In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentionedin the last Chapter, affords an Opportunity to acouple of Gentlemen to tell Stories against eachother.
‘W o ho!’ cried the guard, on his legs in a minute, andrunning to the leaders’ heads. ‘Is there ony genelmenthere as can len’ a hond here? Keep quiet, dang ye!
Wo ho!’
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Nicholas, looking sleepily up.
‘Matther mun, matter eneaf for one neight,’ replied the guard;‘dang the wall-eyed bay, he’s gane mad wi’ glory I think, carset’coorch is over. Here, can’t ye len’ a hond? Dom it, I’d ha’ dean itif all my boans were brokken.’
‘Here!’ cried Nicholas, staggering to his feet, ‘I’m ready. I’monly a little abroad, that’s all.’
‘Hoold ’em toight,’ cried the guard, ‘while ar coot treaces. Hangon tiv’em sumhoo. Well deane, my lod. That’s it. Let’em goa noo.
Dang ’em, they’ll gang whoam fast eneaf!’
In truth, the animals were no sooner released than they trottedback, with much deliberation, to the stable they had just left,which was distant not a mile behind.
‘Can you blo’ a harn?’ asked the guard, disengaging one of thecoach-lamps.
‘I dare say I can,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Then just blo’ away into that ’un as lies on the grund, fit to wakken the deead, will’ee,’ said the man, ‘while I stop sum o’ thishere squealing1 inside. Cumin’, cumin’. Dean’t make that noise,wooman.’
As the man spoke2, he proceeded to wrench3 open the uppermostdoor of the coach, while Nicholas, seizing the horn, awoke theechoes far and wide with one of the most extraordinaryperformances on that instrument ever heard by mortal ears. It hadits effect, however, not only in rousing such of their fall, but insummoning assistance to their relief; for lights gleamed in thedistance, and people were already astir.
In fact, a man on horseback galloped4 down, before thepassengers were well collected together; and a carefulinvestigation being instituted, it appeared that the lady inside hadbroken her lamp, and the gentleman his head; that the two frontoutsides had escaped with black eyes; the box with a bloody5 nose;the coachman with a contusion on the temple; Mr Squeers with aportmanteau bruise6 on his back; and the remaining passengerswithout any injury at all—thanks to the softness of the snow-driftin which they had been overturned. These facts were no soonerthoroughly ascertained7, than the lady gave several indications offainting, but being forewarned that if she did, she must be carriedon some gentleman’s shoulders to the nearest public-house, sheprudently thought better of it, and walked back with the rest.
They found on reaching it, that it was a lonely place with novery great accommodation in the way of apartments—that portionof its resources being all comprised in one public room with asanded floor, and a chair or two. However, a large faggot and aplentiful supply of coals being heaped upon the fire, theappearance of things was not long in mending; and, by the time they had washed off all effaceable marks of the late accident, theroom was warm and light, which was a most agreeable exchangefor the cold and darkness out of doors.
‘Well, Mr Nickleby,’ said Squeers, insinuating8 himself into thewarmest corner, ‘you did very right to catch hold of them horses. Ishould have done it myself if I had come to in time, but I am veryglad you did it. You did it very well; very well.’
‘So well,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, who did not seem toapprove very much of the patronising tone adopted by Squeers,‘that if they had not been firmly checked when they were, youwould most probably have had no brains left to teach with.’
This remark called up a discourse9 relative to the promptitudeNicholas had displayed, and he was overwhelmed withcompliments and commendations.
‘I am very glad to have escaped, of course,’ observed Squeers:
‘every man is glad when he escapes from danger; but if any one ofmy charges had been hurt—if I had been prevented from restoringany one of these little boys to his parents whole and sound as Ireceived him—what would have been my feelings? Why the wheela-top of my head would have been far preferable to it.’
‘Are they all brothers, sir?’ inquired the lady who had carriedthe ‘Davy’ or safety-lamp.
‘In one sense they are, ma’am,’ replied Squeers, diving into hisgreatcoat pocket for cards. ‘They are all under the same parentaland affectionate treatment. Mrs Squeers and myself are a motherand father to every one of ’em. Mr Nickleby, hand the lady themcards, and offer these to the gentleman. Perhaps they might knowof some parents that would be glad to avail themselves of theestablishment.’
Expressing himself to this effect, Mr Squeers, who lost noopportunity of advertising10 gratuitously11, placed his hands upon hisknees, and looked at the pupils with as much benignity12 as he couldpossibly affect, while Nicholas, blushing with shame, handedround the cards as directed.
‘I hope you suffer no inconvenience from the overturn, ma’am?’
said the merry-faced gentleman, addressing the fastidious lady, asthough he were charitably desirous to change the subject.
‘No bodily inconvenience,’ replied the lady.
‘No mental inconvenience, I hope?’
‘The subject is a very painful one to my feelings, sir,’ replied thelady with strong emotion; ‘and I beg you as a gentleman, not torefer to it.’
‘Dear me,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, looking merrierstill, ‘I merely intended to inquire—’
‘I hope no inquiries13 will be made,’ said the lady, ‘or I shall becompelled to throw myself on the protection of the othergentlemen. Landlord, pray direct a boy to keep watch outside thedoor—and if a green chariot passes in the direction of Grantham,to stop it instantly.’
The people of the house were evidently overcome by thisrequest, and when the lady charged the boy to remember, as ameans of identifying the expected green chariot, that it would havea coachman with a gold-laced hat on the box, and a footman, mostprobably in silk stockings, behind, the attentions of the goodwoman of the inn were redoubled. Even the box-passenger caughtthe infection, and growing wonderfully deferential14, immediatelyinquired whether there was not very good society in thatneighbourhood, to which the lady replied yes, there was: in a manner which sufficiently15 implied that she moved at the verytiptop and summit of it all.
‘As the guard has gone on horseback to Grantham to getanother coach,’ said the good-tempered gentleman when they hadbeen all sitting round the fire, for some time, in silence, ‘and as hemust be gone a couple of hours at the very least, I propose a bowlof hot punch. What say you, sir?’
This question was addressed to the broken-headed inside, whowas a man of very genteel appearance, dressed in mourning. Hewas not past the middle age, but his hair was grey; it seemed tohave been prematurely16 turned by care or sorrow. He readilyacceded to the proposal, and appeared to be prepossessed by thefrank good-nature of the individual from whom it emanated17.
This latter personage took upon himself the office of tapsterwhen the punch was ready, and after dispensing18 it all round, ledthe conversation to the antiquities19 of York, with which both he andthe grey-haired gentleman appeared to be well acquainted. Whenthis topic flagged, he turned with a smile to the grey-headedgentleman, and asked if he could sing.
‘I cannot indeed,’ replied gentleman, smiling in his turn.
‘That’s a pity,’ said the owner of the good-humouredcountenance. ‘Is there nobody here who can sing a song to lightenthe time?’
The passengers, one and all, protested that they could not; thatthey wished they could; that they couldn’t remember the words ofanything without the book; and so forth20.
‘Perhaps the lady would not object,’ said the president withgreat respect, and a merry twinkle in his eye. ‘Some little Italianthing out of the last opera brought out in town, would be most acceptable I am sure.’
As the lady condescended22 to make no reply, but tossed herhead contemptuously, and murmured some further expression ofsurprise regarding the absence of the green chariot, one or twovoices urged upon the president himself, the propriety24 of makingan attempt for the general benefit.
‘I would if I could,’ said he of the good-tempered face; ‘for I holdthat in this, as in all other cases where people who are strangers toeach other are thrown unexpectedly together, they shouldendeavour to render themselves as pleasant, for the joint25 sake ofthe little community, as possible.’
‘I wish the maxim26 were more generally acted on, in all cases,’
said the grey-headed gentleman.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ returned the other. ‘Perhaps, as you can’tsing, you’ll tell us a story?’
‘Nay. I should ask you.’
‘After you, I will, with pleasure.’
‘Indeed!’ said the grey-haired gentleman, smiling, ‘Well, let it beso. I fear the turn of my thoughts is not calculated to lighten thetime you must pass here; but you have brought this uponyourselves, and shall judge. We were speaking of York Minsterjust now. My story shall have some reference to it. Let us call itTHE FIVE SISTERS OF YORKAfter a murmur23 of approbation27 from the other passengers,during which the fastidious lady drank a glass of punchunobserved, the grey-headed gentleman thus went on:
‘A great many years ago—for the fifteenth century was scarce two years old at the time, and King Henry the Fourth sat upon thethrone of England—there dwelt, in the ancient city of York, fivemaiden sisters, the subjects of my tale.
‘These five sisters were all of surpassing beauty. The eldest29 wasin her twenty-third year, the second a year younger, the third ayear younger than the second, and the fourth a year younger thanthe third. They were tall stately figures, with dark flashing eyesand hair of jet; dignity and grace were in their every movement;and the fame of their great beauty had spread through all thecountry round.
‘But, if the four elder sisters were lovely, how beautiful was theyoungest, a fair creature of sixteen! The blushing tints31 in the softbloom on the fruit, or the delicate painting on the flower, are notmore exquisite32 than was the blending of the rose and lily in hergentle face, or the deep blue of her eye. The vine, in all its elegantluxuriance, is not more graceful33 than were the clusters of richbrown hair that sported round her brow.
‘If we all had hearts like those which beat so lightly in thebosoms of the young and beautiful, what a heaven this earthwould be! If, while our bodies grow old and withered35, our heartscould but retain their early youth and freshness, of what availwould be our sorrows and sufferings! But, the faint image of Edenwhich is stamped upon them in childhood, chafes37 and rubs in ourrough struggles with the world, and soon wears away: too often toleave nothing but a mournful blank remaining.
‘The heart of this fair girl bounded with joy and gladness.
Devoted attachment38 to her sisters, and a fervent39 love of allbeautiful things in nature, were its pure affections. Her gleesomevoice and merry laugh were the sweetest music of their home. She was its very light and life. The brightest flowers in the garden werereared by her; the caged birds sang when they heard her voice,and pined when they missed its sweetness. Alice, dear Alice; whatliving thing within the sphere of her gentle witchery, could fail tolove her!
‘You may seek in vain, now, for the spot on which these sisterslived, for their very names have passed away, and dustyantiquaries tell of them as of a fable40. But they dwelt in an oldwooden house—old even in those days—with overhanging gablesand balconies of rudely-carved oak, which stood within a pleasantorchard, and was surrounded by a rough stone wall, whence astout archer42 might have winged an arrow to St Mary’s Abbey. Theold abbey flourished then; and the five sisters, living on its fairdomains, paid yearly dues to the black monks43 of St Benedict, towhich fraternity it belonged.
‘It was a bright and sunny morning in the pleasant time ofsummer, when one of those black monks emerged from the abbeyportal, and bent45 his steps towards the house of the fair sisters.
Heaven above was blue, and earth beneath was green; the riverglistened like a path of diamonds in the sun; the birds pouredforth their songs from the shady trees; the lark46 soared high abovethe waving corn; and the deep buzz of insects filled the air.
Everything looked gay and smiling; but the holy man walkedgloomily on, with his eyes bent upon the ground. The beauty of theearth is but a breath, and man is but a shadow. What sympathyshould a holy preacher have with either?
‘With eyes bent upon the ground, then, or only raised enough toprevent his stumbling over such obstacles as lay in his way, thereligious man moved slowly forward until he reached a small postern in the wall of the sisters’ orchard41, through which hepassed, closing it behind him. The noise of soft voices inconversation, and of merry laughter, fell upon his ears ere he hadadvanced many paces; and raising his eyes higher than was hishumble wont47, he descried48, at no great distance, the five sistersseated on the grass, with Alice in the centre: all busily plying49 theircustomary task of embroidering50.
‘“Save you, fair daughters!” said the friar; and fair in truth theywere. Even a monk44 might have loved them as choice masterpiecesof his Maker’s hand.
‘The sisters saluted51 the holy man with becoming reverence52, andthe eldest motioned him to a mossy seat beside them. But the goodfriar shook his head, and bumped himself down on a very hardstone,—at which, no doubt, approving angels were gratified.
‘“Ye were merry, daughters,” said the monk.
‘“You know how light of heart sweet Alice is,” replied the eldestsister, passing her fingers through the tresses of the smiling girl.
‘“And what joy and cheerfulness it wakes up within us, to seeall nature beaming in brightness and sunshine, father,” addedAlice, blushing beneath the stern look of the recluse53.
‘The monk answered not, save by a grave inclination54 of thehead, and the sisters pursued their task in silence.
‘“Still wasting the precious hours,” said the monk at length,turning to the eldest sister as he spoke, “still wasting the precioushours on this vain trifling55. Alas56, alas! that the few bubbles on thesurface of eternity57—all that Heaven wills we should see of thatdark deep stream—should be so lightly scattered58!’
‘“Father,” urged the maiden28, pausing, as did each of the others,in her busy task, “we have prayed at matins, our daily alms have been distributed at the gate, the sick peasants have been tended,—all our morning tasks have been performed. I hope our occupationis a blameless one?’
‘“See here,” said the friar, taking the frame from her hand, “anintricate winding59 of gaudy60 colours, without purpose or object,unless it be that one day it is destined61 for some vain ornament62, tominister to the pride of your frail63 and giddy sex. Day after day hasbeen employed upon this senseless task, and yet it is not halfaccomplished. The shade of each departed day falls upon ourgraves, and the worm exults64 as he beholds65 it, to know that we arehastening thither66. Daughters, is there no better way to pass thefleeting hours?”
‘The four elder sisters cast down their eyes as if abashed67 by theholy man’s reproof68, but Alice raised hers, and bent them mildly onthe friar.
‘“Our dear mother,” said the maiden; “Heaven rest her soul!”
‘“Amen!” cried the friar in a deep voice.
‘“Our dear mother,” faltered69 the fair Alice, “was living whenthese long tasks began, and bade us, when she should be no more,ply them in all discretion70 and cheerfulness, in our leisure hours;she said that if in harmless mirth and maidenly71 pursuits we passedthose hours together, they would prove the happiest and mostpeaceful of our lives, and that if, in later times, we went forth intothe world, and mingled72 with its cares and trials—if, allured73 by itstemptations and dazzled by its glitter, we ever forgot that love andduty which should bind74, in holy ties, the children of one lovedparent—a glance at the old work of our common girlhood wouldawaken good thoughts of bygone days, and soften75 our hearts toaffection and love.”
‘“Alice speaks truly, father,” said the elder sister, somewhatproudly. And so saying she resumed her work, as did the others.
‘It was a kind of sampler of large size, that each sister hadbefore her; the device was of a complex and intricate description,and the pattern and colours of all five were the same. The sistersbent gracefully76 over their work; the monk, resting his chin uponhis hands, looked from one to the other in silence.
‘“How much better,” he said at length, “to shun77 all suchthoughts and chances, and, in the peaceful shelter of the church,devote your lives to Heaven! Infancy78, childhood, the prime of life,and old age, wither36 as rapidly as they crowd upon each other.
Think how human dust rolls onward79 to the tomb, and turning yourfaces steadily80 towards that goal, avoid the cloud which takes itsrise among the pleasures of the world, and cheats the senses oftheir votaries81. The veil, daughters, the veil!”
‘“Never, sisters,” cried Alice. “Barter not the light and air ofheaven, and the freshness of earth and all the beautiful thingswhich breathe upon it, for the cold cloister82 and the cell. Nature’sown blessings84 are the proper goods of life, and we may share themsinlessly together. To die is our heavy portion, but, oh, let us diewith life about us; when our cold hearts cease to beat, let warmhearts be beating near; let our last look be upon the bounds whichGod has set to his own bright skies, and not on stone walls andbars of iron! Dear sisters, let us live and die, if you list, in thisgreen garden’s compass; only shun the gloom and sadness of acloister, and we shall be happy.”
‘The tears fell fast from the maiden’s eyes as she closed herimpassioned appeal, and hid her face in the bosom34 of her sister.
‘“Take comfort, Alice,” said the eldest, kissing her fair forehead.
“The veil shall never cast its shadow on thy young brow. How sayyou, sisters? For yourselves you speak, and not for Alice, or forme.”
‘The sisters, as with one accord, cried that their lot was casttogether, and that there were dwellings85 for peace and virtuebeyond the convent’s walls.
‘“Father,” said the eldest lady, rising with dignity, “you hearour final resolve. The same pious86 care which enriched the abbey ofSt Mary, and left us, orphans87, to its holy guardianship88, directedthat no constraint89 should be imposed upon our inclinations90, butthat we should be free to live according to our choice. Let us hearno more of this, we pray you. Sisters, it is nearly noon. Let us takeshelter until evening!” With a reverence to the friar, the lady roseand walked towards the house, hand in hand with Alice; the othersisters followed.
‘The holy man, who had often urged the same point before, buthad never met with so direct a repulse91, walked some little distancebehind, with his eyes bent upon the earth, and his lips moving as ifin prayer. As the sisters reached the porch, he quickened his pace,and called upon them to stop.
‘“Stay!” said the monk, raising his right hand in the air, anddirecting an angry glance by turns at Alice and the eldest sister.
“Stay, and hear from me what these recollections are, which youwould cherish above eternity, and awaken—if in mercy theyslumbered—by means of idle toys. The memory of earthly things ischarged, in after life, with bitter disappointment, affliction, death;with dreary92 change and wasting sorrow. The time will one daycome, when a glance at those unmeaning baubles93 will tear opendeep wounds in the hearts of some among you, and strike to your inmost souls. When that hour arrives—and, mark me, come itwill—turn from the world to which you clung, to the refuge whichyou spurned94. Find me the cell which shall be colder than the fireof mortals grows, when dimmed by calamity95 and trial, and thereweep for the dreams of youth. These things are Heaven’s will, notmine,” said the friar, subduing96 his voice as he looked round uponthe shrinking girls. “The Virgin’s blessing83 be upon you,daughters!”
‘With these words he disappeared through the postern; and thesisters hastening into the house were seen no more that day.
‘But nature will smile though priests may frown, and next daythe sun shone brightly, and on the next, and the next again. And inthe morning’s glare, and the evening’s soft repose97, the five sistersstill walked, or worked, or beguiled98 the time by cheerfulconversation, in their quiet orchard.
‘Time passed away as a tale that is told; faster indeed thanmany tales that are told, of which number I fear this may be one.
The house of the five sisters stood where it did, and the same treescast their pleasant shade upon the orchard grass. The sisters toowere there, and lovely as at first, but a change had come over theirdwelling. Sometimes, there was the clash of armour99, and thegleaming of the moon on caps of steel; and, at others, jadedcoursers were spurred up to the gate, and a female form glidedhurriedly forth, as if eager to demand tidings of the wearymessenger. A goodly train of knights101 and ladies lodged102 one nightwithin the abbey walls, and next day rode away, with two of thefair sisters among them. Then, horsemen began to come lessfrequently, and seemed to bring bad tidings when they did, and atlength they ceased to come at all, and footsore peasants slunk to the gate after sunset, and did their errand there, by stealth. Once,a vassal103 was dispatched in haste to the abbey at dead of night, andwhen morning came, there were sounds of woe104 and wailing105 in thesisters’ house; and after this, a mournful silence fell upon it, andknight or lady, horse or armour, was seen about it no more.
‘There was a sullen106 darkness in the sky, and the sun had goneangrily down, tinting107 the dull clouds with the last traces of hiswrath, when the same black monk walked slowly on, with foldedarms, within a stone’s-throw of the abbey. A blight108 had fallen onthe trees and shrubs109; and the wind, at length beginning to breakthe unnatural110 stillness that had prevailed all day, sighed heavilyfrom time to time, as though foretelling111 in grief the ravages112 of thecoming storm. The bat skimmed in fantastic flights through theheavy air, and the ground was alive with crawling things, whoseinstinct brought them forth to swell113 and fatten114 in the rain.
‘No longer were the friar’s eyes directed to the earth; they werecast abroad, and roamed from point to point, as if the gloom anddesolation of the scene found a quick response in his own bosom.
Again he paused near the sisters’ house, and again he entered bythe postern.
‘But not again did his ear encounter the sound of laughter, orhis eyes rest upon the beautiful figures of the five sisters. All wassilent and deserted115. The boughs116 of the trees were bent andbroken, and the grass had grown long and rank. No light feet hadpressed it for many, many a day.
‘With the indifference117 or abstraction of one well accustomed tothe change, the monk glided100 into the house, and entered a low,dark room. Four sisters sat there. Their black garments madetheir pale faces whiter still, and time and sorrow had worked deep ravages. They were stately yet; but the flush and pride of beautywere gone.
‘And Alice—where was she? In Heaven.
‘The monk—even the monk—could bear with some grief here;for it was long since these sisters had met, and there were furrowsin their blanched118 faces which years could never plough. He tookhis seat in silence, and motioned them to continue their speech.
‘“They are here, sisters,” said the elder lady in a tremblingvoice. “I have never borne to look upon them since, and now Iblame myself for my weakness. What is there in her memory thatwe should dread119? To call up our old days shall be a solemnpleasure yet.”
‘She glanced at the monk as she spoke, and, opening a cabinet,brought forth the five frames of work, completed long before. Herstep was firm, but her hand trembled as she produced the last one;and, when the feelings of the other sisters gushed120 forth at sight ofit, her pent-up tears made way, and she sobbed121 “God bless her!”
‘The monk rose and advanced towards them. “It was almost thelast thing she touched in health,” he said in a low voice.
‘“It was,” cried the elder lady, weeping bitterly.
‘The monk turned to the second sister.
‘“The gallant122 youth who looked into thine eyes, and hung uponthy very breath when first he saw thee intent upon this pastime,lies buried on a plain whereof the turf is red with blood. Rustyfragments of armour, once brightly burnished123, lie rotting on theground, and are as little distinguishable for his, as are the bonesthat crumble124 in the mould!”
‘The lady groaned125, and wrung126 her hands.
‘“The policy of courts,” he continued, turning to the two other sisters, “drew ye from your peaceful home to scenes of revelry andsplendour. The same policy, and the restless ambition of—proudand fiery127 men, have sent ye back, widowed maidens128, and humbledoutcasts. Do I speak truly?”
‘The sobs129 of the two sisters were their only reply.
‘“There is little need,” said the monk, with a meaning look, “tofritter away the time in gewgaws which shall raise up the paleghosts of hopes of early years. Bury them, heap penance130 andmortification on their heads, keep them down, and let the conventbe their grave!”
‘The sisters asked for three days to deliberate; and felt, thatnight, as though the veil were indeed the fitting shroud131 for theirdead joys. But, morning came again, and though the boughs of theorchard trees drooped132 and ran wild upon the ground, it was thesame orchard still. The grass was coarse and high, but there wasyet the spot on which they had so often sat together, when changeand sorrow were but names. There was every walk and nookwhich Alice had made glad; and in the minster nave133 was one flatstone beneath which she slept in peace.
‘And could they, remembering how her young heart hadsickened at the thought of cloistered134 walls, look upon her grave, ingarbs which would chill the very ashes within it? Could they bowdown in prayer, and when all Heaven turned to hear them, bringthe dark shade of sadness on one angel’s face? No.
‘They sent abroad, to artists of great celebrity135 in those times,and having obtained the church’s sanction to their work of piety136,caused to be executed, in five large compartments137 of richly stainedglass, a faithful copy of their old embroidery138 work. These werefitted into a large window until that time bare of ornament; and when the sun shone brightly, as she had so well loved to see it, thefamiliar patterns were reflected in their original colours, andthrowing a stream of brilliant light upon the pavement, fell warmlyon the name of Alice.
‘For many hours in every day, the sisters paced slowly up anddown the nave, or knelt by the side of the flat broad stone. Onlythree were seen in the customary place, after many years; then buttwo, and, for a long time afterwards, but one solitary139 female bentwith age. At length she came no more, and the stone bore fiveplain Christian140 names.
‘That stone has worn away and been replaced by others, andmany generations have come and gone since then. Time hassoftened down the colours, but the same stream of light still fallsupon the forgotten tomb, of which no trace remains142; and, to thisday, the stranger is shown in York Cathedral, an old windowcalled the Five Sisters.’
‘That’s a melancholy143 tale,’ said the merry-faced gentleman,emptying his glass. ‘It is a tale of life, and life is made up of suchsorrows,’ returned the other, courteously144, but in a grave and sadtone of voice.
‘There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, ifwe choose to contemplate145 them,’ said the gentleman with themerry face. ‘The youngest sister in your tale was always lighthearted.’
‘And died early,’ said the other, gently.
‘She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been lesshappy,’ said the first speaker, with much feeling. ‘Do you think thesisters who loved her so well, would have grieved the less if her lifehad been one of gloom and sadness? If anything could soothe146 the first sharp pain of a heavy loss, it would be—with me—thereflection, that those I mourned, by being innocently happy here,and loving all about them, had prepared themselves for a purerand happier world. The sun does not shine upon this fair earth tomeet frowning eyes, depend upon it.’
‘I believe you are right,’ said the gentleman who had told thestory.
‘Believe!’ retorted the other, ‘can anybody doubt it? Take anysubject of sorrowful regret, and see with how much pleasure it isassociated. The recollection of past pleasure may become pain—’
‘It does,’ interposed the other.
‘Well; it does. To remember happiness which cannot berestored, is pain, but of a softened141 kind. Our recollections areunfortunately mingled with much that we deplore147, and with manyactions which we bitterly repent148; still in the most chequered life Ifirmly think there are so many little rays of sunshine to look backupon, that I do not believe any mortal (unless he had put himselfwithout the pale of hope) would deliberately149 drain a goblet150 of thewaters of Lethe, if he had it in his power.’
‘Possibly you are correct in that belief,’ said the grey-hairedgentleman after a short reflection. ‘I am inclined to think you are.’
‘Why, then,’ replied the other, ‘the good in this state ofexistence preponderates151 over the bad, let miscalled philosopherstell us what they will. If our affections be tried, our affections areour consolation152 and comfort; and memory, however sad, is thebest and purest link between this world and a better. But come!
I’ll tell you a story of another kind.’
After a very brief silence, the merry-faced gentleman sentround the punch, and glancing slyly at the fastidious lady, who seemed desperately153 apprehensive154 that he was going to relatesomething improper155, beganTHE BARON156 OF GROGZWIG‘The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig in Germany, was aslikely a young baron as you would wish to see. I needn’t say thathe lived in a castle, because that’s of course; neither need I saythat he lived in an old castle; for what German baron ever lived ina new one? There were many strange circumstances connectedwith this venerable building, among which, not the least startlingand mysterious were, that when the wind blew, it rumbled157 in thechimneys, or even howled among the trees in the neighbouringforest; and that when the moon shone, she found her way throughcertain small loopholes in the wall, and actually made some partsof the wide halls and galleries quite light, while she left others ingloomy shadow. I believe that one of the baron’s ancestors, beingshort of money, had inserted a dagger158 in a gentleman who calledone night to ask his way, and it was supposed that thesemiraculous occurrences took place in consequence. And yet Ihardly know how that could have been, either, because the baron’sancestor, who was an amiable159 man, felt very sorry afterwards forhaving been so rash, and laying violent hands upon a quantity ofstone and timber which belonged to a weaker baron, built a chapelas an apology, and so took a receipt from Heaven, in full of alldemands.
‘Talking of the baron’s ancestor puts me in mind of the baron’sgreat claims to respect, on the score of his pedigree. I am afraid tosay, I am sure, how many ancestors the baron had; but I know that he had a great many more than any other man of his time; and Ionly wish that he had lived in these latter days, that he might havehad more. It is a very hard thing upon the great men of pastcenturies, that they should have come into the world so soon,because a man who was born three or four hundred years ago,cannot reasonably be expected to have had as many relationsbefore him, as a man who is born now. The last man, whoever heis—and he may be a cobbler or some low vulgar dog for aught weknow—will have a longer pedigree than the greatest noblemannow alive; and I contend that this is not fair.
‘Well, but the Baron Von Koeldwethout of Grogzwig! He was afine swarthy fellow, with dark hair and large moustachios, whorode a-hunting in clothes of Lincoln green, with russet boots onhis feet, and a bugle160 slung161 over his shoulder like the guard of along stage. When he blew this bugle, four-and-twenty othergentlemen of inferior rank, in Lincoln green a little coarser, andrusset boots with a little thicker soles, turned out directly: andaway galloped the whole train, with spears in their hands likelacquered area railings, to hunt down the boars, or perhapsencounter a bear: in which latter case the baron killed him first,and greased his whiskers with him afterwards.
‘This was a merry life for the Baron of Grogzwig, and a merrierstill for the baron’s retainers, who drank Rhine wine every nighttill they fell under the table, and then had the bottles on the floor,and called for pipes. Never were such jolly, roystering, rollicking,merry-making blades, as the jovial162 crew of Grogzwig.
‘But the pleasures of the table, or the pleasures of under thetable, require a little variety; especially when the same five-andtwenty people sit daily down to the same board, to discuss the same subjects, and tell the same stories. The baron grew weary,and wanted excitement. He took to quarrelling with hisgentlemen, and tried kicking two or three of them every day afterdinner. This was a pleasant change at first; but it becamemonotonous after a week or so, and the baron felt quite out ofsorts, and cast about, in despair, for some new amusement.
‘One night, after a day’s sport in which he had outdone Nimrodor Gillingwater, and slaughtered163 “another fine bear,” and broughthim home in triumph, the Baron Von Koeldwethout sat moodily164 atthe head of his table, eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with adiscontended aspect. He swallowed huge bumpers165 of wine, but themore he swallowed, the more he frowned. The gentlemen who hadbeen honoured with the dangerous distinction of sitting on hisright and left, imitated him to a miracle in the drinking, andfrowned at each other.
‘“I will!” cried the baron suddenly, smiting166 the table with hisright hand, and twirling his moustache with his left. “Fill to theLady of Grogzwig!”
‘The four-and-twenty Lincoln greens turned pale, with theexception of their four-and-twenty noses, which wereunchangeable.
‘“I said to the Lady of Grogzwig,” repeated the baron, lookinground the board.
‘“To the Lady of Grogzwig!” shouted the Lincoln greens; anddown their four-and-twenty throats went four-and-twenty imperialpints of such rare old hock, that they smacked167 their eight-andforty lips, and winked168 again.
‘“The fair daughter of the Baron Von Swillenhausen,” saidKoeldwethout, condescending169 to explain. “We will demand her in marriage of her father, ere the sun goes down tomorrow. If herefuse our suit, we will cut off his nose.”
‘A hoarse170 murmur arose from the company; every mantouched, first the hilt of his sword, and then the tip of his nose,with appalling171 significance.
‘What a pleasant thing filial piety is to contemplate! If thedaughter of the Baron Von Swillenhausen had pleaded apreoccupied heart, or fallen at her father’s feet and corned them insalt tears, or only fainted away, and complimented the oldgentleman in frantic173 ejaculations, the odds174 are a hundred to onebut Swillenhausen Castle would have been turned out at window,or rather the baron turned out at window, and the castledemolished. The damsel held her peace, however, when an earlymessenger bore the request of Von Koeldwethout next morning,and modestly retired175 to her chamber176, from the casement177 of whichshe watched the coming of the suitor and his retinue178. She was nosooner assured that the horseman with the large moustachios washer proffered179 husband, than she hastened to her father’s presence,and expressed her readiness to sacrifice herself to secure hispeace. The venerable baron caught his child to his arms, and sheda wink21 of joy.
‘There was great feasting at the castle, that day. The four-andtwenty Lincoln greens of Von Koeldwethout exchanged vows180 ofeternal friendship with twelve Lincoln greens of VonSwillenhausen, and promised the old baron that they would drinkhis wine “Till all was blue”—meaning probably until their wholecountenances had acquired the same tint30 as their noses.
Everybody slapped everybody else’s back, when the time forparting came; and the Baron Von Koeldwethout and his followers181 rode gaily182 home.
‘For six mortal weeks, the bears and boars had a holiday. Thehouses of Koeldwethout and Swillenhausen were united; thespears rusted183; and the baron’s bugle grew hoarse for lack ofblowing.
‘Those were great times for the four-and-twenty; but, alas! theirhigh and palmy days had taken boots to themselves, and werealready walking off.
‘“My dear,” said the baroness184.
‘“My love,” said the baron.
‘“Those coarse, noisy men—”
‘“Which, ma’am?” said the baron, starting.
‘The baroness pointed185, from the window at which they stood, tothe courtyard beneath, where the unconscious Lincoln greenswere taking a copious186 stirrup-cup, preparatory to issuing forthafter a boar or two.
‘“My hunting train, ma’am,” said the baron.
‘“Disband them, love,” murmured the baroness.
‘“Disband them!” cried the baron, in amazement187.
‘“To please me, love,” replied the baroness.
‘“To please the devil, ma’am,” answered the baron.
‘Whereupon the baroness uttered a great cry, and swoonedaway at the baron’s feet.
‘What could the baron do? He called for the lady’s maid, androared for the doctor; and then, rushing into the yard, kicked thetwo Lincoln greens who were the most used to it, and cursing theothers all round, bade them go—but never mind where. I don’tknow the German for it, or I would put it delicately that way.
‘It is not for me to say by what means, or by what degrees, some wives manage to keep down some husbands as they do, although Imay have my private opinion on the subject, and may think thatno Member of Parliament ought to be married, inasmuch as threemarried members out of every four, must vote according to theirwives’ consciences (if there be such things), and not according totheir own. All I need say, just now, is, that the Baroness VonKoeldwethout somehow or other acquired great control over theBaron Von Koeldwethout, and that, little by little, and bit by bit,and day by day, and year by year, the baron got the worst of somedisputed question, or was slyly unhorsed from some old hobby;and that by the time he was a fat hearty188 fellow of forty-eight orthereabouts, he had no feasting, no revelry, no hunting train, andno hunting—nothing in short that he liked, or used to have; andthat, although he was as fierce as a lion, and as bold as brass189, hewas decidedly snubbed and put down, by his own lady, in his owncastle of Grogzwig.
‘Nor was this the whole extent of the baron’s misfortunes.
About a year after his nuptials190, there came into the world a lustyyoung baron, in whose honour a great many fireworks were let off,and a great many dozens of wine drunk; but next year there camea young baroness, and next year another young baron, and so on,every year, either a baron or baroness (and one year bothtogether), until the baron found himself the father of a smallfamily of twelve. Upon every one of these anniversaries, thevenerable Baroness Von Swillenhausen was nervously191 sensitivefor the well-being192 of her child the Baroness Von Koeldwethout;and although it was not found that the good lady ever did anythingmaterial towards contributing to her child’s recovery, still shemade it a point of duty to be as nervous as possible at the castle of Grogzwig, and to divide her time between moral observations onthe baron’s housekeeping, and bewailing the hard lot of herunhappy daughter. And if the Baron of Grogzwig, a little hurt andirritated at this, took heart, and ventured to suggest that his wifewas at least no worse off than the wives of other barons193, theBaroness Von Swillenhausen begged all persons to take notice,that nobody but she, sympathised with her dear daughter’ssufferings; upon which, her relations and friends remarked, that tobe sure she did cry a great deal more than her son-in-law, and thatif there were a hard-hearted brute194 alive, it was that Baron ofGrogzwig.
‘The poor baron bore it all as long as he could, and when hecould bear it no longer lost his appetite and his spirits, and sathimself gloomily and dejectedly down. But there were worsetroubles yet in store for him, and as they came on, his melancholyand sadness increased. Times changed. He got into debt. TheGrogzwig coffers ran low, though the Swillenhausen family hadlooked upon them as inexhaustible; and just when the baronesswas on the point of making a thirteenth addition to the familypedigree, Von Koeldwethout discovered that he had no means ofreplenishing them.
‘“I don’t see what is to be done,” said the baron. “I think I’ll killmyself.”
‘This was a bright idea. The baron took an old hunting-knifefrom a cupboard hard by, and having sharpened it on his boot,made what boys call “an offer” at his throat.
‘“Hem!” said the baron, stopping short. “Perhaps it’s not sharpenough.”
‘The baron sharpened it again, and made another offer, when his hand was arrested by a loud screaming among the youngbarons and baronesses195, who had a nursery in an upstairs towerwith iron bars outside the window, to prevent their tumbling outinto the moat.
‘“If I had been a bachelor,” said the baron sighing, “I mighthave done it fifty times over, without being interrupted. Hallo! Puta flask196 of wine and the largest pipe in the little vaulted197 roombehind the hall.”
‘One of the domestics, in a very kind manner, executed thebaron’s order in the course of half an hour or so, and VonKoeldwethout being apprised198 thereof, strode to the vaulted room,the walls of which, being of dark shining wood, gleamed in thelight of the blazing logs which were piled upon the hearth199. Thebottle and pipe were ready, and, upon the whole, the place lookedvery comfortable.
‘“Leave the lamp,” said the baron.
‘“Anything else, my lord?” inquired the domestic.
‘“The room,” replied the baron. The domestic obeyed, and thebaron locked the door.
‘“I’ll smoke a last pipe,” said the baron, “and then I’ll be off.”
So, putting the knife upon the table till he wanted it, and tossingoff a goodly measure of wine, the Lord of Grogzwig threw himselfback in his chair, stretched his legs out before the fire, and puffedaway.
‘He thought about a great many things—about his presenttroubles and past days of bachelorship, and about the Lincolngreens, long since dispersed200 up and down the country, no oneknew whither: with the exception of two who had beenunfortunately beheaded, and four who had killed themselves with drinking. His mind was running upon bears and boars, when, inthe process of draining his glass to the bottom, he raised his eyes,and saw, for the first time and with unbounded astonishment201, thathe was not alone.
‘No, he was not; for, on the opposite side of the fire, there satwith folded arms a wrinkled hideous202 figure, with deeply sunk andbloodshot eyes, and an immensely long cadaverous face,shadowed by jagged and matted locks of coarse black hair. Hewore a kind of tunic203 of a dull bluish colour, which, the baronobserved, on regarding it attentively204, was clasped or ornamenteddown the front with coffin205 handles. His legs, too, were encased incoffin plates as though in armour; and over his left shoulder hewore a short dusky cloak, which seemed made of a remnant ofsome pall172. He took no notice of the baron, but was intently eyeingthe fire.
‘“Halloa!” said the baron, stamping his foot to attract attention.
‘“Halloa!” replied the stranger, moving his eyes towards thebaron, but not his face or himself “What now?”
‘“What now!” replied the baron, nothing daunted206 by his hollowvoice and lustreless207 eyes. “I should ask that question. How did youget here?”
‘“Through the door,” replied the figure.
‘“What are you?” says the baron.
‘“A man,” replied the figure.
‘“I don’t believe it,” says the baron.
‘“Disbelieve it then,” says the figure.
‘“I will,” rejoined the baron.
‘The figure looked at the bold Baron of Grogzwig for some time,and then said familiarly, ‘“There’s no coming over you, I see. I’m not a man!”
‘“What are you then?” asked the baron.
‘“A genius,” replied the figure.
‘“You don’t look much like one,” returned the baron scornfully.
‘“I am the Genius of Despair and Suicide,” said the apparition208.
“Now you know me.”
‘With these words the apparition turned towards the baron, asif composing himself for a talk—and, what was very remarkable,was, that he threw his cloak aside, and displaying a stake, whichwas run through the centre of his body, pulled it out with a jerk,and laid it on the table, as composedly as if it had been a walkingstick.
‘“Now,” said the figure, glancing at the hunting-knife, “are youready for me?”
‘“Not quite,” rejoined the baron; “I must finish this pipe first.”
‘“Look sharp then,” said the figure.
‘“You seem in a hurry,” said the baron.
‘“Why, yes, I am,” answered the figure; “they’re doing a prettybrisk business in my way, over in England and France just now,and my time is a good deal taken up.”
‘“Do you drink?” said the baron, touching209 the bottle with thebowl of his pipe.
‘“Nine times out of ten, and then very hard,” rejoined thefigure, drily.
‘“Never in moderation?” asked the baron.
‘“Never,” replied the figure, with a shudder210, “that breedscheerfulness.”
‘The baron took another look at his new friend, whom hethought an uncommonly211 queer customer, and at length inquired whether he took any active part in such little proceedings212 as thatwhich he had in contemplation.
‘“No,” replied the figure evasively; “but I am always present.”
‘“Just to see fair, I suppose?” said the baron.
‘“Just that,” replied the figure, playing with his stake, andexamining the ferule. “Be as quick as you can, will you, for there’sa young gentleman who is afflicted213 with too much money andleisure wanting me now, I find.”
‘“Going to kill himself because he has too much money!”
exclaimed the baron, quite tickled214. “Ha! ha! that’s a good one.”
(This was the first time the baron had laughed for many a longday.)‘“I say,” expostulated the figure, looking very much scared;“don’t do that again.”
‘“Why not?” demanded the baron.
‘“Because it gives me pain all over,” replied the figure. “Sigh asmuch as you please: that does me good.”
‘The baron sighed mechanically at the mention of the word; thefigure, brightening up again, handed him the hunting-knife withmost winning politeness.
‘“It’s not a bad idea though,” said the baron, feeling the edge ofthe weapon; “a man killing215 himself because he has too muchmoney.”
‘“Pooh!” said the apparition, petulantly216, “no better than aman’s killing himself because he has none or little.”
‘Whether the genius unintentionally committed himself insaying this, or whether he thought the baron’s mind was sothoroughly made up that it didn’t matter what he said, I have nomeans of knowing. I only know that the baron stopped his hand, all of a sudden, opened his eyes wide, and looked as if quite a newlight had come upon him for the first time.
‘“Why, certainly,” said Von Koeldwethout, “nothing is too badto be retrieved217.”
‘“Except empty coffers,” cried the genius.
‘“Well; but they may be one day filled again,” said the baron.
‘“Scolding wives,” snarled218 the genius.
‘“Oh! They may be made quiet,” said the baron.
‘“Thirteen children,” shouted the genius.
‘“Can’t all go wrong, surely,” said the baron.
‘The genius was evidently growing very savage219 with the baron,for holding these opinions all at once; but he tried to laugh it off,and said if he would let him know when he had left off joking heshould feel obliged to him.
‘“But I am not joking; I was never farther from it,”
remonstrated the baron.
‘“Well, I am glad to hear that,” said the genius, looking verygrim, “because a joke, without any figure of speech, IS the death ofme. Come! Quit this dreary world at once.”
‘“I don’t know,” said the baron, playing with the knife; “it’s adreary one certainly, but I don’t think yours is much better, foryou have not the appearance of being particularly comfortable.
That puts me in mind—what security have I, that I shall be any thebetter for going out of the world after all!” he cried, starting up; “Inever thought of that.”
‘“Dispatch,” cried the figure, gnashing his teeth.
‘“Keep off!” said the baron. ‘I’ll brood over miseries220 no longer,but put a good face on the matter, and try the fresh air and thebears again; and if that don’t do, I’ll talk to the baroness soundly, and cut the Von Swillenhausens dead.’ With this the baron fellinto his chair, and laughed so loud and boisterously221, that the roomrang with it.
‘The figure fell back a pace or two, regarding the baronmeanwhile with a look of intense terror, and when he had ceased,caught up the stake, plunged222 it violently into its body, uttered afrightful howl, and disappeared.
‘Von Koeldwethout never saw it again. Having once made uphis mind to action, he soon brought the baroness and the VonSwillenhausens to reason, and died many years afterwards: not arich man that I am aware of, but certainly a happy one: leavingbehind him a numerous family, who had been carefully educatedin bear and boar-hunting under his own personal eye. And myadvice to all men is, that if ever they become hipped223 andmelancholy from similar causes (as very many men do), they lookat both sides of the question, applying a magnifying-glass to thebest one; and if they still feel tempted224 to retire without leave, thatthey smoke a large pipe and drink a full bottle first, and profit bythe laudable example of the Baron of Grogzwig.’
‘The fresh coach is ready, ladies and gentlemen, if you please,’
said a new driver, looking in.
This intelligence caused the punch to be finished in a greathurry, and prevented any discussion relative to the last story. MrSqueers was observed to draw the grey-headed gentleman on oneside, and to ask a question with great apparent interest; it borereference to the Five Sisters of York, and was, in fact, an inquirywhether he could inform him how much per annum the Yorkshireconvents got in those days with their boarders.
The journey was then resumed. Nicholas fell asleep towards morning, and, when he awoke, found, with great regret, that,during his nap, both the Baron of Grogzwig and the grey-hairedgentleman had got down and were gone. The day dragged onuncomfortably enough. At about six o’clock that night, he and MrSqueers, and the little boys, and their united luggage, were all putdown together at the George and New Inn, Greta Bridge.
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squealing
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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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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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benignity
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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deferential
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sufficiently
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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murmur
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propriety
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joint
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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approbation
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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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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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graceful
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bosom
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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chafes
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的第三人称单数 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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38
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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39
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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40
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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41
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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42
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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43
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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44
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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47
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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48
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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49
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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50
embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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51
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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52
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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53
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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54
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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55
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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56
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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57
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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58
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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59
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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60
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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61
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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62
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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63
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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64
exults
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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66
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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67
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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68
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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69
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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70
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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71
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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72
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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73
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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75
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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76
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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77
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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78
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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79
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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80
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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81
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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82
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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83
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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84
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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85
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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86
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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87
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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88
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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89
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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90
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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91
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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92
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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93
baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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94
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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96
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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97
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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98
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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99
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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100
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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101
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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102
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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103
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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104
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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105
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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106
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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107
tinting
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| 着色，染色（的阶段或过程） | |
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108
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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109
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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110
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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111
foretelling
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的现在分词 ) | |
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112
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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113
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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114
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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115
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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116
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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117
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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118
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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119
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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120
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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121
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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122
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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123
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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124
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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125
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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126
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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127
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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128
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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129
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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130
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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131
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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132
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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134
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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136
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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137
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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138
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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139
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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140
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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141
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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142
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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143
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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144
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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145
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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146
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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147
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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148
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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149
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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150
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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151
preponderates
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| v.超过，胜过( preponderate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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152
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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153
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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154
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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155
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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156
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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157
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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158
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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159
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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160
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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161
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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162
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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163
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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165
bumpers
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| （汽车上的）保险杠，缓冲器( bumper的名词复数 ) | |
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166
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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167
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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169
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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170
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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171
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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172
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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173
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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174
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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175
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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176
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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177
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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178
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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179
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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181
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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182
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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183
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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185
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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186
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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187
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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188
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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189
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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190
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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191
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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192
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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193
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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194
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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195
baronesses
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| n.女男爵( baroness的名词复数 )；男爵夫人[寡妇] | |
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196
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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197
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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198
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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199
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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200
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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201
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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202
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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203
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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204
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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205
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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206
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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208
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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209
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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210
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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211
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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212
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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213
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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214
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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215
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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216
petulantly
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217
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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218
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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219
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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220
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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221
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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222
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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223
hipped
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| adj.着迷的，忧郁的 | |
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224
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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