Things one together, which were otherwise,
Or would be both diverse and distant.
—Christopher Harvey.
It was not until the latter part of October that Hilary and her mother returned to Hereford. The news of the occupation of the city by the Earl of Stamford had kept them longer at Whitbourne than had been expected; but the cold of the country did not suit Mrs. Unett, and both mother and daughter were glad to settle down once more in their own home.
Unfortunately, all the girl’s gentle thoughts had been banished1 by hearing of the occupation of Hereford by the Parliament’s army. She was once again a vehement2 little hater, and was revelling3 in the thought of the resolute4 way in which she would keep Gabriel at a distance, refusing even to notice him if they passed in the street.
As a matter of fact, the city looked exactly as usual on their return, not a shot had been fired, no harm had been done to the cathedral, and except for the discomfort5 of having soldiers in the place, few people had complaints to make. Even Durdle shocked her young mistress by the favourable6 way in which she spoke7 of the army.
“They do say there was some mischief8 done to Mrs. Joyce Jefferies’ house,” she admitted, “for she and Miss Acton they fled to Garnons in a panic. But had they stayed here all would have been well, for Mr. Gabriel Harford would have taken care of them as he did of us.”
Hilary’s face flamed, but she was too proud to question the housekeeper9.
“He was down in the garden the night the soldiers was clamouring at Byster’s Gate,” resumed Durdle, after a pause, “and hearing Maria screaming, he came to the door to ask if aught was amiss, and no one could have been kinder like, nor did he ever let a soldier come nigh the house. And he came to bid me farewell on the fourth of October, when he went away to Worcester to join the army, and spoke that civil and pleasant just as though he’d been naught10 but a lad still.”
Hilary’s brain seemed to reel; she made a pretence11 of stooping to pick up a tortoiseshell cat which dozed12 by the kitchen fire.
“Bad puss, have you been eating blackbeetles, to grow so thin?” she exclaimed, stroking her pet with well-assumed indifference13.
“What was that you were saying about Worcester, Durdle?”
The good-natured housekeeper gasped14, her simple mind could not in the least understand the subtle workings of Hilary’s more complex nature.
“Talk about pussy’s bowels15 being injured by beetles,” she said to herself, “’tis my belief the lassie has no bowels at all. Was ever such a heartless speech!”
“Well, Mistress, I was saying how Mr. Gabriel Harford had gone to join the Earl of Essex’s army, along with his friend Mr. Edward Harley that was at Oxford16 with him.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Hilary, carrying her head high. “Dr. Rogers tells me the troopers stabled their horses in the nave17 and cloisters18 at Worcester. Send up Maria to fetch my cape19 and hood20, Durdle; they got crushed in the coach, and had best be ironed.”
Then humming a cheerful song, she quitted the kitchen and sauntered out into the garden, her heart throbbing21 as if it would choke her.
“He has joined the rebel army, and ’tis my fault,” she thought, in anguish22. “If he is killed, his death will be my doing! Oh, why was I so cruel? Naught I could say would have changed his views, but at least he would have gone quietly back to his studies had I not taunted23 him.”
Every nook in the garden seemed haunted by memories of lost happiness, she could not pass the sunny wall to which the apricot trees were fastened, or look towards the stone bench by the briar bush, without seeing in fancy her lover’s face; and she knew very well why he had wandered into that special place on the night of the servants’ alarm about the soldiers.
The sound of the gardener singing, as he gathered the apples, smote24 discordantly25 on her ear, and specially26 when drawing nearer she caught the doleful words of an old ballad27 called “The Wife of Usher’s Well,” in which the ghosts of the three dead sons return to their home, but can only remain for the briefest of visits. The gardener sang with stolid28 cheerfulness as he filled his basket:
“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw
The channerin’ worm doth chide29;
Gin we be mist out o’ our place,
A sair pain we maun bide30.
Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass,
That kindles31 my mother’s fire.”
Turning hastily away to escape this dismal33 ditty she reentered the house, and was glad to encounter her favourite uncle, Dr. William Coke, who, during Gabriel’s absence in London, had been appointed to the living of Bosbury, vacant on the death of old Mr. Wall. He had not been among the very few who had been told of Hilary’s betrothal34, and this fact made her now more at ease with him than with her grandfather or her mother. For a minute she forgot her troubles.
“We have but just returned from Whitbourne, sir,” she said, cheerfully. “’Tis indeed good of you to come to us.”
“I thought, maybe, your mother would be disturbed at today’s news, and rode over to have a chat with her,” said Dr. Coke, his genial35 face clouding a little.
“We have heard no fresh news,” said Hilary, eagerly. “What has happened, sir?”
“There has been a great battle in Warwickshire, nigh to Kineton, and though at first all thought the King’s troops would be victorious36, in the end it proved but a drawn37 battle, both sides suffering grievously, and naught gained to either. They tell me that thousands lie dead on the field.”
His sorrowful face made Hilary realise more than she had yet done what war meant; her head drooped38 as she remembered her exultation39 over the fifty Parliament men killed at Powick Bridge, and recalled Gabriel’s look of reproach. Very few details had as yet been learnt, and when she had heard all her uncle could tell her she left him to talk with Mrs. Unett, and for the sake of being free and undisturbed sought the cathedral—the only place, save the garden, to which she was allowed to go without an attendant.
Entering by the great north porch, she walked through the quiet, deserted40 building to the north-east transept, and went to a little retired41 nook by an arch in the north wall, where lay the effigy42 of Bishop43 Swinfield. Here she had often come for quiet during the two years of her betrothal, partly because it was a place where no one was likely to notice her, and partly on account of her recollections of the snow effigy which she and Gabriel had once fashioned after this pattern, in honour of Sir John Eliot. Behind the tomb was a beautifully sculptured bas-relief of the Crucifixion, and Hilary saw, with satisfaction, that it had not been injured at all by the Earl of Stamford’s soldiers, who, according to Durdle, had only visited the cathedral on Sunday morning, when they had been somewhat disorderly, and had grumbled44 that prayers were said for the King, but never a word for the Parliament.
She knelt long in the quiet, and when she once more turned her steps homeward her remorse45 was less bitter and more practical, and at last, after a hard struggle, she conquered her pride, and knocked at Dr. Harford’s door, asking whether she could see Mrs. Harford.
Now Gabriel’s mother was one of those women whose affections are strictly46 limited to their own families. In so far as outsiders were useful to her husband or her son, she liked them; but if they caused her beloved ones the least trouble or pain, she most cordially hated them.
So when Hilary conquered herself sufficiently47 to pay this visit, Mrs. Harford, unable to see any point of view but her own, received the girl in a most frigid48 way.
“We have but just returned from Whitbourne,” said Hilary, blushing, “and I called to inquire after you, ma’am.”
“I am as well as any of us can hope to be in these troubled times,” said Mrs. Harford, coldly.
There was an awkward pause, broken at last by an inquiry49 for Mrs. Unett. Hilary tried desperately50 to prolong her answer. At the close came another pause.
“We have but just heard from my uncle, Dr. Coke, of the great battle in Warwickshire,” she said, falteringly51. “Have you had any news, ma’am?”
The mother looked searchingly into the girl’s blushing face. “Yes,” she replied, “only an hour or two since a messenger brought me a letter from Lady Brilliana Harley, who had heard from her husband. He wrote the day after the battle.”
The silence that followed almost maddened Hilary. “Were Sir Robert and Mr. Harley safe?” she asked.
“Quite safe!” said Mrs. Harford, resolved not to spare the girl or help her out in any way. It was some slight satisfaction to her to see this proud maiden52 suffer.
“And Gabriel?” she faltered53. “He was safe, too?”
“Alas, no!” said the mother, with a sigh.
Hilary turned white, but asked no more questions. As if from a great distance she heard the silence at length broken by Mrs. Harford’s voice.
“They gave him up for lost that night, but the next morning a young officer, Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, found him on the field and there was still life in him. They carried him to Kineton, and he lies there grievously wounded.”
The girl rallied her failing powers and became obstinately54 hopeful. “He is young and strong,” she said, with forced cheerfulness. “He is sure to recover. My mother will be very sorry to hear your ill news, and—and—if you should again have tidings, she would be glad to hear, I know.”
“We cannot hope to hear again,” said Mrs. Harford. “It was only by great good fortune that Sir Robert Harley was able to get a letter to Lady Brilliana, and we are little like to hear from Gabriel himself, even if he were well enough to write. This is the hard part of war, the terrible waiting for news.” After formally polite farewells Hilary found herself going down the broad oak staircase with dim eyes; but Neptune55, Gabriel’s favourite spaniel, stood wagging his tail in most friendly fashion in the entrance-hall, and her sore heart was a little comforted when he bounded up to lick her hand as if he recognised the fact that she was still in some subtle way connected with his master.
Unwilling56 to pass through the street with eyes brimming over with tears, she went back through the garden and by the little wicket gate. But the sight of the sunny south walk did not raise her spirits, and with the terror that even now Gabriel might be lying dead at Kineton, she could hardly endure the sound of the gardener’s dismal ditty. He still toiled57 away at the apple gathering58, and still chanted, in lugubrious59 tones, the gruesome words:
“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin’ worm doth chide-”
Hurrying away from this unbearable60 song and half blinded by tears, she suddenly found herself brought to a pause by Dr. William Coke, who was standing61 at the door that he might more closely inspect in the sunshine a fossil which they had brought back from Whitbourne.
“Whither away so fast, little niece?” he said in his genial voice. Then catching62 sight of the wet eyelashes, “Eh, what is amiss, my dear?”
“’Tis only that the stupid gardener will sing gruesome ballads63 about graves and channerin’ worms just on this special day when we have heard how thousands are dead and dying at Kineton,” said Hilary.
He sighed as he patted her shoulder, caressingly64.
“True, child, it is indeed a dark day for England. May God send us peace! But dwell not on that thought of the grave. Remember rather the words, ‘The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God.’”
“But they were not all righteous,” said Hilary, in a choked voice.
“True, yet all belong to Him.”
“Many were rebels,” she said, “and Dr. Rogers thinks that all rebels will burn for ever in hell.”
“My dear, though Dr. Rogers is a learned man, he knows no more than the rest of us about the future state. I would even venture to say,” and here Dr. Coke’s eyes twinkled, “that he knows less than many, for his heart is not dominated by love but by zeal65 for orthodoxy, a thing which some folk mistake for the following of Christ. And though, as you know, I am loyal to His Majesty66, I am bound to own that there has been much in his rule which rightly roused the indignation of free Englishmen, and I see that even in my own parish many of the best and the most God-fearing men have felt it to be their duty to resist the King and to join the Parliamentary forces.”
Hilary was comforted by these words, and through that weary autumn, while they vainly hoped for news of Gabriel, she often thought of them, and something of her uncle’s wider and nobler way of looking at things began to dispel67 the bitter and contemptuous spirit which’ Dr. Rogers’s teaching had fostered in her. Happily for her, he was not just then in residence, and in his absence her heart had some chance of softening68 and expanding.
At length Christmas came and with it the question whether, for the first time in her life, she should ignore her next-door neighbours. She had not dared to approach Mrs. Harford since the day she had heard that Gabriel was wounded at Edgehill. But she had once or twice encountered the doctor, and he had always paused to greet her kindly69 and to tell her that, as yet, no further news had reached them. He quietly assumed that she still took some interest in Gabriel, and by his tact70 and courtesy steered71 her safely through the difficult renewal72 of friendly relations.
On Christmas Eve she summoned up her courage and carried to the next-door house a basket full of orange cakes of her own making, which for years she had been in the habit of taking to Dr. Harford for the festival.
She found him in his study, looking less careworn73 than he had done of late. “So you have not forgotten your old friend?” he said, saluting74 her with more than his usual kindliness75 of manner. “Here are holly76 and mistletoe to remind us of Pagan and Druid rites77, now happily at an end, and
‘Here’s rosemary; that’s for remembrance.’
I am right glad that the maiden I have known from cradle days hath a kind remembrance of her old neighbour, who is yet not too old to enjoy orange cakes of her making.”
“My mother sends you the season’s greeting, sir,” said Hilary; “and she would have visited Mrs. Harford, but she keeps the house to-day with a very great cold.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said the doctor. “You must have a care of her this winter, Hilary, and let her run no risks. She will, I know, rejoice with us that we have at length heard good news of Gabriel.”
He carefully avoided looking at the girl, but was glad to hear the tremor78 in her voice as she exclaimed, “Oh! have you indeed heard from him? Then there is no need to wish you a happy Christmas, for I am sure you have it.”
He turned away and made a pretence of searching for the letter, all the time knowing perfectly79 well where it was. “Take this with you and read it to Mrs. Unett,” he said, still avoiding the girl’s eyes. “She will be glad to know that he hath made a good recovery.”
Hilary thanked him and made haste to depart. She did not pause to analyse her feelings—life was more simple in those days; but in her glowing face, and even in her quick, eager step as she entered the withdrawing-room, Mrs. Unett read the truth. She had dismissed Gabriel in hot anger, but love for him still lingered in her heart. Would its flickering80 light kindle32 once more into lasting81 warmth and brightness, or would the icy-cold breath of political strife82 in the end prevail, and finally extinguish it?
She knelt in the ingle nook close to her mother’s armchair, and together they read the letter:
“My Dear Sir,—You will doubtless have heard through Sir Robert Harley that I was left at Kineton, with other wounded men, after the fight. Thanks to the rescue of one Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, and the care of Tibbie Mills, wife of a worthy83 saddler of Kineton, my wound—a pike wound through the right thigh—healed by the end of November, and learning that my Lord of Essex’ army was in the neighbourhood of London, I rode there by easy stages and sought out Sir Robert. I found that Ned, who had been serving under Sir William Waller, hath himself now command of a regiment84 of foot, and as fresh men were being sent down to Sir William the second week in December, I was ordered to go with them. This left me some days in London, which I spent at Nottinghill; my grandmother gave me a very hearty85 welcome, and was glad to hear the latest tidings of you and of my mother. Who should I find staying in her house, and painting her portrait, but M. Jean Petitot, the miniature painter? Whereupon she insisted that he should paint my portrait also on enamel86, and she intends, when a fit chance arrives, to send it by some trusty bearer to you, for she was right glad, she said, that you had not grudged87 your only son to the good cause. When you see the miniature, I fear you will quote the scurrilous88 satire89 put forth90 by the Royalists:
This is a very Roundhead in good truth!’
For Tibbie acted the part of Delilah, and shaved off my long hair at Kineton, to the great satisfaction of her husband, Manoah, a very strict Puritan, and to my great comfort as I lay ill. However, she hath left enough to curl over the head and round the nape of the neck, so that I do not take after the fanatic91 section, who shave their locks in a fashion that shows the very skin of the head, and reduces hair to bristles92. There was a man in the Farnham garrison—a vile93, sanctimonious94 hypocrite—who affected95 this style, and whose ears stuck out most horridly96 from his close-cropped skull97.
“We quitted London the second week in December, and by night march reached Farnham Castle early one morning. You can judge how great my pleasure was to encounter again Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, now appointed galloper98 to Sir William Waller. He is a little my senior, and a man that would be after your own heart—strong and vigorous and of a merry humour, though now somewhat downcast on account of family divisions, all his kinsfolk being of the King’s party. Spite, however, of their differing views, he remains99 on very loving terms with some of them, though I learnt from one of Waller’s officers that his father, Sir Thomas Heyworth, treated him with great harshness and severity, disinheriting him and disowning him. His friendship is the greatest boon100 I could have, and the sole thing in which I have found pleasure since the day we heard of the rout101 of Powick Bridge. We rested for ten hours at Farnham Castle, and then pushed on with the rest of Sir William Waller’s force to Winchester, which yielded to us after a very short siege. We are now marching to attack Chichester, and have had a rough time, for the rain has come down in torrents102 for some days, and to lie in the wet fields o’ nights doth not give much rest to such of us as have old wounds much prone103 to making themselves felt. To-morrow I have an opportunity of sending this to you, as a despatch-bearer is riding to Colonel Massey at Gloucester. I hope it may reach you by Christmas, and carry to you and my mother the season’s greetings, and remembrance to any former friends who will receive such greeting from one of Sir William Waller’s lieutenants105.—I rest, dear sir,
“Your son to serve you,
“Gabriel Harford.
“Written this 17 th day of December, 1642, at Petersfield.”
Christmas, with its unfailing call to realise the unity104 of the one great family, cannot be joyless, however sad its surroundings. Both to Gabriel, marching to besiege106 Chichester, and to Hilary in the quiet of the old home at Hereford, there came a sense of rest and peace which was not to be marred107 even by the miseries108 of a civil war.
But, unfortunately, with Easter came Dr. Rogers’s term of residence, and there is no influence so deadly as that of a bitter and unscrupulous priest who, forgetting his ordination109 vow110 to maintain and set forwards quietness, peace, and love, among all Christian111 people, fans the flame of war, or upholds a tyranny that will ultimately ruin his nation.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
banished
|
|
| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
vehement
|
|
| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
revelling
|
|
| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
resolute
|
|
| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
discomfort
|
|
| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
favourable
|
|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
housekeeper
|
|
| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
naught
|
|
| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
pretence
|
|
| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
dozed
|
|
| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
bowels
|
|
| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
nave
|
|
| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
cloisters
|
|
| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
cape
|
|
| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
hood
|
|
| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
throbbing
|
|
| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
taunted
|
|
| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
smote
|
|
| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
discordantly
|
|
| adv.不一致地，不和谐地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
ballad
|
|
| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
stolid
|
|
| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
chide
|
|
| v.叱责；谴责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
bide
|
|
| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
kindles
|
|
| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
kindle
|
|
| v.点燃，着火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
betrothal
|
|
| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
victorious
|
|
| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
drooped
|
|
| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
exultation
|
|
| n.狂喜，得意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
effigy
|
|
| n.肖像 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
grumbled
|
|
| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
frigid
|
|
| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
falteringly
|
|
| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
maiden
|
|
| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
faltered
|
|
| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
obstinately
|
|
| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
Neptune
|
|
| n.海王星 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
toiled
|
|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
gathering
|
|
| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
lugubrious
|
|
| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
unbearable
|
|
| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
ballads
|
|
| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
caressingly
|
|
| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
zeal
|
|
| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
majesty
|
|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
dispel
|
|
| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
softening
|
|
| 变软，软化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
tact
|
|
| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
steered
|
|
| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
renewal
|
|
| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
careworn
|
|
| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
saluting
|
|
| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
kindliness
|
|
| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
holly
|
|
| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
rites
|
|
| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
tremor
|
|
| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
flickering
|
|
| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
lasting
|
|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
strife
|
|
| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
regiment
|
|
| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
enamel
|
|
| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
grudged
|
|
| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
scurrilous
|
|
| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
satire
|
|
| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
fanatic
|
|
| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
bristles
|
|
| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
vile
|
|
| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
sanctimonious
|
|
| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
horridly
|
|
| 可怕地，讨厌地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
97
skull
|
|
| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
galloper
|
|
| 骑马奔驰的人，飞驰的马，旋转木马； 轻野炮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
99
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
boon
|
|
| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
rout
|
|
| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
torrents
|
|
| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
prone
|
|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
unity
|
|
| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
lieutenants
|
|
| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
besiege
|
|
| vt.包围，围攻，拥在...周围 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
marred
|
|
| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
miseries
|
|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
ordination
|
|
| n.授任圣职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
vow
|
|
| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |