“Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the wilderness1, they presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is Vanity.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
“Ah! what a strange remembrance I shall always have of that old ruin!” exclaimed Charles, as again he drove past the well-known spot, in a carriage with post-horses, on his way to Castle Fontonore. But this time he had another companion beside him; Ernest, well wrapped up in cloak and furs—for the autumn was now advanced—was resting on the soft cushions of the luxurious2 vehicle.
“What will your remembrances be, compared to mine?” said Ernest, raising himself to look out, and keeping his eyes fixed3 upon the gray pile until it was lost to his sight.
“I went to pick up a stone as a keepsake, and I found a brother!” cried Charles.
“How much I owe you!” said Ernest, fervently4. “I make you an ill return by taking away what you thought
[133]
your birth-right! And you, sir,” he added, turning towards the clergyman, “my debt to you I can never never repay; but my heart’s gratitude5 and love shall be yours as long as I breathe. All the honours and riches that I possess I value as nothing, compared with the blessing6 of having such a friend and such a brother.”
This was the first time that Ernest had been able to express so much; for, shy and retiring as he was by nature, and rendered more so by the manner in which all the warm feelings of his heart had hitherto been chilled and repressed, he had wrapped himself up in a cloak of reserve, and had few words to show how deep were these feelings. Mr. Ewart saw that in the boy’s present weak state he was easily agitated7 and excited, and, to change the subject of a conversation which made Ernest’s voice tremble with emotion, asked him how he liked the book which he had given him.
“I find it very interesting. I should have thought it so, if I had only read it as an amusing story; but what you said about its showing us things that happen in our own lives, has made it a thousand times more so. I could enter into so many of the feelings of Christian8—his misery9 with his burden, his delight when it rolled away. I am almost sure that Mr. Worldly Wiseman once turned me aside, and I fancy that I have even known a little of the Slough10 of Despond!”
“The earlier children go on pilgrimage, the less they
[134]
usually know of the misery of that slough. As Bunyan, in his allegory, beautifully represents, there are stepping-stones across it all the way, and the feet of Christ’s little ones usually find these, so that many have reached the wicket-gate in safety, without one stain of the slough on their garments.”
“What a mercy it was to Christian to meet with Evangelist! Sir, you have been Evangelist to me.”
“And I must be your Faithful,” said Charles, smiling.
“Oh no! for then I should lose you in Vanity Fair,” replied Ernest, looking fondly on his brother, who was daily becoming dearer to his heart.
“Vanity Fair is not at all like what it was when Bunyan wrote,” said Charles. “There is no danger of my being put in prison, or stoned, or burned, because I may not like the ways of the place; so you are not in the least likely to lose me in that manner, and I may be your Faithful and your Hopeful both in one.”
“Is Vanity Fair quite done away with now?” said Ernest to Mr. Ewart.
“No, my boy, and never will be, as long as the three grand tempters of the world, the lust11 of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, spread their attractive stalls to lure12 unwary pilgrims.”
“I am afraid that you will think me a very dull pupil,” said Ernest; “but I do not exactly understand who these tempters are of whom you speak.”
[135]
“The lust of the flesh is pleasure; the lust of the eye, covetousness13; the pride of life is that fatal pride, whether of birth, riches, talent, or beauty, which is often viewed with indulgence by the world, but which is particularly hateful to God.”
“But must all pleasure be sinful?” asked Charles.
“By no means. Some pleasure springs directly from religion. Of heavenly wisdom it is written in God’s Word, Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. And other pleasure may be hallowed by religion; but it must be pleasure that has no connection with sin. We may gather life’s flowers, but we must be careful that they are those which have not the trail of the serpent upon them.”
“Is it wrong to enjoy the riches which God gives us?” asked Ernest. “Shall I sin if I look with joy on the noble estate and all the beautiful things which you tell me are mine?”
“God forbid,” replied the clergyman; “hath He not given us all things richly to enjoy? But we must use the world as not abusing it. There is a test by which we can easily find out if riches are not clogging14 and delaying us in our heavenward path. We must examine, first, if we receive them with gratitude, as coming from God; secondly15, if we are watchful16 to spend them to the glory of God; thirdly, if we are ready to resign them, in obedience17 to God.”
[136]
“I think,” observed Charles, “that Ernest will be less in danger from the pride of life than I was.”
“Yes,” said Ernest, looking admiringly at his brother; “because I shall have so very much less to be proud of.”
“I never meant that,” cried Charles, colouring; “but I fancy that you have been so tried and subdued18, by suffering so much, that you will never be so foolish and flighty as I; you will not be so easily puffed19 up.”
“I am sure that I could not answer for myself,” replied Ernest, simply.
“No; and certainly you are very ignorant of the ways of Vanity Fair; that’s the part of your pilgrimage that you are coming to now.”
“Surely not till I go to London. I shall see nothing of it while we stay quietly studying at the castle.”
“Little you know!” exclaimed Charles, laughing. “My good Aunt Matilda, my pretty little cousin, and perhaps my business-like uncle himself, may introduce you—” Charles stopped, for he caught his tutor’s eye, and its grave expression silenced him at once.
“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” said the clergyman, impressively. “There is nothing so little becoming a young pilgrim as passing unkind judgment20 on his elders.”
“I’m afraid that it’s my besetting21 sin,” said Charles, “and one that it is very difficult to get rid of.”
[137]
“Like many others, I believe that it springs from pride,” observed his tutor. “When we are deeply sensible of our own imperfections, we have more mercy to show, or less attention to give to those of our neighbours and companions.”
The journey to Yorkshire took two days, travelling by post being so much slower than by railway. To Ernest they were days of almost unmixed delight: change of scene, unaccustomed comforts, the society of those whom he loved, all the hopes which naturally gild22 the prospect23 of youth—all the brighter for being so new—filled his cup of enjoyment24 very full. Though his manner was not so lively as that of his brother, it was easy to see that his happiness was not less.
We may be surprised that the bitter emotions which Charles had entertained when he first knew of the loss of his title seemed so soon to have entirely25 disappeared. But his was an open and generous heart—Ernest’s sufferings had roused his pity—his brother’s grateful affection had flattered his feelings—he was pleased with himself for his conquest over pride; and perhaps nothing tends to make us more cheerful than this. Then there had been nothing to make him painfully aware of a change—his tutor’s manner had been more kind than ever—Jones could never address him but as “my lord”—Ernest seemed unwilling26 to consider himself even as his equal—all his comforts appeared the same as ever.
[138]
It was therefore with unaffected pleasure that, as they approached near the Castle Fontonore, Charles pointed27 out the landmarks28 to his brother.
“There now, there’s the lodge29; isn’t it a beauty? That’s Widow Grove30 who is standing31 at the gate. Why, there’s quite a little crowd; I knew that there would be one. Take off your cap, Ernest, they are cheering for us. Did you ever see such magnificent timber in your life? so glorious with the autumn tints32 still upon them! That tree to the right is five hundred years old. Just look at the deer as they bound through that glade33; and now—yes—now you have a glimpse of the castle, and there’s the flag waving from the top of the tower. Is it not an inheritance worth having, Ernest? Does it not surpass your expectations?”
“It does, it does; I never saw, never dreamed of anything so beautiful!”
And now, exciting no small stir amongst the tenants34, grooms35, stable-boys, and others who on various pretexts36 were crowding the entrance, the horses, urged on to speed by the postilion, dashed over the drawbridge, through the arched gateway37 into the paved court-yard, and stood chafed38 and foaming39 before the door, where the Hopes stood ready to receive the young master. Ernest had no time to gaze round on the romantic pile of building which surrounded him—the tower, the mullioned windows, the walls of massive stone, almost
[139]
covered with various kinds of creepers; he was so anxious to have a sight of his new relations, who appeared at the entrance to welcome them. There was a rather stout40 gentleman, whom, from a family likeness41 to Charles, Ernest at once set down for his uncle; a tall, good-looking lady, in a superb silk dress that looked rich enough to stand upright by itself, and whose very rustle42 seemed to speak of formidable dignity; and a fairy-like young creature, a little older than himself, whom, at the first glance, Ernest thought exceedingly pretty.
Charles, accustomed from infancy43 to be a person of importance, sprang eagerly out of the carriage first, almost before the horses had stopped. He ran to his aunt. “Where is Lord Fontonore?” said she, passing him, and advancing to the door of the carriage. “Dear Clemmy!” exclaimed Charles, taking his cousin’s hand, “how long it is since we have met!” She returned his press indeed, but her eyes were not looking towards him; she had not even a glance to give her old companion, so eagerly was her gaze turned in another direction.
“Is this the reception that I meet with?” thought Charles, anger and disappointment boiling in his heart. “It was then the peer whom they flattered and caressed44; I am now only Charles Hope, and I must be deserted45 for the first stranger who has a title;” and without attending to the greeting of his uncle, or to that of the
[140]
servants, with whom he had always been a favourite, Charles hurried off impatiently to his own room.
CHARLES AND HIS MOTHER’S PORTRAIT.
A beautiful room it was, all hung round with pictures. There was one which Charles especially valued, the portrait of his mother when she was a girl, with deep, thoughtful eyes, so much like Ernest’s that Charles wondered that he had not recognized the resemblance the first moment that he had seen his brother. This picture had often exercised a soothing46 effect over the boy; the thought of his gentle mother now in heaven drew his
[141]
own affections thither47; the hope of meeting her there was so sweet, the desire of being worthy48 of her so strong—for his mind had invested her with all the qualities of an angel—and the parent who had died before he could know his loss, was the object of the deepest tenderness of the boy.
“She, at least, is not changed—she looks always the same!” exclaimed Charles, clasping his hands, and gazing upon the portrait till his eyes became dimmed with tears. He was disturbed by a low knock at the door.
“Come in!” exclaimed Charles in an impatient tone, hastily dashing the moisture from his eyes. It was the housekeeper49 who appeared at the door.
“Please, my lord, Master Charles, I am sorry to disturb you, but this room Mrs. Hope desired to be prepared for Lord Fontonore; the blue room has been made ready for you.”
Charles rushed out of the apartment without saying a word, in a passion of anger and resentment50. The trial which he had seen but from a distance was now most keenly and bitterly felt. He locked his door, and paced backwards51 and forwards across the room, wishing that he could shut out all sound of voices and tread of feet, as he traced by it the progress of the party through the castle, which his relations were now showing to its new possessor. And thus he remained in his solitary52 misery, while Ernest painfully missed from his side one who was
[142]
more to his affectionate heart than all the wealth of the world, and with an uncomfortable consciousness of his every motion being watched by those who regarded him rather with curiosity than interest, passed through long corridors, and stately apartments, which were expected to strike him with wonder.
“He is not so vulgar or funny as I expected that he would be,” whispered Clementina to some one beside her; “but it makes me laugh to see him look so shy and uneasy, as if he were half afraid to look at his own castle. He certainly has a very interesting air, but he is not half so handsome as Charles.”
“What will your remembrances be, compared to mine?” said Ernest, raising himself to look out, and keeping his eyes fixed3 upon the gray pile until it was lost to his sight.
“I went to pick up a stone as a keepsake, and I found a brother!” cried Charles.
“How much I owe you!” said Ernest, fervently4. “I make you an ill return by taking away what you thought
[133]
your birth-right! And you, sir,” he added, turning towards the clergyman, “my debt to you I can never never repay; but my heart’s gratitude5 and love shall be yours as long as I breathe. All the honours and riches that I possess I value as nothing, compared with the blessing6 of having such a friend and such a brother.”
This was the first time that Ernest had been able to express so much; for, shy and retiring as he was by nature, and rendered more so by the manner in which all the warm feelings of his heart had hitherto been chilled and repressed, he had wrapped himself up in a cloak of reserve, and had few words to show how deep were these feelings. Mr. Ewart saw that in the boy’s present weak state he was easily agitated7 and excited, and, to change the subject of a conversation which made Ernest’s voice tremble with emotion, asked him how he liked the book which he had given him.
“I find it very interesting. I should have thought it so, if I had only read it as an amusing story; but what you said about its showing us things that happen in our own lives, has made it a thousand times more so. I could enter into so many of the feelings of Christian8—his misery9 with his burden, his delight when it rolled away. I am almost sure that Mr. Worldly Wiseman once turned me aside, and I fancy that I have even known a little of the Slough10 of Despond!”
“The earlier children go on pilgrimage, the less they
[134]
usually know of the misery of that slough. As Bunyan, in his allegory, beautifully represents, there are stepping-stones across it all the way, and the feet of Christ’s little ones usually find these, so that many have reached the wicket-gate in safety, without one stain of the slough on their garments.”
“What a mercy it was to Christian to meet with Evangelist! Sir, you have been Evangelist to me.”
“And I must be your Faithful,” said Charles, smiling.
“Oh no! for then I should lose you in Vanity Fair,” replied Ernest, looking fondly on his brother, who was daily becoming dearer to his heart.
“Vanity Fair is not at all like what it was when Bunyan wrote,” said Charles. “There is no danger of my being put in prison, or stoned, or burned, because I may not like the ways of the place; so you are not in the least likely to lose me in that manner, and I may be your Faithful and your Hopeful both in one.”
“Is Vanity Fair quite done away with now?” said Ernest to Mr. Ewart.
“No, my boy, and never will be, as long as the three grand tempters of the world, the lust11 of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, spread their attractive stalls to lure12 unwary pilgrims.”
“I am afraid that you will think me a very dull pupil,” said Ernest; “but I do not exactly understand who these tempters are of whom you speak.”
[135]
“The lust of the flesh is pleasure; the lust of the eye, covetousness13; the pride of life is that fatal pride, whether of birth, riches, talent, or beauty, which is often viewed with indulgence by the world, but which is particularly hateful to God.”
“But must all pleasure be sinful?” asked Charles.
“By no means. Some pleasure springs directly from religion. Of heavenly wisdom it is written in God’s Word, Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. And other pleasure may be hallowed by religion; but it must be pleasure that has no connection with sin. We may gather life’s flowers, but we must be careful that they are those which have not the trail of the serpent upon them.”
“Is it wrong to enjoy the riches which God gives us?” asked Ernest. “Shall I sin if I look with joy on the noble estate and all the beautiful things which you tell me are mine?”
“God forbid,” replied the clergyman; “hath He not given us all things richly to enjoy? But we must use the world as not abusing it. There is a test by which we can easily find out if riches are not clogging14 and delaying us in our heavenward path. We must examine, first, if we receive them with gratitude, as coming from God; secondly15, if we are watchful16 to spend them to the glory of God; thirdly, if we are ready to resign them, in obedience17 to God.”
[136]
“I think,” observed Charles, “that Ernest will be less in danger from the pride of life than I was.”
“Yes,” said Ernest, looking admiringly at his brother; “because I shall have so very much less to be proud of.”
“I never meant that,” cried Charles, colouring; “but I fancy that you have been so tried and subdued18, by suffering so much, that you will never be so foolish and flighty as I; you will not be so easily puffed19 up.”
“I am sure that I could not answer for myself,” replied Ernest, simply.
“No; and certainly you are very ignorant of the ways of Vanity Fair; that’s the part of your pilgrimage that you are coming to now.”
“Surely not till I go to London. I shall see nothing of it while we stay quietly studying at the castle.”
“Little you know!” exclaimed Charles, laughing. “My good Aunt Matilda, my pretty little cousin, and perhaps my business-like uncle himself, may introduce you—” Charles stopped, for he caught his tutor’s eye, and its grave expression silenced him at once.
“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” said the clergyman, impressively. “There is nothing so little becoming a young pilgrim as passing unkind judgment20 on his elders.”
“I’m afraid that it’s my besetting21 sin,” said Charles, “and one that it is very difficult to get rid of.”
[137]
“Like many others, I believe that it springs from pride,” observed his tutor. “When we are deeply sensible of our own imperfections, we have more mercy to show, or less attention to give to those of our neighbours and companions.”
The journey to Yorkshire took two days, travelling by post being so much slower than by railway. To Ernest they were days of almost unmixed delight: change of scene, unaccustomed comforts, the society of those whom he loved, all the hopes which naturally gild22 the prospect23 of youth—all the brighter for being so new—filled his cup of enjoyment24 very full. Though his manner was not so lively as that of his brother, it was easy to see that his happiness was not less.
We may be surprised that the bitter emotions which Charles had entertained when he first knew of the loss of his title seemed so soon to have entirely25 disappeared. But his was an open and generous heart—Ernest’s sufferings had roused his pity—his brother’s grateful affection had flattered his feelings—he was pleased with himself for his conquest over pride; and perhaps nothing tends to make us more cheerful than this. Then there had been nothing to make him painfully aware of a change—his tutor’s manner had been more kind than ever—Jones could never address him but as “my lord”—Ernest seemed unwilling26 to consider himself even as his equal—all his comforts appeared the same as ever.
[138]
It was therefore with unaffected pleasure that, as they approached near the Castle Fontonore, Charles pointed27 out the landmarks28 to his brother.
“There now, there’s the lodge29; isn’t it a beauty? That’s Widow Grove30 who is standing31 at the gate. Why, there’s quite a little crowd; I knew that there would be one. Take off your cap, Ernest, they are cheering for us. Did you ever see such magnificent timber in your life? so glorious with the autumn tints32 still upon them! That tree to the right is five hundred years old. Just look at the deer as they bound through that glade33; and now—yes—now you have a glimpse of the castle, and there’s the flag waving from the top of the tower. Is it not an inheritance worth having, Ernest? Does it not surpass your expectations?”
“It does, it does; I never saw, never dreamed of anything so beautiful!”
And now, exciting no small stir amongst the tenants34, grooms35, stable-boys, and others who on various pretexts36 were crowding the entrance, the horses, urged on to speed by the postilion, dashed over the drawbridge, through the arched gateway37 into the paved court-yard, and stood chafed38 and foaming39 before the door, where the Hopes stood ready to receive the young master. Ernest had no time to gaze round on the romantic pile of building which surrounded him—the tower, the mullioned windows, the walls of massive stone, almost
[139]
covered with various kinds of creepers; he was so anxious to have a sight of his new relations, who appeared at the entrance to welcome them. There was a rather stout40 gentleman, whom, from a family likeness41 to Charles, Ernest at once set down for his uncle; a tall, good-looking lady, in a superb silk dress that looked rich enough to stand upright by itself, and whose very rustle42 seemed to speak of formidable dignity; and a fairy-like young creature, a little older than himself, whom, at the first glance, Ernest thought exceedingly pretty.
Charles, accustomed from infancy43 to be a person of importance, sprang eagerly out of the carriage first, almost before the horses had stopped. He ran to his aunt. “Where is Lord Fontonore?” said she, passing him, and advancing to the door of the carriage. “Dear Clemmy!” exclaimed Charles, taking his cousin’s hand, “how long it is since we have met!” She returned his press indeed, but her eyes were not looking towards him; she had not even a glance to give her old companion, so eagerly was her gaze turned in another direction.
“Is this the reception that I meet with?” thought Charles, anger and disappointment boiling in his heart. “It was then the peer whom they flattered and caressed44; I am now only Charles Hope, and I must be deserted45 for the first stranger who has a title;” and without attending to the greeting of his uncle, or to that of the
[140]
servants, with whom he had always been a favourite, Charles hurried off impatiently to his own room.
CHARLES AND HIS MOTHER’S PORTRAIT.
A beautiful room it was, all hung round with pictures. There was one which Charles especially valued, the portrait of his mother when she was a girl, with deep, thoughtful eyes, so much like Ernest’s that Charles wondered that he had not recognized the resemblance the first moment that he had seen his brother. This picture had often exercised a soothing46 effect over the boy; the thought of his gentle mother now in heaven drew his
[141]
own affections thither47; the hope of meeting her there was so sweet, the desire of being worthy48 of her so strong—for his mind had invested her with all the qualities of an angel—and the parent who had died before he could know his loss, was the object of the deepest tenderness of the boy.
“She, at least, is not changed—she looks always the same!” exclaimed Charles, clasping his hands, and gazing upon the portrait till his eyes became dimmed with tears. He was disturbed by a low knock at the door.
“Come in!” exclaimed Charles in an impatient tone, hastily dashing the moisture from his eyes. It was the housekeeper49 who appeared at the door.
“Please, my lord, Master Charles, I am sorry to disturb you, but this room Mrs. Hope desired to be prepared for Lord Fontonore; the blue room has been made ready for you.”
Charles rushed out of the apartment without saying a word, in a passion of anger and resentment50. The trial which he had seen but from a distance was now most keenly and bitterly felt. He locked his door, and paced backwards51 and forwards across the room, wishing that he could shut out all sound of voices and tread of feet, as he traced by it the progress of the party through the castle, which his relations were now showing to its new possessor. And thus he remained in his solitary52 misery, while Ernest painfully missed from his side one who was
[142]
more to his affectionate heart than all the wealth of the world, and with an uncomfortable consciousness of his every motion being watched by those who regarded him rather with curiosity than interest, passed through long corridors, and stately apartments, which were expected to strike him with wonder.
“He is not so vulgar or funny as I expected that he would be,” whispered Clementina to some one beside her; “but it makes me laugh to see him look so shy and uneasy, as if he were half afraid to look at his own castle. He certainly has a very interesting air, but he is not half so handsome as Charles.”
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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3
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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4
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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6
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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7
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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8
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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9
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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covetousness
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clogging
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| 堵塞，闭合 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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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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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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enjoyment
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entirely
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unwilling
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pointed
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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grove
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standing
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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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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35
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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38
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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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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41
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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42
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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44
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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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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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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50
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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51
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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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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