And men fell out, they knew not why;
When foul1 words, jealousies2, and fears,
Set folk together by the ears —
BUTLER.
William, the Conqueror3 of England, was, or supposed himself to be, the father of a certain William Peveril, who attended him to the battle of Hastings, and there distinguished4 himself. The liberal-minded monarch5, who assumed in his charters the veritable title of Gulielmus Bastardus, was not likely to let his son’s illegitimacy be any bar to the course of his royal favour, when the laws of England were issued from the mouth of the Norman victor, and the lands of the Saxons were at his unlimited6 disposal. William Peveril obtained a liberal grant of property and lordships in Derbyshire, and became the erecter of that Gothic fortress7, which, hanging over the mouth of the Devil’s Cavern8, so well known to tourists, gives the name of Castleton to the adjacent village.
From this feudal9 Baron10, who chose his nest upon the principles on which an eagle selects her eyry, and built it in such a fashion as if he had intended it, as an Irishman said of the Martello towers, for the sole purpose of puzzling posterity11, there was, or conceived themselves to be, descended12 (for their pedigree was rather hypothetical) an opulent family of knightly14 rank, in the same county of Derby. The great fief of Castleton, with its adjacent wastes and forests, and all the wonders which they contain, had been forfeited15 in King John’s stormy days, by one William Peveril, and had been granted anew to the Lord Ferrers of that day. Yet this William’s descendants, though no longer possessed16 of what they alleged17 to have been their original property, were long distinguished by the proud title of Peverils of the Peak, which served to mark their high descent and lofty pretensions18.
In Charles the Second’s time, the representative of this ancient family was Sir Geoffrey Peveril, a man who had many of the ordinary attributes of an old-fashioned country gentleman, and very few individual traits to distinguish him from the general portrait of that worthy19 class of mankind. He was proud of small advantages, angry at small disappointments, incapable20 of forming any resolution or opinion abstracted from his own prejudices — he was proud of his birth, lavish21 in his housekeeping, convivial22 with those kindred and acquaintances, who would allow his superiority in rank — contentious23 and quarrelsome with all that crossed his pretensions — kind to the poor, except when they plundered24 his game — a Royalist in his political opinions, and one who detested25 alike a Roundhead, a poacher, and a Presbyterian. In religion Sir Geoffrey was a high-churchman, of so exalted26 a strain that many thought he still nourished in private the Roman Catholic tenets, which his family had only renounced27 in his father’s time, and that he had a dispensation for conforming in outward observances to the Protestant faith. There was at least such a scandal amongst the Puritans, and the influence which Sir Geoffrey Peveril certainly appeared to possess amongst the Catholic gentlemen of Derbyshire and Cheshire, seemed to give countenance28 to the rumour29.
Such was Sir Geoffrey, who might have passed to his grave without further distinction than a brass-plate in the chancel, had he not lived in times which forced the most inactive spirits into exertion30, as a tempest influences the sluggish31 waters of the deadest mere32. When the Civil Wars broke out, Peveril of the Peak, proud from pedigree, and brave by constitution, raised a regiment33 for the King, and showed upon several occasions more capacity for command than men had heretofore given him credit for.
Even in the midst of the civil turmoil34, he fell in love with, and married, a beautiful and amiable35 young lady of the noble house of Stanley; and from that time had the more merit in his loyalty36, as it divorced him from her society, unless at very brief intervals37, when his duty permitted an occasional visit to his home. Scorning to be allured38 from his military duty by domestic inducements, Peveril of the Peak fought on for several rough years of civil war, and performed his part with sufficient gallantry, until his regiment was surprised and cut to pieces by Poyntz, Cromwell’s enterprising and successful general of cavalry40. The defeated Cavalier escaped from the field of battle, and, like a true descendant of William the Conqueror, disdaining41 submission42, threw himself into his own castellated mansion43, which was attacked and defended in a siege of that irregular kind which caused the destruction of so many baronial residences during the course of those unhappy wars. Martindale Castle, after having suffered severely44 from the cannon45 which Cromwell himself brought against it, was at length surrendered when in the last extremity46. Sir Geoffrey himself became a prisoner, and while his liberty was only restored upon a promise of remaining a peaceful subject to the Commonwealth47 in future, his former delinquencies, as they were termed by the ruling party, were severely punished by fine and sequestration.
But neither his forced promise, nor the fear of farther unpleasant consequences to his person or property, could prevent Peveril of the Peak from joining the gallant39 Earl of Derby the night before the fatal engagement in Wiggan Lane, where the Earl’s forces were dispersed48. Sir Geoffrey having had his share in that action, escaped with the relics49 of the Royalists after the defeat, to join Charles II. He witnessed also the final defeat of Worcester, where he was a second time made prisoner; and as, in the opinion of Cromwell and the language of the times, he was regarded as an obstinate50 malignant51, he was in great danger of having shared with the Earl of Derby his execution at Bolton-le-Moor, having partaken with him the dangers of two actions. But Sir Geoffrey’s life was preserved by the interest of a friend, who possessed influence in the councils of Oliver. — This was a Mr. Bridgenorth, a gentleman of middling quality, whose father had been successful in some commercial adventure during the peaceful reign52 of James I.; and who had bequeathed his son a considerable sum of money, in addition to the moderate patrimony53 which he inherited from his father.
The substantial, though small-sized, brick building of Moultrassie Hall, was but two miles distant from Martindale Castle, and the young Bridgenorth attended the same school with the heir of the Peverils. A sort of companionship, if not intimacy54, took place betwixt them, which continued during their youthful sports — the rather that Bridgenorth, though he did not at heart admit Sir Geoffrey’s claims of superiority to the extent which the other’s vanity would have exacted, paid deference55 in a reasonable degree to the representative of a family so much more ancient and important than his own, without conceiving that he in any respect degraded himself by doing so.
Mr. Bridgenorth did not, however, carry his complaisance56 so far as to embrace Sir Geoffrey’s side during the Civil War. On the contrary, as an active Justice of the Peace, he rendered much assistance in arraying the militia57 in the cause of the Parliament, and for some time held a military commission in that service. This was partly owing to his religious principles, for he was a zealous58 Presbyterian, partly to his political ideas, which, without being absolutely democratical, favoured the popular side of the great national question. Besides, he was a moneyed man, and to a certain extent had a shrewd eye to his worldly interest. He understood how to improve the opportunities which civil war afforded, of advancing his fortune, by a dexterous59 use of his capital; and he was not at a loss to perceive that these were likely to be obtained in joining the Parliament; while the King’s cause, as it was managed, held out nothing to the wealthy but a course of exaction61 and compulsory62 loans. For these reasons, Bridgenorth became a decided63 Roundhead, and all friendly communication betwixt his neighbour and him was abruptly64 broken asunder65. This was done with the less acrimony, that, during the Civil War, Sir Geoffrey was almost constantly in the field, following the vacillating and unhappy fortunes of his master; while Major Bridgenorth, who soon renounced active military service, resided chiefly in London, and only occasionally visited the Hall.
Upon these visits, it was with great pleasure he received the intelligence, that Lady Peveril had shown much kindness to Mrs. Bridgenorth, and had actually given her and her family shelter in Martindale Castle, when Moultrassie Hall was threatened with pillage66 by a body of Prince Rupert’s ill-disciplined Cavaliers. This acquaintance had been matured by frequent walks together, which the vicinity of their places of residence suffered the Lady Peveril to have with Mrs. Bridgenorth, who deemed herself much honoured in being thus admitted into the society of so distinguished a lady. Major Bridgenorth heard of this growing intimacy with great pleasure, and he determined67 to repay the obligation, as far as he could without much hurt to himself, by interfering68 with all his influence, in behalf of her unfortunate husband. It was chiefly owing to Major Bridgenorth’s mediation69, that Sir Geoffrey’s life was saved after the battle of Worcester. He obtained him permission to compound for his estate on easier terms than many who had been less obstinate in malignancy; and, finally, when, in order to raise the money to the composition, the Knight13 was obliged to sell a considerable portion of his patrimony, Major Bridgenorth became the purchaser, and that at a larger price than had been paid to any Cavalier under such circumstances, by a member of the Committee for Sequestrations. It is true, the prudent70 committeeman did not, by any means, lose sight of his own interest in the transaction, for the price was, after all, very moderate, and the property lay adjacent to Moultrassie Hall, the value of which was at least trebled by the acquisition. But then it was also true, that the unfortunate owner must have submitted to much worse conditions, had the committeeman used, as others did, the full advantages which his situation gave him; and Bridgenorth took credit to himself, and received it from others, for having, on this occasion, fairly sacrificed his interest to his liberality.
Sir Geoffrey Peveril was of the same opinion, and the rather that Mr. Bridgenorth seemed to bear his exaltation with great moderation, and was disposed to show him personally the same deference in his present sunshine of prosperity, which he had exhibited formerly71 in their early acquaintance. It is but justice to Major Bridgenorth to observe, that in this conduct he paid respect as much to the misfortunes as to the pretensions of his far-descended neighbour, and that, with the frank generosity72 of a blunt Englishman, he conceded points of ceremony, about which he himself was indifferent, merely because he saw that his doing so gave pleasure to Sir Geoffrey.
Peveril of the Peak did justice to his neighbour’s delicacy73, in consideration of which he forgot many things. He forgot that Major Bridgenorth was already in possession of a fair third of his estate, and had various pecuniary74 claims affecting the remainder, to the extent of one-third more. He endeavoured even to forget, what it was still more difficult not to remember, the altered situation in which they and their mansions75 now stood to each other.
Before the Civil War, the superb battlements and turrets76 of Martindale Castle looked down on the red brick-built Hall, as it stole out from the green plantations77, just as an oak in Martindale Chase would have looked beside one of the stunted78 and formal young beech79-trees with which Bridgenorth had graced his avenue; but after the siege which we have commemorated80, the enlarged and augmented81 Hall was as much predominant in the landscape over the shattered and blackened ruins of the Castle, of which only one wing was left habitable, as the youthful beech, in all its vigour82 of shoot and bud, would appear to the same aged60 oak stripped of its boughs83, and rifted by lightning, one-half laid in shivers on the ground, and the other remaining a blackened and ungraceful trunk, rent and splintered, and without either life or leaves. Sir Geoffrey could not but feel, that the situation and prospects84 were exchanged as disadvantageously for himself as the appearance of their mansions; and that though the authority of the man in office under the Parliament, the sequestrator, and the committeeman, had been only exerted for the protection of the Cavalier and the malignant, they would have been as effectual if applied85 to procure86 his utter ruin; and that he was become a client, while his neighbour was elevated into a patron.
There were two considerations, besides the necessity of the case and the constant advice of his lady, which enabled Peveril of the Peak to endure, with some patience, this state of degradation87. The first was, that the politics of Major Bridgenorth began, on many points, to assimilate themselves to his own. As a Presbyterian, he was not an utter enemy to monarchy88, and had been considerably89 shocked at the unexpected trial and execution of the King; as a civilian90 and a man of property, he feared the domination of the military; and though he wished not to see Charles restored by force of arms, yet he arrived at the conclusion, that to bring back the heir of the royal family on such terms of composition as might ensure the protection of those popular immunities91 and privileges for which the Long Parliament had at first contended, would be the surest and most desirable termination to the mutations in state affairs which had agitated92 Britain. Indeed, the Major’s ideas on this point approached so nearly those of his neighbour, that he had well-nigh suffered Sir Geoffrey, who had a finger in almost all the conspiracies93 of the Royalists, to involve him in the unfortunate rising of Penruddock and Groves94, in the west, in which many of the Presbyterian interest, as well as the Cavalier party, were engaged. And though his habitual95 prudence96 eventually kept him out of this and other dangers, Major Bridgenorth was considered during the last years of Cromwell’s domination, and the interregnum which succeeded, as a disaffected97 person to the Commonwealth, and a favourer of Charles Stewart.
But besides this approximation to the same political opinions, another bond of intimacy united the families of the Castle and the Hall. Major Bridgenorth, fortunate, and eminently98 so, in all his worldly transactions, was visited by severe and reiterated99 misfortunes in his family, and became, in this particular, an object of compassion100 to his poorer and more decayed neighbour. Betwixt the breaking out of the Civil War and the Restoration, he lost successively a family of no less than six children, apparently101 through a delicacy of constitution, which cut off the little prattlers at the early age when they most wind themselves round the heart of the parents.
In the beginning of the year 1658, Major Bridgenorth was childless; ere it ended, he had a daughter, indeed, but her birth was purchased by the death of an affectionate wife, whose constitution had been exhausted102 by maternal103 grief, and by the anxious and harrowing reflection, that from her the children they had lost derived104 that delicacy of health, which proved unable to undergo the tear and wear of existence. The same voice which told Bridgenorth that he was the father of a living child (it was the friendly voice of Lady Peveril), communicated to him the melancholy105 intelligence that he was no longer a husband. The feelings of Major Bridgenorth were strong and deep, rather than hasty and vehement106; and his grief assumed the form of a sullen107 stupor108, from which neither the friendly remonstrances109 of Sir Geoffrey, who did not fail to be with his neighbour at this distressing110 conjuncture, even though he knew he must meet the Presbyterian pastor112, nor the ghastly exhortations113 of this latter person, were able to rouse the unfortunate widower114.
At length Lady Peveril, with the ready invention of a female sharped by the sight of distress111 and the feelings of sympathy, tried on the sufferer one of those experiments by which grief is often awakened115 from despondency into tears. She placed in Bridgenorth’s arms the infant whose birth had cost him so dear, and conjured116 him to remember that his Alice was not yet dead, since she survived in the helpless child she had left to his paternal117 care.
“Take her away — take her away!” said the unhappy man, and they were the first words he had spoken; “let me not look on her — it is but another blossom that has bloomed to fade, and the tree that bore it will never flourish more!”
He almost threw the child into Lady Peveril’s arms, placed his hands before his face, and wept aloud. Lady Peveril did not say “be comforted,” but she ventured to promise that the blossom should ripen118 to fruit.
“Never, never!” said Bridgenorth; “take the unhappy child away, and let me only know when I shall wear black for her — Wear black!” he exclaimed, interrupting himself, “what other colour shall I wear during the remainder of my life?”
“I will take the child for a season,” said Lady Peveril, “since the sight of her is so painful to you; and the little Alice shall share the nursery of our Julian, until it shall be pleasure and not pain for you to look on her.”
“That hour will never come,” said the unhappy father; “her doom119 is written — she will follow the rest — God’s will be done. — Lady, I thank you — I trust her to your care; and I thank God that my eye shall not see her dying agonies.”
Without detaining the reader’s attention longer on this painful theme, it is enough to say that the Lady Peveril did undertake the duties of a mother to the little orphan120; and perhaps it was owing, in a great measure, to her judicious121 treatment of the infant, that its feeble hold of life was preserved, since the glimmering122 spark might probably have been altogether smothered123, had it, like the Major’s former children, undergone the over-care and over-nursing of a mother rendered nervously124 cautious and anxious by so many successive losses. The lady was the more ready to undertake this charge, that she herself had lost two infant children; and that she attributed the preservation125 of the third, now a fine healthy child of three years old, to Julian’s being subjected to rather a different course of diet and treatment than was then generally practised. She resolved to follow the same regiment with the little orphan, which she had observed in the case of her own boy; and it was equally successful. By a more sparing use of medicine, by a bolder admission of fresh air, by a firm, yet cautious attention to encourage rather than to supersede126 the exertions127 of nature, the puny128 infant, under the care of an excellent nurse, gradually improved in strength and in liveliness.
Sir Geoffrey, like most men of his frank and good-natured disposition129, was naturally fond of children, and so much compassionated130 the sorrows of his neighbour, that he entirely131 forgot his being a Presbyterian, until it became necessary that the infant should be christened by a teacher of that persuasion132.
This was a trying case — the father seemed incapable of giving direction; and that the threshold of Martindale Castle should be violated by the heretical step of a dissenting133 clergyman, was matter of horror to its orthodox owner. He had seen the famous Hugh Peters, with a Bible in one hand and a pistol in the other, ride in triumph through the court-door when Martindale was surrendered; and the bitterness of that hour had entered like iron into his soul. Yet such was Lady Peveril’s influence over the prejudices of her husband, that he was induced to connive134 at the ceremony taking place in a remote garden house, which was not properly within the precincts of the Castle-wall. The lady even dared to be present while the ceremony was performed by the Reverend Master Solsgrace, who had once preached a sermon of three hours’ length before the House of Commons, upon a thanksgiving occasion after the relief of Exeter. Sir Geoffrey Peveril took care to be absent the whole day from the Castle, and it was only from the great interest which he took in the washing, perfuming, and as it were purification of the summer-house, that it could have been guessed he knew anything of what had taken place in it.
But, whatever prejudices the good Knight might entertain against his neighbour’s form of religion, they did not in any way influence his feelings towards him as a sufferer under severe affliction. The mode in which he showed his sympathy was rather singular, but exactly suited the character of both, and the terms on which they stood with each other.
Morning after morning the good Baronet made Moultrassie Hall the termination of his walk or ride, and said a single word of kindness as he passed. Sometimes he entered the old parlour where the proprietor135 sat in solitary136 wretchedness and despondency; but more frequently (for Sir Geoffrey did not pretend to great talents of conversation), he paused on the terrace, and stopping or halting his horse by the latticed window, said aloud to the melancholy inmate137, “How is it with you, Master Bridgenorth?” (the Knight would never acknowledge his neighbour’s military rank of Major); “I just looked in to bid you keep a good heart, man, and to tell you that Julian is well, and little Alice is well, and all are well at Martindale Castle.”
A deep sigh, sometimes coupled with “I thank you, Sir Geoffrey; my grateful duty waits on Lady Peveril,” was generally Bridgenorth’s only answer. But the news was received on the one part with the kindness which was designed upon the other; it gradually became less painful and more interesting; the lattice window was never closed, nor was the leathern easy-chair which stood next to it ever empty, when the usual hour of the Baronet’s momentary138 visit approached. At length the expectation of that passing minute became the pivot139 upon which the thoughts of poor Bridgenorth turned during all the rest of the day. Most men have known the influence of such brief but ruling moments at some period of their lives. The moment when a lover passes the window of his mistress — the moment when the epicure140 hears the dinner-bell — is that into which is crowded the whole interest of the day; the hours which precede it are spent in anticipation141; the hours which follow, in reflection on what has passed; and fancy dwelling142 on each brief circumstance, gives to seconds the duration of minutes, to minutes that of hours. Thus seated in his lonely chair, Bridgenorth could catch at a distance the stately step of Sir Geoffrey, or the heavy tramp of his war-horse, Black Hastings, which had borne him in many an action; he could hear the hum of “The King shall enjoy his own again,” or the habitual whistle of “Cuckolds and Roundheads,” die unto reverential silence, as the Knight approached the mansion of affliction; and then came the strong hale voice of the huntsman soldier with its usual greeting.
By degrees the communication became something more protracted143, as Major Bridgenorth’s grief, like all human feelings, lost its overwhelming violence, and permitted him to attend, in some degree, to what passed around him, to discharge various duties which pressed upon him, and to give a share of attention to the situation of the country, distracted as it was by the contending factions144, whose strife145 only terminated in the Restoration. Still, however, though slowly recovering from the effects of the shock which he had sustained, Major Bridgenorth felt himself as yet unable to make up his mind to the effort necessary to see his infant; and though separated by so short a distance from the being in whose existence he was more interested than in anything the world afforded, he only made himself acquainted with the windows of the apartment where little Alice was lodged146, and was often observed to watch them from the terrace, as they brightened in the evening under the influence of the setting sun. In truth, though a strong-minded man in most respects, he was unable to lay aside the gloomy impression that this remaining pledge of affection was soon to be conveyed to that grave which had already devoured147 all besides that was dear to him; and he awaited in miserable148 suspense149 the moment when he should hear that symptoms of the fatal malady150 had begun to show themselves.
The voice of Peveril continued to be that of a comforter until the month of April 1660, when it suddenly assumed a new and different tone. “The King shall enjoy his own again,” far from ceasing, as the hasty tread of Black Hastings came up the avenue, bore burden to the clatter151 of his hoofs152 on the paved courtyard, as Sir Geoffrey sprang from his great war-saddle, now once more garnished153 with pistols of two feet in length, and, armed with steel-cap, back and breast, and a truncheon in his hand, he rushed into the apartment of the astonished Major, with his eyes sparkling, and his cheek inflamed154, while he called out, “Up! up, neighbour! No time now to mope in the chimney-corner! Where is your buff-coat and broadsword, man? Take the true side once in your life, and mend past mistakes. The King is all lenity, man — all royal nature and mercy. I will get your full pardon.”
“What means all this?” said Bridgenorth —“Is all well with you — all well at Martindale Castle, Sir Geoffrey?”
“Well as you could wish them, Alice, and Julian, and all. But I have news worth twenty of that — Monk155 has declared at London against those stinking156 scoundrels the Rump. Fairfax is up in Yorkshire — for the King — for the King, man! Churchmen, Presbyterians, and all, are in buff and bandoleer for King Charles. I have a letter from Fairfax to secure Derby and Chesterfield with all the men I can make. D— n him, fine that I should take orders from him! But never mind that — all are friends now, and you and I, good neighbour, will charge abreast157, as good neighbours should. See there! read — read — read — and then boot and saddle in an instant.
‘Hey for cavaliers — ho for cavaliers,
Pray for cavaliers,
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub,
Have at old Beelzebub,
Oliver shakes in his bier!’”
After thundering forth158 this elegant effusion of loyal enthusiasm, the sturdy Cavalier’s heart became too full. He threw himself on a seat, and exclaiming, “Did ever I think to live to see this happy day!” he wept, to his own surprise, as much as to that of Bridgenorth.
Upon considering the crisis in which the country was placed, it appeared to Major Bridgenorth, as it had done to Fairfax, and other leaders of the Presbyterian party, that their frank embracing of the royal interest was the wisest and most patriotic159 measure which they could adopt in the circumstances, when all ranks and classes of men were seeking refuge from the uncertainty160 and varied161 oppression attending the repeated contests between the factions of Westminster Hall and of Wallingford House. Accordingly he joined with Sir Geoffrey, with less enthusiasm indeed, but with equal sincerity162, taking such measures as seemed proper to secure their part of the country on the King’s behalf, which was done as effectually and peaceably as in other parts of England. The neighbours were both at Chesterfield, when news arrived that the King had landed in England; and Sir Geoffrey instantly announced his purpose of waiting upon his Majesty163, even before his return to the Castle of Martindale.
“Who knows, neighbour,” he said, “whether Sir Geoffrey Peveril will ever return to Martindale? Titles must be going amongst them yonder, and I have deserved something among the rest. — Lord Peveril would sound well — or stay, Earl of Martindale — no, not of Martindale — Earl of the Peak. — Meanwhile, trust your affairs to me — I will see you secured — I would you had been no Presbyterian, neighbour — a knighthood — I mean a knight-bachelor, not a knight-baronet — would have served your turn well.”
“I leave these things to my betters, Sir Geoffrey,” said the Major, “and desire nothing so earnestly as to find all well at Martindale when I return.”
“You will — you will find them all well,” said the Baronet; “Julian, Alice, Lady Peveril, and all of them — Bear my commendations to them, and kiss them all, neighbour, Lady Peveril and all — you may kiss a Countess when I come back; all will go well with you now you are turned honest man.”
“I always meant to be so, Sir Geoffrey,” said Bridgenorth calmly.
“Well, well, well — no offence meant,” said the Knight, “all is well now — so you to Moultrassie Hall, and I to Whitehall. Said I well, aha! So ho, mine host, a stoup of Canary to the King’s health ere we get to horse — I forgot, neighbour — you drink no healths.”
“I wish the King’s health as sincerely as if I drank a gallon to it,” replied the Major; “and I wish you, Sir Geoffrey, all success on your journey, and a safe return.”
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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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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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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27
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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28
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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29
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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30
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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31
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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32
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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33
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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34
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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35
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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36
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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37
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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38
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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40
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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41
disdaining
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| 鄙视( disdain的现在分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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42
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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43
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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44
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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45
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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46
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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47
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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48
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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49
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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50
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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51
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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52
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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53
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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54
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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55
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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56
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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57
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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58
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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59
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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60
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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61
exaction
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| n.强求，强征；杂税 | |
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62
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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63
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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64
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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65
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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66
pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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67
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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68
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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69
mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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70
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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71
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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72
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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73
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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74
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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75
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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76
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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77
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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78
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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79
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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80
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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82
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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83
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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84
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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85
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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86
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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87
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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88
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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89
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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90
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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91
immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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92
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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93
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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94
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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95
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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96
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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97
disaffected
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| adj.（政治上）不满的，叛离的 | |
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98
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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99
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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101
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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102
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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103
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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104
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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105
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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106
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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107
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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108
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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109
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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110
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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111
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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112
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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113
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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114
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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115
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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116
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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117
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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118
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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119
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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120
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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121
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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122
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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123
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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124
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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125
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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126
supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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127
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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128
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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129
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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130
compassionated
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| v.同情（compassionate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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131
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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132
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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133
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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134
connive
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| v.纵容；密谋 | |
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135
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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136
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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137
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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138
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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139
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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140
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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141
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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142
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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143
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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144
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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145
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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146
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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147
devoured
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|
| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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148
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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149
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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150
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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151
clatter
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|
| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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152
hoofs
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|
| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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153
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
inflamed
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|
| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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156
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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157
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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158
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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159
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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160
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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161
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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162
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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163
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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