthen me in this trying hour! enable me to comfort my unfortunate father: preserve me from sinking, that I may endeavor to assist him.” Tears accompanied this fervent46 ejaculation, and her voice was lost in sobs48.
“Alack-a-day,” said the good-natured Kate, “now don’t take it so sadly to heart, my jewel; all is not lost that is in danger, and there is as good fish in the sea as ever were caught; and what though this is a stormy night, to-morrow may be a fine day. Why, the very first sight of you will do the captain good. Come, cheer up; I will give you some nice hot potatoes for your supper, for you see the pot is just boiling, and some fresh-churned buttermilk; and by the time you have eaten it, Johnaten perhaps may come back—he is gone to town to get some beef for our Sunday dinner—and then I will go with you to Thady’s myself.”
“No, no,” cried Amanda, “every minute I now stay from my father seems an age. Too long has he been neglected—too long without a friend to soothe49 or attend him. Oh grant, gracious Heaven! grant,” raising her clasped hands, “that I may not have returned too late to be of use to him!”
[Pg 305]
Kate pressed her to stay for Johnaten’s return; but the agony of suspense50 she endured till she saw her father, made her regardless of walking alone, though the hour was late, dark, and tempestuous51. Kate, finding her entreaties52 vain, attended her to the door, and assured her, if Johnaten returned soon, she would go over herself to the cabin, and see if she could do anything for her. Amanda pressed her hand, but was unable to speak. Ill, weak, and dispirited, she had flattered herself, on returning to her father, she would receive relief, support, and consolation54; instead of which, heart-broken as she was, she now found she must give, or at least attempt giving them herself. She had before experienced distress, but the actual pressure of poverty she had never yet felt. Heretofore she had always a comfortable asylum55 to repair to, but now she not only found herself deprived of that, but of all means of procuring56 one, or even the necessaries of life. But if she mourned for herself, how much more severely57 did she mourn for her adored father! Could she have procured him comfort, could she in any degree have alleviated58 his situation, the horrors of her own would have been lessened59; but of this she had not the slightest means or prospect60. Her father, she knew, possessed61 the agency too short a time to be enabled to save any money, particularly as he was indebted to Lord Cherbury ere he obtained it. She knew of no being to whom she could apply in his behalf. Lord Cherbury was the only person on whom he depended in his former misfortunes for relief. His friendship, it was evident, by depriving her father of the agency, was totally lost; and to the disconsolate62 Amanda no way appeared of escaping “want, worldly want, that hungry meagre fiend, who was already close at their heels, and followed them in view.”
The violence of the storm had increased, but it was slight in comparison of that which agitated the bosom63 of Amanda. The waves dashed with a dreadful noise against the rocks, and the angry spirit of the waters roared. The rain fell heavily, and soon soaked through the thin clothing of Amanda. She had about half a mile to walk, through a rugged64 road, bounded on one side by rocks, and on the other by wild and dreary65 fields. She knew the people with whom her father lodged66; they were of the lowest order, and on her first arrival at Castle Carberry, in extreme distress, from which she had relieved them. She recollected their cabin was more decent than many others she had seen, yet still a most miserable dwelling67. Wretched as it was, she was glad when she reached it, for the violence of the storm, and the loneliness of the road, had terrified her. The[Pg 306] cabin was but a few yards from the beach. There were two windows in front. On one side a pile of turf, and on the other a shed for the pigs, in which they now lay grunting68. The shutters69 were fastened on the windows, to prevent their being shaken by the wind; but through the crevices70 Amanda saw a light, which convinced her the inhabitants were not yet retired71 to repose72. She feared her suddenly appearing before her father, in his present weak state, might have a dangerous effect upon him, and she stood before the cabin, considering how she should have her arrival broke to him. She at last tapped gently at the door, and then retreated a few steps from it, shivering with the wet and cold. In the beautiful language of Solomon, she might have said, “Her head was filled with dew, and her locks with the drops of the night.” As she expected, the door was almost instantly opened. A boy appeared, whom she knew to be the son of the poor people. She held up her handkerchief, and beckoned73 him to her. He hesitated, as if afraid to advance, till she called him softly by his name. This assured him. He approached, and expressed astonishment74 at finding she was the person who called him. She inquired for her father, and heard he was ill, and then asleep. She desired the boy to enter the cabin before her, and caution his parents against making any noise that might disturb him. He obeyed her, and she followed him.
She found the father of the family blowing a turf fire, to hasten the boiling of a large pot of potatoes. Three ragged75 children were sitting before it, watching impatiently for their supper. Their mother was spinning, and their old grandmother making bread. The place was small and crowded. Half the family slept below, and the other half upon a loft76, to which they ascended77 by a ladder, and upon which a number of fowls78 were now familiarly roosting, cackling at every noise made below. Fitzalan’s room was divided from the rest of the cabin by a thin partition of wood plastered with pictures of saints and crosses.
Byrne got up, and, with many scrapes, offered her his little stool before the fire. She thanked him, and accepted it. His wife, notwithstanding the obligations she lay under to her, seemed to think as much respect was not due to her as when mistress of the castle, and therefore never left her seat, or quitted her spinning, on her entrance.
“My poor father is very ill,” said Amanda. “Why, indeed, the captain has had a bad time of it,” answered Mrs.[Pg 307] Byrne, jogging her wheel. “To be sure he has suffered some little change; but your great folks, as well as your simple folks, must look to that in this world; and I don’t know why they should not, for they are not better than the others, I believe.”
“Arrah, Norah, now,” said Byrne, “I wonder you are not shy of speaking so to the poor young lady.”
Amanda’s heart was surcharged with grief—she felt suffocating81. She arose, unlatched the door, and the keen, cold air a little revived her. Tears burst forth82, she indulged them freely, and they lightened the load on her heart. She asked for a glass of water. A glass was not readily to be procured. Byrne told her she had better take a noggin of buttermilk. This she refused, and he brought her one of water.
She now conquered the reluctance83 she felt to speak to the uncouth84 Mrs. Byrne, and consulted her on the best method of mentioning her arrival to her father. Mrs. Byrne said he had been in bed some time, but his sleep was often interrupted, and she would now step into the chamber85, and try if he was awake. She accordingly did so, but returned in a moment, and said he still slept.
Amanda wished to see him in his present situation, to judge how far his illness had affected86 him: she stepped softly into the room. It was small and low, lighted by a glimmering87 rush-light, and a declining fire. The furniture was poor and scanty88; in one corner stood a wooden bedstead, without curtains or any shade, and on this, under miserable bedclothes, lay poor Fitzalan. Amanda shuddered89, as she looked round this chamber of wretchedness. “Oh! my father,” she cried to herself, "is this the only refuge you could find?” She went to the bed, she leaned over it, and beheld91 his face. It was deadly pale and emaciated92; he moaned in his sleep, as if his mind was dreadfully oppressed. Suddenly he began to move; he sighed, “Amanda, my dearest child, shall I never more behold93 you?”
Amanda was obliged to hasten from the room, to give vent47 to her emotions. She sobbed94, she wrung95 her hands, and in the bitterness of her soul exclaimed, “Alas96! alas! I have returned too late to save him.”
They soon after heard him stir. She requested Mrs. Byrne to go in, and cautiously inform him she was come. She complied, and in a moment Amanda heard him say, “Thank Heaven! my darling is returned.” “You may now go in, miss,” said Mrs. Byrne, coming from the room. Amanda went in. Her father was raised in the bed; his arms were extended to receive her. She threw herself into them. Language was[Pg 308] denied them both, but tears, even more expressive97 than words, evinced their feelings. Fitzalan first recovered his voice. “My prayer,” said he, “is granted. Heaven has restored my child to smooth the pillow of sickness, and soothe the last moments of existence.” “Oh, my father!” cried Amanda, “have pity on me, and mention not those moments. Exert yourself for your child; who in this wide world has she but thee to comfort, support and befriend her?” “Indeed,” said he, “for your sake I wish they may be far distant.” He held her at a little distance from him; he surveyed her face, her form, her altered complexion98. Her fallen features appeared to shock him. He clasped her again to his bosom, “The world, my child, I fear,” cried he, “has used thee most unkindly.” “Oh, most cruelly,” sobbed Amanda. “Then, my girl, let the reflection of that world, where innocence99 and virtue100 will meet a proper reward, console you. Here they are often permitted to be tried; but as gold is tried and purified by fire, so are they by adversity. ‘Those whom God loves, He chastises101.’ Let this idea give you patience and fortitude under every trial. Never forego your dependence102 on Him, though calamity103 should pursue you to the very brink104 of the grave; but be comforted by the assurance He has given, that those who meekly105 bear the cross He lays upon them, shall be rewarded; that He will wipe away all tears from their eyes, and swallow up death in victory. Though a soldier from my youth, and accustomed to all the licentiousness106 of camps, I never forgot my Creator; and I now find the benefit of not having done so. Now, when my friends desert, the world frowns upon me, when sickness and sorrow have overwhelmed me, religion stands me in good stead; consoles me for what I lost, and softens107 the remembrance of the past, by presenting prospects108 of future brightness.”
So spoke Fitzalan the pious109 sentiments of his soul, and they calmed the agitations110 of Amanda. He found her clothes were wet, and insisted on her changing them directly. In the bundle the good Eleanor gave her, was a change of linen112, and a cotton wrapper, which she now put on, in a small closet, or rather shed adjoining her father’s room. A good fire was made up, a better light brought in, and some bread and wine from a small cupboard in the room, which contained Fitzalan’s things, set before her, of which he made her immediately partake. He took a glass of wine himself from her, and tried to cheer her spirits. “He had been daily expecting her arrival,” he said, “and had had a pallet and bedclothes kept airing for her. He[Pg 309] hoped she would not be dissatisfied with sleeping in the closet.” “Ah! my father,” she cried, “can you ask your daughter such a question?” She expressed her fears of injuring him, by having disturbed his repose. “No,” he said, “it was a delightful113 interruption. It was a relief from pain and anxiety.”
Lord Cherbury, he informed her, had written him a letter, which pierced him to the soul. “He accused me,” said he, “of endeavoring to promote a marriage between you and Lord Mortimer; of treacherously114 trying to counteract115 his views, and take advantage of his unsuspecting friendship. I was shocked at these accusations116. But how excruciating would my anguish have been had I really deserved them. I soon determined117 upon the conduct I should adopt, which was to deny the justice of his charges, and resign his agency—for any further dealings with a man who could think me capable of meanness or duplicity, was not to be thought of. My accounts were always in a state to allow me to resign at a moment’s warning. It was my intention to go to England, put them into Lord Cherbury’s hands, and take my Amanda from a place where she might meet with indignities118 as little merited by her as those her father had received were by him. A sudden and dreadful disorder119, which I am convinced the agitation111 of my mind brought on, prevented my executing this intention. I wrote, however, to his lordship, acquainting him with my resignation of his agency, and transmitting my accounts and arrears120. I sent a letter to you at the same time, with a small remittance121 for your immediate3 return, and then retired from the castle; for I felt a longer continuance in it would degrade me to the character of a mean dependant122, and intimate a hope of being reinstated in my former station; which, should Lord Cherbury now offer, I should reject, for ignoble123 must be the mind which could accept of favors from those who doubted its integrity. Against such conduct my feelings revolt. Poverty, to me, is more welcome than independence, when purchased with the loss of esteem124.”
Amanda perceived her father knew nothing of her sufferings, but supposed her return occasioned by his letter. She therefore resolved, if possible, not to undeceive him, at least till his health was better. The night was far advanced, and her father, who saw her ill, and almost sinking with fatigue, requested her to retire to rest. She accordingly did. Her bed was made up in the little closet. Mrs. Byrne assisted her to undress, and brought her a bowl of whey, which, she trusted, with a comfortable sleep, would carry off her feverish125 symp[Pg 310]toms, and enable her to be her father’s nurse. Her rest, however, was far from being comfortable. It was broken by horrid126 dreams, in which she beheld the pale and emaciated figure of her father suffering the most exquisite127 tortures; and when she started from these dreams, she heard his deep moans, which were like daggers128 going through her heart. She arose once or twice, supposing him in pain, but when she went to his bed she found him asleep, and was convinced, from that circumstance, his pain was more of the mental than the bodily kind. She felt extremely ill. Her bones were sore from the violent motion of the carriage, and she fancied rest would do her good: but when, towards morning, she was inclined to take some, she was completely prevented by the noise the children made on rising. Fearful of neglecting her father, she arose soon after herself, but was scarcely able to put on her clothes from excessive weakness. She found him in bed, but awake. He welcomed her with a languid smile, and extending his hand, which was reduced to mere129 skin and bone, said, “that joy was a greater enemy to repose than grief, and had broken his earlier than usual that morning.” He made her sit down by him. He gazed on her with unutterable tenderness. “In Divine language,” cried he, “I may say—‘Let me see thy countenance130; let me hear thy voice, but sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely131 and my soul has pleasure in gazing on it.’” The kettle was already boiling. He had procured a few necessaries for himself, such as tea-things and glasses. Amanda placed the tea-table by the bed-side, and gave him his breakfast. Whilst receiving it from her, his eyes were raised to Heaven, as if in thankful gratitude20 for the inestimable blessing132 he still possessed in such a child. After breakfast, he said he would rise, and Amanda retired into the garden till he was dressed, if that could deserve the appellation133, which was only a slip of ground planted with cabbages and potatoes, and enclosed with loose stones and blackberry bushes. The spring was already advanced. The day was fine. The light and fleecy clouds were gradually dispersing134, and the sky, almost as far as the eye could reach, was of a clear blue. The dusky green of the blackberry bushes was enlivened by the pale purple of their blossoms. Tufts of primroses135 grew beneath their shelter. The fields, which rose with a gentle swell136 above the garden, were covered with a vivid green, spangled with daisies, buttercups, and wild honeysuckles, and the birds, as they fluttered from spray to spray, with notes of gladness hailed the genial137 season.
[Pg 311] But neither the season nor its charms could now, as heretofore, delight Amanda. She felt forlorn and disconsolate; deprived of the comforts of life, and no longer interested in the objects about her, she sat down upon a stone at the end of the garden, and she thought the fresh breeze from the sea cooled the feverish heat of her blood. “Alas!” she said to herself, “at this season last year, how different was my situation from the present!” Though not in affluence138, neither was she then in absolute distress; and she had besides the comfortable hope of having her father’s difficulties removed. Like Burns’ mountain daisy, she had then cheerfully glinted forth amidst the storm, because, she thought that storm would be soon overblown; but now, she saw herself on the point of being finally crushed beneath the rude pressure of poverty.
She recollected the words which had escaped her when she last saw Tudor Hall, and she thought they were dictated139 by something like a prophetic spirit. She had then said, as she leaned upon a little gate which looked into the domain140: “When these woods again glow with vegetation; when every shade resounds141 with harmony, and the flowers and the blossoms spread their foliage142 to the sun, ah! where will Amanda be! far distant, in all probability, from these delightful shades; perhaps deserted143 and forgotten by their master.”
She was indeed far distant from them; deserted, and if not forgotten, at least only remembered with contempt by their master—remembered with contempt by Lord Mortimer. It was an idea of intolerable anguish. His name was no more repeated as a charm to soothe her grief; his idea increased her misery144.
She continued indulging her melancholy meditations, till informed by one of the children the captain was ready to receive her. She hastened in, and found him in an old high-backed chair, and the ravages145 of care and sickness were now more visible to her than they had been the night before. He was reduced to a mere skeleton. “The original brightness of his form" was quite gone, and he seemed already on the very brink of the grave. The agony of Amanda’s feelings was expressed on her countenance—he perceived and guessed its source. He endeavored to compose and comfort her. She mentioned a physician; he tried to dissuade146 her from the idea of bringing one, but she besought147 him in compassion148 to her to consent, and overcome by her earnestness, he at last promised the ensuing day she should do as she wished.
It was now Sunday, and he desired the service of the day[Pg 312] to be read. A small Bible lay on the table before him, and Amanda complied with his desire.
In the first lesson were these words: “Leave thy fatherless children to me, and I will be their father.” The tears gushed149 from Fitzalan; he laid his hand, which appeared convulsed with agitation, on the book. “Oh! what words of comfort!” cried he, “are these; what transport do they convey to the heart of a parent burdened with anxiety! Yes, merciful Power, I will, with grateful joy, commit my children to thy care, for thou art the friend who will never forsake150 them.” He desired Amanda to proceed; her voice was weak and broken, and the tears, in spite of her efforts to restrain them, stole down her cheeks.
When she had concluded, her father drew her towards him, and inquired into all that had passed during her stay in London. She related to him, without reserve, the various incidents she had met with previous to her going to the marchioness’s ; acknowledged the hopes and fears she experienced on Lord Mortimer’s account, and the argument he had made use of to induce her to a clandestine151 union, with her positive refusal to such a step.
A beam of pleasure illumined the pallid152 face of Fitzalan. “You acted,” said he, “as I expected; and I glory in my child, and feel more indignation than ever against Lord Cherbury for his mean suspicions.” Amanda was convinced those suspicions had been infused into his mind by those who had struck at her peace and fame. This idea, however, as well as their injuries to her, she meant if possible to conceal. When her father, therefore, desired her to proceed in her narrative153, her voice began to falter154, her mind became disturbed, and her countenance betrayed her agitation. The remembrance of the dreadful scenes she had gone through at the marchioness’s made her involuntarily shudder90, and she wished to conceal them forever from her father, but found it impossible to evade155 his minute and earnest inquiries156.
“Gracious Heaven!” said he, on hearing them, “what complicated cruelty and deceit; inhuman157 monsters! to have no pity on one so young, so innocent, so helpless. The hand of sorrow has indeed pressed heavy on thee, my child; but, after the marchioness’s former conduct, I cannot be surprised at any action of hers.”
He gave her a note to discharge her debt to Howel, and begged she would immediately write and return his grateful acknowledgments for his benevolence158. She feared he inconvenienced himself by parting with the note; but he assured her[Pg 313] he could spare it extremely well, as he had been an economist159, and had still sufficient money to support them a few months longer in their present situation.
Amanda now inquired when he had heard from her brother. She said he had not answered her last letter, and that his silence had made her very uneasy.
He took a letter, as he spoke, from his pocket-book, and presented it to Amanda. She opened it with a trembling hand, and read as follows:—
My dear Father,—Particular circumstances prevented my answering your last letter as soon as I could have wished; and, indeed, the intelligence I have to communicate makes me almost averse161 to write at all. As my situation, however, must sooner or later be known to you, I think it better to inform you of it myself, as I can, at the same time, reconcile you, I trust, in some degree to it, by assuring you I bear it patiently, and that it has not been caused by any action which can degrade my character as a man or a soldier. I have long, indeed, had a powerful enemy to cope with, and, it will no doubt surprise you to hear, that that enemy is Colonel Belgrave. An interference in the cause of humanity provoked his insolence163 and malignity164. Neither his words nor looks were bearable, and I was irritated by them to send him a challenge. Had I reflected, the probable consequences of such a step must have occurred and prevented my taking it; but passion blinded my reason, and in yielding to its dictates165 do I hold myself alone culpable166 throughout the whole affair. I gave him the opportunity his malicious167 heart had long desired, of working my ruin. I was, by his order, put under an immediate arrest. A court-martial was held, and I was broke for disrespect to a superior officer; but it was imagined by the whole corps168 I should have been restored. I, however, knew too much of Belgrave’s disposition169 to believe this would be the case; but never shall he triumph in the distress he has caused by witnessing it. I have already settled on the course I shall pursue, and ere this letter reaches you I shall have quitted my native kingdom. Forgive me, my dear sir, for not consulting you relative to my conduct. But I feared, if I did, your tenderness would interfere162 to prevent it, or lead you to distress yourself on my account; and to think that you and my dear sister were deprived of the smallest comfort, by my means, would be a source of intolerable anguish to me. Blessed as I am with youth, health, and fortitude, I have no doubt but I shall make my way through the rugged path of life extremely well. A parting visit I avoided, from the certainty of its being painful to us both. I shall write as soon as I reach my place of destination. I rejoice to hear Amanda is so happily situated170 with Lady Greystock: may your suffering and her merit be rewarded as they deserve! Suffer not, I entreat53, too tender an anxiety for my interest to disturb your repose. I again repeat I have no doubt but what I shall do well. That Providence171, in which I trust, will, I humbly172 hope, support me through every difficulty, and again unite me to the friends so valuable to my heart. Farewell, my dear father, and, be assured, with unabated respect and gratitude, I subjoin myself your affectionate son,
Oscar Fitzalan.
[Pg 314] This letter was a cruel shock to Amanda. She hoped to have procured her brother’s company, and that her father’s melancholy and her own would have been alleviated by it. Sensible of the difficulties Oscar must undergo, without friends or fortune, the tears stole down her cheeks, and she almost dreaded she could no more behold him.
Her father besought her to spare him the misery of seeing those tears. He leaned upon her for comfort and support, he said, and bid her not disappoint him. She hastily wiped away her tears; and though she could not conquer, tried to suppress her anguish.
Johnaten and Kate called, in the course of the day, to know if they could be of any service to Fitzalan. Amanda engaged Johnaten to go to town the next morning for a physician, and gave Kate the key of a wardrobe where she had left some things, which she desired her to pack up and send to the cabin in the evening. Mrs. Byrne gave them one of her fowls for dinner, and Fitzalan assumed an appearance of cheerfulness, and the evening wore away somewhat better than the preceding part of the day had done.
Johnaten was punctual in obeying Amanda’s commands, and brought a physician the next morning to the cabin. Fitzalan appeared much worse, and Amanda rejoiced that she had been resolute173 in procuring him advice.
She withdrew from the room soon after the physician had entered it, and waited without in trembling anxiety for his appearance. When he came out she asked, with a faltering174 voice, his opinion, and besought him not to deceive her from pity to her feelings.
He shook his head, and assured her he would not deviate175 from truth for the world. The captain was indeed in a ticklish176 situation, he said, but the medicines he had ordered, and sea bathing, he doubted not, would set all to rights; it was fortunate, he added, she delayed no longer sending for him; mentioned twenty miraculous177 cures he had performed; admired the immense fine prospect before the door, and wished her good-morning, with what he thought quite a degagee and irresistible178 air.
She was willing to believe his assurance of her father’s recovery; as the drowning wretch26 will grasp at every straw, she eagerly embraced the shadow of comfort, and in the recovery of her father, looked forward to consolation for all her sorrows. She struggled against her own illness, that no assidu[Pg 315]ous attention might be wanting to him; and would have sat up with him at night, had he not positively179 insisted on her going to bed.
The medicines he was ordered he received from her hands, but with a look which seemed to express his conviction of their inefficacy. All, however, she wished him to do, he did, and often raised his eyes to Heaven, as if to implore180 it to reward her care, and yet a little longer spare him to this beloved child, whose happiness so much depended on the prolongation of his existence.
Four days passed heavily away, and the assurances of the physician, who was punctual in his attendance, lost their effect upon Amanda. Her father was considerably181 altered for the worse, and unable to rise, except for a few minutes in the evening, to have his bed made. He complained of no pain or sickness, but seemed sinking beneath an easy and gradual decay. It was only at intervals182 he could converse183 with his daughter. His conversation was then calculated to strengthen her fortitude and resignation, and prepare her for an approaching melancholy event. Whenever she received a hint of it, her agony was inexpressible; but pity for her feelings could not prevent her father from using every opportunity that occurred for laying down rules and precepts184 which might be serviceable to her when without a guide or protector. Sometimes he adverted185 to the past, but this was only done to make her more cautious in the future.
He charged her to avoid any further intimacy186 with Lord Mortimer, as an essential measure for the restoration of her peace, the preservation187 of her fame, and the removal of Lord Cherbury’s unjust suspicions, “who will find at last,” continued he, “how much he wronged me and may, perhaps, feel compunction when beyond his power to make reparation.”
To all he desired, Amanda promised a religious observance; she thought it unnecessary in him, indeed, to desire her to avoid Lord Mortimer, convinced as she was that he had utterly188 abandoned her; but the grief this desertion occasioned, she believed she should soon overcome was her father once restored to health, for then she would have no time for useless regrets or retrospections, but be obliged to pass every hour in active exertions189 for his support and comfort.
A week passed away in this manner at the cabin—a week of wretchedness to Amanda, who perceived her father growing weaker and weaker. She assisted him, as usual, to rise one evening for a few minutes; when dressed, he complained of an[Pg 316] oppression in his breathing, and desired to be supported to the air. Amanda with difficulty led him to the window, which she opened, and seated him by it, then knelt before him, and putting her arms round his waist, fastened her eyes with anxious tenderness upon his face.
The evening was serenely190 fine; the sun was setting in all its glory, and the sea, illumined by its parting beams, looked like a sheet of burnished191 silver.
“What a lovely scene!” cried Fitzalan faintly; “with what majesty192 does the sun retire from the world! the calmness which attends its departure is such, I think, as must attend the exit of a good man.” He paused for a few minutes, then raising his eyes to heaven, exclaimed—“Merciful Power! had it pleased thee, I could have wished yet a little longer to have been spared to this young creature; but thy will, not mine, be done! Confiding193 in thy mercy, I leave her with some degree of fortitude.”
Amanda’s tears began to flow as he spoke. He raised his hand, on which they fell, and, kissing them off, exclaimed—“Precious drops! My Amanda, weep not too bitterly for me—like a weary traveller, think that rest must now be acceptable to me.”
She interrupted him, and conjured194 him to change the discourse195. He shook his head mournfully, pressed her hands between his, and said:—
“Yet a little longer, my child, bear with it;” then bade her assure her brother, whenever they met, which he trusted and believed would be soon, he had his father’s blessing,—“the only legacy,” he cried, “I can leave him, but one, I am confident, he merits, and will value. To you, my girl, I have no doubt he will prove a friend and guardian196. You may both, perhaps, be amply recompensed for all your sorrows. Providence is just in all its dealings, and may yet render the lovely offspring of my Malvina truly happy.”
He appeared exhausted197 by speaking, and Amanda assisted him to lie down, entreating198 him, at the same time, to take some drops. He consented, and while she was pouring them out at a little table, her back to the bed, she heard a deep groan199. The bottle dropped from her hand, she sprang to the bed, and perceived her father lying senseless on the pillow. She imagined he had fainted, and screamed out for assistance. The woman of the cabin, her husband, and mother, all rushed into the room. He was raised up, his temples and hands chafed200, and every remedy within the house applied201 for his recovery,[Pg 317] but in vain—his spirit had forsaken202 its tenement203 of clay forever.
Amanda, when convinced of this, wrung her hands together; then, suddenly opening them, she clasped the lifeless body to her breast, and sunk fainting beside it.
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1
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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22
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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28
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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30
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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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34
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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37
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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42
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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43
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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44
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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45
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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46
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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47
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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48
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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49
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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50
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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51
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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52
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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53
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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55
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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56
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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57
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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58
alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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61
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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62
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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63
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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64
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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65
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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66
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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67
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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71
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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73
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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76
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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77
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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79
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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80
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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81
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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82
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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83
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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84
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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85
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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86
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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87
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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88
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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89
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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90
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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91
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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92
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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93
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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94
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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95
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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96
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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97
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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98
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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99
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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100
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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101
chastises
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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103
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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104
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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105
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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106
licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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107
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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108
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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109
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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110
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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111
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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112
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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113
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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114
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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115
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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116
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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117
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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118
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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119
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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120
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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121
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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122
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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123
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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124
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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125
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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126
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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127
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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128
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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129
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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130
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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131
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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132
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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133
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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134
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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135
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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136
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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137
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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138
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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139
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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140
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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141
resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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142
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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143
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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144
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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145
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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146
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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147
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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148
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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149
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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150
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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151
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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152
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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153
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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154
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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155
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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156
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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157
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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158
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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159
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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160
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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161
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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162
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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163
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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164
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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165
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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166
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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167
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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168
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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169
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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170
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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171
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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172
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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173
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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174
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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175
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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176
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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177
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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178
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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179
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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180
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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181
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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182
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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183
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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184
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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185
adverted
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| 引起注意（advert的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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186
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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187
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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188
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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189
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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190
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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191
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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192
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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193
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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194
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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195
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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196
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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197
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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198
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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199
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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200
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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201
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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202
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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203
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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