Everyone who has travelled over Eastern England knows the smaller country-houses with which it is studded — the rather dank little buildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of some eighty to a hundred acres. For me they have always had a very strong attraction, with the grey paling of split oak, the noble trees, the meres1 with their reed-beds, and the line of distant woods. Then, I like the pillared portico3 — perhaps stuck on to a red-brick Queen Anne house which has been faced with stucco to bring it into line with the ‘Grecian’ taste of the end of the eighteenth century; the hall inside, going up to the roof, which hall ought always to be provided with a gallery and a small organ. I like the library, too, where you may find anything from a Psalter of the thirteenth century to a Shakespeare quarto. I like the pictures, of course; and perhaps most of all I like fancying what life in such a house was when it was first built, and in the piping times of landlords’ prosperity, and not least now, when, if money is not so plentiful4, taste is more varied5 and life quite as interesting. I wish to have one of these houses, and enough money to keep it together and entertain my friends in it modestly.
But this is a digression. I have to tell you of a curious series of events which happened in such a house as I have tried to describe. It is Castringham Hall in Suffolk. I think a good deal has been done to the building since the period of my story, but the essential features I have sketched6 are still there — Italian portico, square block of white house, older inside than out, park with fringe of woods, and mere2. The one feature that marked out the house from a score of others is gone. As you looked at it from the park, you saw on the right a great old ash-tree growing within half a dozen yards of the wall, and almost or quite touching7 the building with its branches. I suppose it had stood there ever since Castringham ceased to be a fortified8 place, and since the moat was filled in and the Elizabethan dwelling-house built. At any rate, it had well-nigh attained9 its full dimensions in the year 1690.
In that year the district in which the Hall is situated10 was the scene of a number of witch-trials. It will be long, I think, before we arrive at a just estimate of the amount of solid reason — if there was any — which lay at the root of the universal fear of witches in old times. Whether the persons accused of this offence really did imagine that they were possessed11 of unusual power of any kind; or whether they had the will at least, if not the power, of doing mischief12 to their neighbours; or whether all the confessions13, of which there are so many, were extorted14 by the cruelty of the witch-finders — these are questions which are not, I fancy, yet solved. And the present narrative15 gives me pause. I cannot altogether sweep it away as mere invention. The reader must judge for himself.
Castringham contributed a victim to the auto-da-fé. Mrs Mothersole was her name, and she differed from the ordinary run of village witches only in being rather better off and in a more influential16 position. Efforts were made to save her by several reputable farmers of the parish. They did their best to testify to her character, and showed considerable anxiety as to the verdict of the jury.
But what seems to have been fatal to the woman was the evidence of the then proprietor18 of Castringham Hall — Sir Matthew Fell. He deposed19 to having watched her on three different occasions from his window, at the full of the moon, gathering20 sprigs ‘from the ash-tree near my house’. She had climbed into the branches, clad only in her shift, and was cutting off small twigs21 with a peculiarly curved knife, and as she did so she seemed to be talking to herself. On each occasion Sir Matthew had done his best to capture the woman, but she had always taken alarm at some accidental noise he had made, and all he could see when he got down to the garden was a hare running across the path in the direction of the village.
On the third night he had been at the pains to follow at his best speed, and had gone straight to Mrs Mothersole’s house; but he had had to wait a quarter of an hour battering22 at her door, and then she had come out very cross, and apparently23 very sleepy, as if just out of bed; and he had no good explanation to offer of his visit.
Mainly on this evidence, though there was much more of a less striking and unusual kind from other parishioners, Mrs Mothersole was found guilty and condemned24 to die. She was hanged a week after the trial, with five or six more unhappy creatures, at Bury St Edmunds.
Sir Matthew Fell, then Deputy–Sheriff, was present at the execution. It was a damp, drizzly25 March morning when the cart made its way up the rough grass hill outside Northgate, where the gallows26 stood. The other victims were apathetic27 or broken down with misery28; but Mrs Mothersole was, as in life so in death, of a very different temper. Her ‘poysonous Rage’, as a reporter of the time puts it, ‘did so work upon the Bystanders — yea, even upon the Hangman — that it was constantly affirmed of all that saw her that she presented the living Aspect of a mad Divell. Yet she offer’d no Resistance to the Officers of the Law; onely she looked upon those that laid Hands upon her with so direfull and venomous an Aspect that — as one of them afterwards assured me — the meer Thought of it preyed29 inwardly upon his Mind for six Months after.’
However, all that she is reported to have said were the seemingly meaningless words: ‘There will be guests at the Hall.’ Which she repeated more than once in an undertone.
Sir Matthew Fell was not unimpressed by the bearing of the woman. He had some talk upon the matter with the Vicar of his parish, with whom he travelled home after the assize business was over. His evidence at the trial had not been very willingly given; he was not specially30 infected with the witch-finding mania31, but he declared, then and afterwards, that he could not give any other account of the matter than that he had given, and that he could not possibly have been mistaken as to what he saw. The whole transaction had been repugnant to him, for he was a man who liked to be on pleasant terms with those about him; but he saw a duty to be done in this business, and he had done it. That seems to have been the gist32 of his sentiments, and the Vicar applauded it, as any reasonable man must have done.
A few weeks after, when the moon of May was at the full, Vicar and Squire33 met again in the park, and walked to the Hall together. Lady Fell was with her mother, who was dangerously ill, and Sir Matthew was alone at home; so the Vicar, Mr Crome, was easily persuaded to take a late supper at the Hall.
Sir Matthew was not very good company this evening. The talk ran chiefly on family and parish matters, and, as luck would have it, Sir Matthew made a memorandum34 in writing of certain wishes or intentions of his regarding his estates, which afterwards proved exceedingly useful.
When Mr Crome thought of starting for home, about half past nine o’clock, Sir Matthew and he took a preliminary turn on the gravelled walk at the back of the house. The only incident that struck Mr Crome was this: they were in sight of the ash-tree which I described as growing near the windows of the building, when Sir Matthew stopped and said:
‘What is that that runs up and down the stem of the ash? It is never a squirrel? They will all be in their nests by now.’
The Vicar looked and saw the moving creature, but he could make nothing of its colour in the moonlight. The sharp outline, however, seen for an instant, was imprinted35 on his brain, and he could have sworn, he said, though it sounded foolish, that, squirrel or not, it had more than four legs.
Still, not much was to be made of the momentary36 vision, and the two men parted. They may have met since then, but it was not for a score of years.
Next day Sir Matthew Fell was not downstairs at six in the morning, as was his custom, nor at seven, nor yet at eight. Hereupon the servants went and knocked at his chamber38 door. I need not prolong the description of their anxious listenings and renewed batterings on the panels. The door was opened at last from the outside, and they found their master dead and black. So much you have guessed. That there were any marks of violence did not at the moment appear; but the window was open.
One of the men went to fetch the parson, and then by his directions rode on to give notice to the coroner. Mr Crome himself went as quick as he might to the Hall, and was shown to the room where the dead man lay. He has left some notes among his papers which show how genuine a respect and sorrow was felt for Sir Matthew, and there is also this passage, which I transcribe39 for the sake of the light it throws upon the course of events, and also upon the common beliefs of the time:
‘There was not any the least Trace of an Entrance having been forc’d to the Chamber: but the Casement40 stood open, as my poor Friend would always have it in this Season. He had his Evening Drink of small Ale in a silver vessel41 of about a pint42 measure, and tonight had not drunk it out. This Drink was examined by the Physician from Bury, a Mr Hodgkins, who could not, however, as he afterwards declar’d upon his Oath, before the Coroner’s quest, discover that any matter of a venomous kind was present in it. For, as was natural, in the great Swelling43 and Blackness of the Corpse44, there was talk made among the Neighbours of Poyson. The Body was very much Disorder45’d as it laid in the Bed, being twisted after so extream a sort as gave too probable Conjecture46 that my worthy47 Friend and Patron had expir’d in great Pain and Agony. And what is as yet unexplain’d, and to myself the Argument of some Horrid48 and Artfull Designe in the Perpetrators of this Barbarous Murther, was this, that the Women which were entrusted49 with the laying-out of the Corpse and washing it, being both sad Pearsons and very well Respected in their Mournfull Profession, came to me in a great Pain and Distress50 both of Mind and Body, saying, what was indeed confirmed upon the first View, that they had no sooner touch’d the Breast of the Corpse with their naked Hands than they were sensible of a more than ordinary violent Smart and Acheing in their Palms, which, with their whole Forearms, in no long time swell’d so immoderately, the Pain still continuing, that, as afterwards proved, during many weeks they were forc’d to lay by the exercise of their Calling; and yet no mark seen on the Skin.
‘Upon hearing this, I sent for the Physician, who was still in the House, and we made as carefull a Proof as we were able by the Help of a small Magnifying Lens of Crystal of the condition of the Skinn on this Part of the Body: but could not detect with the Instrument we had any Matter of Importance beyond a couple of small Punctures51 or Pricks52, which we then concluded were the Spotts by which the Poyson might be introduced, remembering that Ring of Pope Borgia, with other known Specimens53 of the Horrid Art of the Italian Poysoners of the last age.
‘So much is to be said of the Symptoms seen on the Corpse. As to what I am to add, it is meerly my own Experiment, and to be left to Posterity54 to judge whether there be anything of Value therein. There was on the Table by the Beddside a Bible of the small size, in which my Friend — punctuall as in Matters of less Moment, so in this more weighty one — used nightly, and upon his First Rising, to read a sett Portion. And I taking it up — not without a Tear duly paid to him wich from the Study of this poorer Adumbration55 was now pass’d to the contemplation of its great Originall — it came into my Thoughts, as at such moments of Helplessness we are prone56 to catch at any the least Glimmer57 that makes promise of Light, to make trial of that old and by many accounted Superstitious58 Practice of drawing the Sortes; of which a Principall Instance, in the case of his late Sacred Majesty59 the Blessed Martyr60 King Charles and my Lord Falkland, was now much talked of. I must needs admit that by my Trial not much Assistance was afforded me: yet, as the Cause and Origin of these Dreadfull Events may hereafter be search’d out, I set down the Results, in the case it may be found that they pointed61 the true Quarter of the Mischief to a quicker Intelligence than my own.
‘I made, then, three trials, opening the Book and placing my Finger upon certain Words: which gave in the first these words, from Luke xiii. 7, Cut it down; in the second, Isaiah xiii. 20, It shall never be inhabited; and upon the third Experiment, Job xxxix. 30, Her young ones also suck up blood.’
This is all that need be quoted from Mr Crome’s papers. Sir Matthew Fell was duly coffined62 and laid into the earth, and his funeral sermon, preached by Mr Crome on the following Sunday, has been printed under the title of ‘The Unsearchable Way; or, England’s Danger and the Malicious64 Dealings of Antichrist’, it being the Vicar’s view, as well as that most commonly held in the neighbourhood, that the Squire was the victim of a recrudescence of the Popish Plot.
His son, Sir Matthew the second, succeeded to the title and estates. And so ends the first act of the Castringham tragedy. It is to be mentioned, though the fact is not surprising, that the new Baronet did not occupy the room in which his father had died. Nor, indeed, was it slept in by anyone but an occasional visitor during the whole of his occupation. He died in 1735, and I do not find that anything particular marked his reign65, save a curiously66 constant mortality among his cattle and live-stock in general, which showed a tendency to increase slightly as time went on.
Those who are interested in the details will find a statistical67 account in a letter to the Gentleman’s Magazine of 1772, which draws the facts from the Baronet’s own papers. He put an end to it at last by a very simple expedient68, that of shutting up all his beasts in sheds at night, and keeping no sheep in his park. For he had noticed that nothing was ever attacked that spent the night indoors. After that the disorder confined itself to wild birds, and beasts of chase. But as we have no good account of the symptoms, and as all-night watching was quite unproductive of any clue, I do not dwell on what the Suffolk farmers called the ‘Castringham sickness’.
The second Sir Matthew died in 1735, as I said, and was duly succeeded by his son, Sir Richard. It was in his time that the great family pew was built out on the north side of the parish church. So large were the Squire’s ideas that several of the graves on that unhallowed side of the building had to be disturbed to satisfy his requirements. Among them was that of Mrs Mothersole, the position of which was accurately69 known, thanks to a note on a plan of the church and yard, both made by Mr Crome.
A certain amount of interest was excited in the village when it was known that the famous witch, who was still remembered by a few, was to be exhumed70. And the feeling of surprise, and indeed disquiet71, was very strong when it was found that, though her coffin63 was fairly sound and unbroken, there was no trace whatever inside it of body, bones, or dust. Indeed, it is a curious phenomenon, for at the time of her burying no such things were dreamt of as resurrection-men, and it is difficult to conceive any rational motive72 for stealing a body otherwise than for the uses of the dissecting-room.
The incident revived for a time all the stories of witch-trials and of the exploits of the witches, dormant73 for forty years, and Sir Richard’s orders that the coffin should be burnt were thought by a good many to be rather foolhardy, though they were duly carried out.
Sir Richard was a pestilent innovator74, it is certain. Before his time the Hall had been a fine block of the mellowest75 red brick; but Sir Richard had travelled in Italy and become infected with the Italian taste, and, having more money than his predecessors76, he determined77 to leave an Italian palace where he had found an English house. So stucco and ashlar masked the brick; some indifferent Roman marbles were planted about in the entrance-hall and gardens; a reproduction of the Sibyl’s temple at Tivoli was erected78 on the opposite bank of the mere; and Castringham took on an entirely79 new, and, I must say, a less engaging, aspect. But it was much admired, and served as a model to a good many of the neighbouring gentry80 in after-years.
* * * * *
One morning (it was in 1754) Sir Richard woke after a night of discomfort81. It had been windy, and his chimney had smoked persistently82, and yet it was so cold that he must keep up a fire. Also something had so rattled83 about the window that no man could get a moment’s peace. Further, there was the prospect84 of several guests of position arriving in the course of the day, who would expect sport of some kind, and the inroads of the distemper (which continued among his game) had been lately so serious that he was afraid for his reputation as a game-preserver. But what really touched him most nearly was the other matter of his sleepless85 night. He could certainly not sleep in that room again.
That was the chief subject of his meditations86 at breakfast, and after it he began a systematic87 examination of the rooms to see which would suit his notions best. It was long before he found one. This had a window with an eastern aspect and that with a northern; this door the servants would be always passing, and he did not like the bedstead in that. No, he must have a room with a western look-out, so that the sun could not wake him early, and it must be out of the way of the business of the house. The housekeeper88 was at the end of her resources.
‘Well, Sir Richard,’ she said, ‘you know that there is but the one room like that in the house.’
‘Which may that be?’ said Sir Richard.
‘And that is Sir Matthew’s — the West Chamber.’
‘Well, put me in there, for there I’ll lie tonight,’ said her master. ‘Which way is it? Here, to be sure’; and he hurried off.
‘Oh, Sir Richard, but no one has slept there these forty years. The air has hardly been changed since Sir Matthew died there.’
Thus she spoke89, and rustled90 after him.
‘Come, open the door, Mrs Chiddock. I’ll see the chamber, at least.’
So it was opened, and, indeed, the smell was very close and earthy. Sir Richard crossed to the window, and, impatiently, as was his wont91, threw the shutters92 back, and flung open the casement. For this end of the house was one which the alterations93 had barely touched, grown up as it was with the great ash-tree, and being otherwise concealed94 from view.
‘Air it, Mrs Chiddock, all today, and move my bed-furniture in in the afternoon. Put the Bishop95 of Kilmore in my old room.’
‘Pray, Sir Richard,’ said a new voice, breaking in on this speech, ‘might I have the favour of a moment’s interview?’
Sir Richard turned round and saw a man in black in the doorway96, who bowed.
‘I must ask your indulgence for this intrusion, Sir Richard. You will, perhaps, hardly remember me. My name is William Crome, and my grandfather was Vicar in your grandfather’s time.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Sir Richard, ‘the name of Crome is always a passport to Castringham. I am glad to renew a friendship of two generations’ standing97. In what can I serve you? for your hour of calling — and, if I do not mistake you, your bearing — shows you to be in some haste.’
‘That is no more than the truth, sir. I am riding from Norwich to Bury St Edmunds with what haste I can make, and I have called in on my way to leave with you some papers which we have but just come upon in looking over what my grandfather left at his death. It is thought you may find some matters of family interest in them.’
‘You are mighty98 obliging, Mr Crome, and, if you will be so good as to follow me to the parlour, and drink a glass of wine, we will take a first look at these same papers together. And you, Mrs Chiddock, as I said, be about airing this chamber. . . . Yes, it is here my grandfather died. . . . Yes, the tree, perhaps, does make the place a little dampish. . . . No; I do not wish to listen to any more. Make no difficulties, I beg. You have your orders — go. Will you follow me, sir?’
They went to the study. The packet which young Mr Crome had brought — he was then just become a Fellow of Clare Hall in Cambridge, I may say, and subsequently brought out a respectable edition of Polyaenus — contained among other things the notes which the old Vicar had made upon the occasion of Sir Matthew Fell’s death. And for the first time Sir Richard was confronted with the enigmatical Sortes Biblicae which you have heard. They amused him a good deal.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘my grandfather’s Bible gave one prudent99 piece of advice — Cut it down. If that stands for the ash-tree, he may rest assured I shall not neglect it. Such a nest of catarrhs and agues was never seen.’
The parlour contained the family books, which, pending100 the arrival of a collection which Sir Richard had made in Italy, and the building of a proper room to receive them, were not many in number.
Sir Richard looked up from the paper to the bookcase.
‘I wonder,’ says he, ‘whether the old prophet is there yet? I fancy I see him.’
Crossing the room, he took out a dumpy Bible, which, sure enough, bore on the flyleaf the inscription101: ‘To Matthew Fell, from his Loving Godmother, Anne Aldous, 2 September 1659.’
‘It would be no bad plan to test him again, Mr Crome. I will wager102 we get a couple of names in the Chronicles. H’m! what have we here? “Thou shalt seek me in the morning, and I shall not be.” Well, well! Your grandfather would have made a fine omen37 of that, hey? No more prophets for me! They are all in a tale. And now, Mr Crome, I am infinitely103 obliged to you for your packet. You will, I fear, be impatient to get on. Pray allow me — another glass.’
So with offers of hospitality, which were genuinely meant (for Sir Richard thought well of the young man’s address and manner), they parted.
In the afternoon came the guests — the Bishop of Kilmore, Lady Mary Hervey, Sir William Kentfield, etc. Dinner at five, wine, cards, supper, and dispersal to bed.
Next morning Sir Richard is disinclined to take his gun with the rest. He talks with the Bishop of Kilmore. This prelate, unlike a good many of the Irish Bishops104 of his day, had visited his see, and, indeed, resided there, for some considerable time. This morning, as the two were walking along the terrace and talking over the alterations and improvements in the house, the Bishop said, pointing to the window of the West Room:
‘You could never get one of my Irish flock to occupy that room, Sir Richard.’
‘Why is that, my lord? It is, in fact, my own.’
‘Well, our Irish peasantry will always have it that it brings the worst of luck to sleep near an ash-tree, and you have a fine growth of ash not two yards from your chamber window. Perhaps,’ the Bishop went on, with a smile, ‘it has given you a touch of its quality already, for you do not seem, if I may say it, so much the fresher for your night’s rest as your friends would like to see you.’
‘That, or something else, it is true, cost me my sleep from twelve to four, my lord. But the tree is to come down tomorrow, so I shall not hear much more from it.’
‘I applaud your determination. It can hardly be wholesome105 to have the air you breathe strained, as it were, through all that leafage.’
‘Your lordship is right there, I think. But I had not my window open last night. It was rather the noise that went on — no doubt from the twigs sweeping106 the glass — that kept me open-eyed.’
‘I think that can hardly be, Sir Richard. Here — you see it from this point. None of these nearest branches even can touch your casement unless there were a gale107, and there was none of that last night. They miss the panes108 by a foot.’
‘No, sir, true. What, then, will it be, I wonder, that scratched and rustled so — ay, and covered the dust on my sill with lines and marks?’
At last they agreed that the rats must have come up through the ivy109. That was the Bishop’s idea, and Sir Richard jumped at it.
So the day passed quietly, and night came, and the party dispersed110 to their rooms, and wished Sir Richard a better night.
And now we are in his bedroom, with the light out and the Squire in bed. The room is over the kitchen, and the night outside still and warm, so the window stands open.
There is very little light about the bedstead, but there is a strange movement there; it seems as if Sir Richard were moving his head rapidly to and fro with only the slightest possible sound. And now you would guess, so deceptive111 is the half-darkness, that he had several heads, round and brownish, which move back and forward, even as low as his chest. It is a horrible illusion. Is it nothing more? There! something drops off the bed with a soft plump, like a kitten, and is out of the window in a flash; another — four — and after that there is quiet again.
Thou shall seek me in the morning, and I shall not be.
As with Sir Matthew, so with Sir Richard — dead and black in his bed!
A pale and silent party of guests and servants gathered under the window when the news was known. Italian poisoners, Popish emissaries, infected air — all these and more guesses were hazarded, and the Bishop of Kilmore looked at the tree, in the fork of whose lower boughs112 a white tom-cat was crouching113, looking down the hollow which years had gnawed114 in the trunk. It was watching something inside the tree with great interest.
Suddenly it got up and craned over the hole. Then a bit of the edge on which it stood gave way, and it went slithering in. Everyone looked up at the noise of the fall.
It is known to most of us that a cat can cry; but few of us have heard, I hope, such a yell as came out of the trunk of the great ash. Two or three screams there were — the witnesses are not sure which — and then a slight and muffled115 noise of some commotion116 or struggling was all that came. But Lady Mary Hervey fainted outright117, and the housekeeper stopped her ears and fled till she fell on the terrace.
The Bishop of Kilmore and Sir William Kentfield stayed. Yet even they were daunted118, though it was only at the cry of a cat; and Sir William swallowed once or twice before he could say:
‘There is something more than we know of in that tree, my lord. I am for an instant search.’
And this was agreed upon. A ladder was brought, and one of the gardeners went up, and, looking down the hollow, could detect nothing but a few dim indications of something moving. They got a lantern, and let it down by a rope.
‘We must get at the bottom of this. My life upon it, my lord, but the secret of these terrible deaths is there.’
Up went the gardener again with the lantern, and let it down the hole cautiously. They saw the yellow light upon his face as he bent119 over, and saw his face struck with an incredulous terror and loathing120 before he cried out in a dreadful voice and fell back from the ladder — where, happily, he was caught by two of the men — letting the lantern fall inside the tree.
He was in a dead faint, and it was some time before any word could be got from him.
By then they had something else to look at. The lantern must have broken at the bottom, and the light in it caught upon dry leaves and rubbish that lay there for in a few minutes a dense121 smoke began to come up, and then flame; and, to be short, the tree was in a blaze.
The bystanders made a ring at some yards’ distance, and Sir William and the Bishop sent men to get what weapons and tools they could; for, clearly, whatever might be using the tree as its lair122 would be forced out by the fire.
So it was. First, at the fork, they saw a round body covered with fire — the size of a man’s head — appear very suddenly, then seem to collapse123 and fall back. This, five or six times; then a similar ball leapt into the air and fell on the grass, where after a moment it lay still. The Bishop went as near as he dared to it, and saw — what but the remains124 of an enormous spider, veinous and seared! And, as the fire burned lower down, more terrible bodies like this began to break out from the trunk, and it was seen that these were covered with greyish hair.
All that day the ash burned, and until it fell to pieces the men stood about it, and from time to time killed the brutes125 as they darted126 out. At last there was a long interval127 when none appeared, and they cautiously closed in and examined the roots of the tree.
‘They found,’ says the Bishop of Kilmore, ‘below it a rounded hollow place in the earth, wherein were two or three bodies of these creatures that had plainly been smothered128 by the smoke; and, what is to me more curious, at the side of this den17, against the wall, was crouching the anatomy129 or skeleton of a human being, with the skin dried upon the bones, having some remains of black hair, which was pronounced by those that examined it to be undoubtedly130 the body of a woman, and clearly dead for a period of fifty years.’
收听单词发音 |
1
meres
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| abbr.matrix of environmental residuals for energy systems 能源系统环境残留矩阵 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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situated
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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19
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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20
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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21
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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22
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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23
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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24
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25
drizzly
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| a.毛毛雨的(a drizzly day) | |
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26
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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27
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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29
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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30
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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31
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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32
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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33
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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34
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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35
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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36
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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37
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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38
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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39
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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40
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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41
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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42
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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43
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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44
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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45
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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46
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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47
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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48
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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49
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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51
punctures
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| n.（尖物刺成的）小孔( puncture的名词复数 )；（尤指）轮胎穿孔；（尤指皮肤上被刺破的）扎孔；刺伤v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的第三人称单数 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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52
pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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53
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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54
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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55
adumbration
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| n.预示，预兆 | |
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56
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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57
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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58
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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59
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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60
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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61
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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62
coffined
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| vt.收殓（coffin的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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64
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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65
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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66
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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67
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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68
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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69
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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70
exhumed
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| v.挖出，发掘出( exhume的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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72
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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73
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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74
innovator
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| n.改革者；创新者 | |
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75
mellowest
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| 成熟的( mellow的最高级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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76
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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77
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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78
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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79
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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80
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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81
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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82
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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83
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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84
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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85
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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86
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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87
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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88
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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89
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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90
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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92
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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93
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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94
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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95
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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96
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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97
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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98
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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99
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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100
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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101
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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102
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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103
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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104
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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105
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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106
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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107
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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108
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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109
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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110
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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111
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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112
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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113
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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114
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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115
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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116
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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117
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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118
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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120
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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121
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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122
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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123
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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124
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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125
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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126
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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127
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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128
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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129
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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130
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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