At other times, the maiden6 fortress7 has been taken by a coup8 de main, the assailant's resistless ardour carrying all before it. More frequently, perhaps, has the too venturous knight9 been repulsed10 with scorn, and, as in earlier days, been fain to betake himself to Palestine or other distant region blessed with continuous warfare11, and exceptional facilities for acquiring fame or getting knocked on the head, as the case might be.
For the patient and scientific conduct of a siege, according to the rules of the Court of Love—and such there be, if the poets and minstrels of all ages deserve credence—Roland Massinger was unfitted by [Pg 27] constitution and opinion. His fixed12 idea was, that every woman knew her mind perfectly13 well with regard to a declared admirer. If favourable14, it was waste of time and emotion to await events. If otherwise, the sooner a man was made aware of his dismissal the better. He could then shape his course in life without distraction15 or hindrance16. In any case he was freed from the hourly torments17 under which the victim writhes18, uncertain of his fate. It was the coup de grace which frees the wretch19 upon the rack; the knife-thrust which liberates20 the Indian at the stake. And he trusted to his manhood to be equal to the occasion.
When he did "put his fortune to the touch, to win or lose it all"—as have done so many gallant21 lovers before this veracious22 history—he was too deeply grieved and shocked at the unexpected issue to place before the fateful maid any of the pleadings or protests deemed in such cases to be appropriate. He did not falter23 out statements inclusive of a "wrecked24 life," an "early grave," a career "for ever closed." Nor did he make the slightest reference to her having, so to speak, allured25 him to continue pursuit—"led him on," in more familiar terms.
Such commonplaces he disdained26, although not without a passing thought that in the familiar play of converse27, and her occasional touch upon the keynotes which evoke28 the deeper sympathies, an impartial29 judge might have discovered that perilous30 liking31 akin32 to love.
No! beyond one earnest appeal to her heart, into which he implored33 her to look, lest haply she had mistaken its promptings—a plea for time, for cooler [Pg 28] consideration—he had no words with which to plead his cause, as he stood with sad reproachful gaze, assuring her that never would she know truer love, more loyal devotion.
What had she told him? Merely this: "That if she were to marry—a step which she had resolved not to take for some years, if at all—she confessed that there was no man whom she had yet known, with whom she felt more in sympathy, with whom, taking the ordinary phrase, she would have a greater prospect34 of happiness. But she held strong opinions upon the duties which the individual owed to the appealing hordes35 of fellow-creatures perishing for lack of care, of food, of instruction, by whom the overindulged so-called upper classes were surrounded. Such manifest duties were sacred in her eyes, though possibly incompatible36 with what was called 'happiness.' For years—for ever, it might be—such considerations would be paramount37 with her. They could be neglected only at the awful price of self-condemnation in this world and perdition in the next. She was grieved to the soul to be compelled to refuse his love. She blamed herself that she should have permitted an intimacy38 which had resulted so unhappily for him—even for herself. But her resolve was fixed; nothing could alter it."
This, or the substance of it, fell upon the unwilling39 ears of Roland Massinger in unconnected sentences, in answer to his last despairing appeal. Meanwhile his idol40 stood and gazed at him, as might be imagined some Christian41 maiden of the days of Diocletian, when called upon to deny her faith or seal it with martyrdom. Her eyes were occasionally lifted [Pg 29] upward, as if she felt the need of inspiration from above.
For one moment the heart of her lover stood still.
He placed his hand on his brow as if to quell42 the tumult43 of his thoughts. She moved towards him, deprecating the intensity44 of his emotion. An intolerable sense of her divine purity, her ethereal loveliness, seemed to pervade45 his whole being. He felt an almost irresistible46 desire to clasp her in his arms in one desperate caress47, ere they parted for ever. Had he done this, the current of both lives might have been altered. The coldest maids are merely mortal.
But he refrained; in his present state of mind it would have been sacrilege to his ideal goddess, to the saintly idol of his worship.
Raising her hand reverently48 to his lips, he bowed low and departed.
When he thus passed out of her sight—out of her life—Hypatia herself was far from unmoved. Regrets, questionings, impulses to which she had so far been a stranger, arose and contended with strange and unfamiliar49 power.
Never before had she met with any one in all respects so attractive to her physically50, so sympathetic mentally; above all things manly51, cultured, devoted52, with the instincts of the best age of chivalry53. She liked—yes, nearly, perhaps quite—loved him. Family, position, personal character, all the attributes indispensably necessary, he possessed54.
Not rich, indeed; but for riches she cared little—despised them, indeed. Why, then, had she cast away the admittedly best things of life? For an abstraction! [Pg 30] For toilsome, weary, perhaps ungrateful tasks among the poor, the disinherited of the earth.
Had not others of whom she had heard, died, after wasting, so to speak, their lives and opportunities, with scarcely veiled regrets for the sacrifice? How many secretly bewailed the deprivation55 of the fair earth's light, colour, beauty, consented to in youth's overstrained sense of obedience56 to a divine injunction! Was this wealth of joyous57 gladness—the free, untrammelled spirit in life's springtime, which bade the bird to carol, the lamb to frisk, the wildfowl to sport o'er the translucent58 lake—but a snare59 to lead the undoubting soul to perdition? As these questioning fancies crossed her mind, in the lowered tone resulting in reaction from the previous mood of exaltation, she found her tears flowing fast, and with an effort, raising her head as if in scorn of her weakness, hurried to her room.
A sudden stroke of sorrow, loss, disappointment, or disaster affects men differently, but the general consensus60 is that the blow, like wounds that prove mortal, is less painful than stunning61. Roland Massinger never doubted but that his wound was mortal. For days he wondered, in the solitude62 of his retreat to which he had, like other stricken deer, betaken himself, whether or no he was alive. He returned to the Court. He moved from room to room—he absorbed food. He even opened books in the library and essayed to read, finding himself wholly unable to extract the meaning of the lettered lines. He rode and drove at appointed hours, but always with a strange preoccupied63 expression. This change [Pg 31] of habit and occupation was so evident to his old housekeeper64 and the other domestics, that the subject of their master's obvious state of mind began to be freely discussed. The groom65 was of opinion that he did not know the bay horse that carried him so well to hounds, from the black mare66 that was so fast and free a goer in the dog-cart.
He retired67 late, sitting in the old-fashioned study which served as a smoking-room, "till all hours," as the maids said.
He rose early, unconscionably so, as the gardener considered who had met him roaming through the shrubberies before sunrise. A most unusual proceeding68, indefensible "in a young gentleman as could lie in bed till breakfast-bell rang."
The maids were instinctively69 of the opinion that "there was a lady in the case;" but, upon broaching70 their ingenuous71 theory, were so sternly silenced by Mrs. Lavender, the old housekeeper who had ruled in Massinger long before Sir Roland's parents had died, and remembered the last Lady Massinger as "a saint on earth if ever there was one," that they hastily deserted72 it, hoping "as he wouldn't have to be took to the county hospital." This theory proving no more acceptable than the other, they were fain to retire abashed73, but clinging with feminine obstinacy74 to their first opinion.
Suddenly a change came over the moody75 squire76 who had thus exercised the intelligences of the household.
On a certain morning he ordered the dog-cart, in which he drove himself to the railway station, noticing the roadside incidents and mentioning the stud [Pg 32] generally, in a manner so like old times, that the groom felt convinced that the desired change had taken place; so that hunting, shooting, and all business proper to the season would go on again with perhaps renewed energy.
"When the master jumped down and ordered the porter to label his trunk 'London,' he was a different man," said the groom on his return. "He's runnin' up to town to have a lark77, and forgit his woes78. That's what I should do, leastways. He ain't agoin' to make a break of it along o' Miss Tollemache, or any other miss just yet."
Though this information was acceptable to the inmates79 of a liberally considered household, who one and all expressed their satisfaction, the situation was not destined80 to be lasting81. Within a week it was widely known that Massinger Court was for sale, "just as it stood," with furniture, farm-stock, library, stud, everything to be taken at a valuation—owner about to leave England.
What surprise, disapproval82—indeed, almost consternation—such an announcement is calculated to create in a quiet county in rural England, those only who have lived and grown up in such "homes of ancient peace" can comprehend. A perfect chorus of wonder, pity, indignation, and disapproval arose.
The squirearchy lamented84 the removal of a landmark85. The heir of an historic family, "a steady, well-conducted young fellow, good shot, straight-goer in the field—knew something about farming, too. Not too deep in debt either? That is, as far as anybody knew. What the deuce could he mean by [Pg 33] cutting the county; severing86 himself from all his old friends—his father's friends, too?"
This was the lament83 of Sir Giles Weatherly, one of the oldest baronets in the county. "D—n it," he went on to say, "it ought to be prevented by law. Why, the place was entailed89!"
"Entail88 broken years ago; but that wouldn't mend matters," his companion, Squire Topthorne, replied—a hard-riding, apple-faced old gentleman, credited with a shrewd appreciation90 of the value of money. "You can't force a man to live on a place, though he mustn't sell it. It wouldn't help the county much to have the Court shut up, with only the old housekeeper, a gardener, and a maid, like Haythorpe. Besides, some decent fellow might buy it—none of us could afford to do so just now. I couldn't, I know."
"Nor I either," returned Sir Giles, "with wheat at thirty shillings a quarter, and farms thrown back on your hands, like half a dozen of mine. But why couldn't Roland have stopped in England; married and settled down, if it comes to that? There are plenty of nice girls in Herefordshire; a good all-round youngster like him, with land at his back, might marry any one he pleased."
"That's the trouble, from what I hear," said Mr. Topthorne, with a quiet smile. "Young men have a way of asking the very girl that won't have them, while there are dozens that would. Same, the world over. And the girls are just as bad—won't take advice, and end up as old maids, or take to 'slumming' and Zenana work. I hear it's Hypatia Tollemache who's responsible."
[Pg 34]
"Whew-w!" whistled Sir Giles. "She's a fine girl, and knows her value, I suppose, but she's bitten by this 'New Woman' craze—wants to regenerate91 society, and the rest of it. In our time girls did what they were told—learned house-keeping, and thought it a fair thing to be the mistress of some good fellow's household; to rear wholesome92 boys and girls to keep up the honour of old England. I have no patience with these fads93."
"Well! it can't be helped. Have you any idea who is likely to make a bid for the place?"
"Not the slightest. We're safe to have a manufacturer, or some infernal colonist—made his money by gold-digging or sheep-farming, drops his aitches, and won't subscribe94 to the hounds."
"Suppose we do? You're too hard on colonists95, who, after all, are our own countrymen, with the pluck to go abroad, instead of loafing at home. Often younger sons, too—men of as good family as you or I. We're too conservative here, I often think. They always spend their money liberally, give employment, and entertain royally if they do the thing at all."
"I suppose there's something in what you say; but all the same, I don't like to see a Massinger go out of the county where his family have lived since the time of Hugh Lupus. Viscount the Sire de Massinger came out of Normandy along with Duke William. He was a marshal commanding a division of archers96 at Hastings. 'For which service both the Conqueror97 and Hugh Lupus rewarded him' (says an old chronicle) 'with vast possessions, among which was Benham Massinger in Cheshire; and the said Hamon de Massinger was the first Baron87 de Massinger.' There's a pedigree for [Pg 35] you! Pity they hadn't kept their lands; but they're not the only ones, as we know too well."
These and the like colloquies98 took place during the period which intervened between the direful announcement of the sale of the Court and its actual disposal by an auction99 sale, at which the late owner was not present.
It was then made public that the stranger who bought that "historic mansion100, Massinger Court, with lands and messuages, household furniture, and farm stock, horses and carriages," was acting101 as agent only for Mr. Lexington, the great Australian squatter102, who had made a colossal103 fortune in New South Wales and Queensland, numbering his sheep by the half-million and his cattle by the twenties of thousands. He had, moreover, agreed to take the furniture, books, pictures—everything—at a valuation, together with the live stock, farm implements104, and—in fact, the whole place, exactly as it stood; Sir Roland, the auctioneer said, having removed his personal belongings105 previously106 to London immediately after offering the Court for sale. He only returned to bid farewell to the friends of his youth and the home of his race.
Yes! it was hard—very hard, he thought, at the last. There was the garden—old-fashioned, but rich in fruit and flower, with box-borders, clipped yew107 hedges, alleys108 of formal shape and pattern; the south wall where the fruit ripened109 so early, and to which his childish eyes had so often been attracted; the field wherein he had, with the old keeper in strict attendance, been permitted to blaze at a covey of partridges—he remembered now the wild delight with which he marked his first slain110 bird; the [Pg 36] stream in which he had caught his first trout111, and whence many a basket had been filled in later days; the village church, under the floor of which so many de Massingers lay buried—the family pew, too large for the church, but against the size and shape of which no innovating112 incumbent113 had thought fit to protest.
How well he remembered his mother's loving hand as he walked with her to church—every Sunday, unless illness or unusual weather forbade! That mother, too, so gentle, so saintly sweet, so charitable, so beloved, why should she have died when he was so young? And his father, the pattern squire, who shot and hunted, lived much at home, and was respected throughout the county as a model landlord, who did his duty to the land which had done so much for the men of his race? Why should these things be?
He recalled his mother's dear face, which grew pale, and yet more pale, during her long illness—her last words bidding him, to be a good man, to remember what she taught him, and to comfort his poor father when she was gone. And how he kneeled by her bedside, with her wasted hand in his, praying with her that he might live to carry out her last wishes, and do his duty fearlessly in the face of all men. Then the funeral—the long train of carriages, the burial service, where so many people wept, and he wished—how he wished!—that he could be buried with her. His father's set face, almost stern, yet more sorrowful than any tears. And how he went back to school in his black clothes, miserable114 and lonely beyond all words to describe.
In the holidays, too—how surprised he had been to [Pg 37] find that the squire no longer shot, fished, hunted. He, that was so keen as long as he could remember, but now sat all day reading in the library, where they often used to find him asleep. And how, before the Christmas holidays came round again, he was sent for, to see his father once more before he died.
The squire spoke115 not—he had for days lost the power of speech—but he placed his hands upon his head and murmured an inarticulate blessing116. He did not look pale or wasted like his poor mother, he remembered. The doctors said there was no particular ailment117; he had simply lost all interest in life. The old housekeeper summed up the case, which coincided closely with the public feeling.
"It's my opinion," she affirmed, "that if ever a man in this world died of a broken heart, the squire did. He was never the same after the mistress died, God bless her! She's in heaven, if any one is. She was a saint on earth. And the squire, seeing they'd never been parted before—and I never saw two people more bound up in each other—well, he couldn't stay behind."
The new lord of the manor—for Massinger held manorial118 rights and privileges, which had been tolerably extensive in the days of "merrie England"—lost no time in taking possession.
A week had not elapsed before the Australian gentleman and his family arrived by train at the little railway station, much like any one else, to the manifest disappointment of the residents of the vicinity, who had expected all sorts of foreign appearances and belongings. Certain large trunks—not Saratogas—and portmanteaux were handed out of the brake-van and [Pg 38] transferred to the waggonette, which they filled, while three ladies with their maid were escorted to the mail phaeton which had made so many previous journeys to the station with the visitors and friends of the Massinger family. A middle-aged120, middle-sized, alert personage, fair-haired, clean-shaved, save for a moustache tinged121 with grey, mounted the dog-cart, followed by a tall young man who looked with an air of scrutiny122 at the horses and appointments. He took the reins123 from the groom, who got up behind, and with one of those imperceptible motions with which a practised whip communicates to well-conditioned horses that they are at liberty to go, started the eager animal along the well-kept road which led to the Court.
"Good goer," he remarked, after steadying the black mare to a medium pace. "If she's sound, she's a bargain at the money; horses seem tremendously dear in England."
"Yes, I should say so," replied his father. "And the phaeton pair are good-looking enough for anything: fair steppers also. I thought the price put on the horses and cattle high, but the agent told me they were above the average in quality. I see he was correct so far."
"Well, it's a comfort to deal with people who are straight and above-board," said the younger man. "It saves no end of trouble. I shouldn't wonder if the home-station—I mean the house and estate—followed suit in being true to description. If so, we've made a hit."
"Sir Roland wouldn't have a thing wrong described for the world, sir," here put in the groom, touching124 his hat. "No auctioneer would [Pg 39] take that liberty with him; not in this county, anyhow."
"Glad to hear it. I thought as much, from seeing him once," said the elder man.
A short hour saw the black mare tearing up the neatly125 raked gravel126 in front of the fa?ade of the Court, and by the time the dog-cart had departed for the stables, the phaeton came up to the door, with one of the young ladies in the driving seat.
"Well, this is a nice pair of horses!" said the damsel, who evidently was not unaccustomed to driving a pair, if not a more imposing127 team. "Fast, so well matched and well mannered; it's a pleasure to drive them. And oh! what a lovely old hall—and such darling trees! How fortunate we were to pick up such a place! It's not too large: there's not much land, but it's a perfect gem128 in its way. I suppose we are to have the pictures of the ancestors, too?"
"We shall have that reflected glory," said the matron with a smile. "Sir Roland would not sell them, but hoped we would give them house-room till he wanted them—which might not be for years and years."
"So they will still look down upon us—or frown, as the case may be," said the younger girl. "How savage129 I should be if I were an ancestor, and new people came to turn out my descendant!"
"We haven't turned him out. We only buy him out," said her mother, "which is quite a different thing. It is the modern way of taking the baron's castle—without bloodshed and unpleasantness."
"It is a great shame, all the same, that he should have to turn out," exclaimed the younger girl, [Pg 40] indignantly. "I am sure he is a nice fellow, which makes it all the worse, because—because——"
"Because every one says so," continued her elder sister; "as if that was a reason!"
"No! because he has such good horses. When a man keeps them, in such buckle130 too, there can't be much wrong with him."
"What is the reason that he can't live in a place like this, I wonder?" queried131 Miss Lexington in a musing132 tone. "A bachelor, too! Men don't seem to know when they are well off. He ought to try a dry year on one of our Paroo runs, if he wants a change. That would take the nonsense out of him. Our vile119 sex at the bottom of it, I suppose!"
"I did catch a whisper in London, before we left," said Miss Violet, cautiously.
"You always do," interrupted her sister. "I hope you don't talk to Pinson confidentially133. What was it?"
"Only that a girl that every one seemed to know about wouldn't have him, and that he nearly went out of his mind about it: wouldn't hear of living in England afterwards."
"Poor fellow! he'll know better some day—won't he, mother? He must be a romantic person to go mooning about, wanting to die or emigrate, for a trifle like that."
"I sometimes wonder if you girls of the present day have hearts, from the way you talk," mused134 the matron. "However, I suppose they're deeper down than ours used to be. But I don't like my girls to sneer135 at true love. It's a sacred and holy thing, without which we women would have a sad time in this world. But, in our own country, men have done [Pg 41] rash things in the agony of disappointment. You have heard of young Anstruther?"
"Oh yes, long ago. He went home and shot himself because of a silly girl. I suppose he's sorry for it now."
"Hearts are much the same, in all countries and ages, depend upon it, my dears; they make people do strange things. But let us hope that there will be no unruly promptings in this family."
"Quite so, mother—same here; but I suppose, as Longfellow tells us, 'as long as the heart has woes,' all sorts of droll136 things will happen. And now suppose we go and look at the stables before afternoon tea; I want to see the hunters and polo ponies137. The garden we can see tomorrow morning."
When Sir Roland, having made final arrangements, concluded to run down to Massinger for farewell purposes, he declined courteously138 Mr. Lexington's invitation to stay with him, and took up his abode139 at the Massinger Arms, in the village, where he considered he would be quiet and more independent. He felt himself obliged to say farewell to the people he had known all his life, small and great. But he never had less inclination140 for conversation and the ordinary society business. A week at the outside would suffice for such leave-taking as he considered obligatory141.
As to the emigration matter which had so disturbed his monde, another factor of controlling power entered into the calculation. A re-valuation of his property made it apparent that when every liability came to be paid off, the available residue142 would be much [Pg 42] less than he or his men of business reckoned on. Not more, indeed, than the ridiculously small sum of thirty or forty thousand pounds. He was not going to live on the Continent, or any cheap foreign place, on this. Nor to angle for an heiress. So, having been informed that he could live like a millionaire in the colonies, and probably make a fortune out of a grazing estate which half the money would purchase, there was nothing to keep him in England. Such considerations, reinforced by the haunting memories of a "lost Lenore" in the guise143 of Hypatia, drove him forward on his course outre mer with such feverish144 force that he could scarcely bear to await the day of embarkation145.
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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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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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liberates
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| 解放，释放( liberate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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33
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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35
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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36
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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37
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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38
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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39
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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40
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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41
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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42
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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43
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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44
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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45
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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46
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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47
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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48
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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49
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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50
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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51
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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52
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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53
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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54
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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55
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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56
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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57
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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58
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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59
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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60
consensus
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| n.(意见等的)一致，一致同意，共识 | |
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61
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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62
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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63
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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64
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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65
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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66
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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67
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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68
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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69
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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70
broaching
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| n.拉削；推削；铰孔；扩孔v.谈起( broach的现在分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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71
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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72
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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73
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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75
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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76
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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77
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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78
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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79
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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80
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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81
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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82
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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83
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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84
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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86
severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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87
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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88
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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89
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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90
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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91
regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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92
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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93
fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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94
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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95
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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96
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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97
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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98
colloquies
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| n.谈话，对话( colloquy的名词复数 ) | |
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99
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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100
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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101
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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102
squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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103
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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104
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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105
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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106
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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107
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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108
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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109
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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111
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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112
innovating
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| v.改革，创新( innovate的现在分词 )；引入（新事物、思想或方法）， | |
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113
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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114
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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115
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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116
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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117
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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118
manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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119
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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120
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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121
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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123
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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124
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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125
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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126
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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127
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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128
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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129
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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130
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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131
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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132
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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133
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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134
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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135
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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136
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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137
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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138
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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139
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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140
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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141
obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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142
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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143
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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144
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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145
embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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