Let us turn to the curates—to the much-loved, though long-neglected. Come forward, modest merit! Malone, I see, promptly5 answers the invocation. He knows his own description when he hears it.
No, Peter Augustus; we can have nothing to say to you. It won't do. Impossible to trust ourselves with the touching6 tale of your deeds and destinies. Are you not aware, Peter, that a discriminating7 public has its crotchets; that the unvarnished truth does not answer; that plain facts will not digest? Do you not know that the squeak9 of the real pig is no more relished10 now than it was in days of yore? Were I to give the catastrophe11 of your life and conversation, the public would sweep off in shrieking12 hysterics, and there would be a wild cry for sal-volatile and burnt feathers. "Impossible!" would be pronounced here; "untrue!" would be responded there; "inartistic!" would be solemnly decided13. Note well. Whenever you present the actual, simple truth, it is, somehow, always denounced as a lie—they disown it, cast it off, throw it on the parish; whereas the product of your own imagination, the mere14 figment, the sheer fiction, is adopted, petted, termed pretty, proper, sweetly natural—the little, spurious wretch15 gets all the comfits, the honest, lawful16 bantling all the cuffs17. Such is the way of the world, Peter; and as you are the legitimate18 urchin19, rude, unwashed, and naughty, you must stand down.
Make way for Mr. Sweeting.
Here he comes, with his lady on his arm—the most556 splendid and the weightiest woman in Yorkshire—Mrs. Sweeting, formerly20 Miss Dora Sykes. They were married under the happiest auspices21, Mr. Sweeting having been just inducted to a comfortable living, and Mr. Sykes being in circumstances to give Dora a handsome portion. They lived long and happily together, beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circle of friends.
Advance, Mr. Donne.
This gentleman turned out admirably—far better than either you or I could possibly have expected, reader. He, too, married a most sensible, quiet, lady-like little woman. The match was the making of him. He became an exemplary domestic character, and a truly active parish priest (as a pastor22 he, to his dying day, conscientiously24 refused to act). The outside of the cup and platter he burnished25 up with the best polishing-powder; the furniture of the altar and temple he looked after with the zeal26 of an upholsterer, the care of a cabinet-maker. His little school, his little church, his little parsonage, all owed their erection to him; and they did him credit. Each was a model in its way. If uniformity and taste in architecture had been the same thing as consistency27 and earnestness in religion, what a shepherd of a Christian28 flock Mr. Donne would have made! There was one art in the mastery of which nothing mortal ever surpassed Mr. Donne: it was that of begging. By his own unassisted efforts he begged all the money for all his erections. In this matter he had a grasp of plan, a scope of action quite unique. He begged of high and low—of the shoeless cottage brat29 and the coroneted duke. He sent out begging-letters far and wide—to old Queen Charlotte, to the princesses her daughters, to her sons the royal dukes, to the Prince Regent, to Lord Castlereagh, to every member of the ministry30 then in office; and, what is more remarkable31, he screwed something out of every one of these personages. It is on record that he got five pounds from the close-fisted old lady Queen Charlotte, and two guineas from the royal profligate32 her eldest33 son. When Mr. Donne set out on begging expeditions, he armed himself in a complete suit of brazen34 mail. That you had given a hundred pounds yesterday was with him no reason why you should not give two hundred to-day. He would tell you so to your face, and, ten to one, get the money out of you. People gave to get rid of him. After all, he did some557 good with the cash. He was useful in his day and generation.
Perhaps I ought to remark that on the premature35 and sudden vanishing of Mr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield parish (you cannot know how it happened, reader; your curiosity must be robbed to pay your elegant love of the pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor another Irish curate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to be able to inform you, with truth, that this gentleman did as much credit to his country as Malone had done it discredit36. He proved himself as decent, decorous, and conscientious23 as Peter was rampant37, boisterous38, and—— This last epithet39 I choose to suppress, because it would let the cat out of the bag. He laboured faithfully in the parish. The schools, both Sunday and day schools, flourished under his sway like green bay trees. Being human, of course he had his faults. These, however, were proper, steady-going, clerical faults—what many would call virtues40. The circumstance of finding himself invited to tea with a Dissenter41 would unhinge him for a week. The spectacle of a Quaker wearing his hat in the church, the thought of an unbaptized fellow-creature being interred42 with Christian rites—these things could make strange havoc43 in Mr. Macarthey's physical and mental economy. Otherwise he was sane44 and rational, diligent45 and charitable.
I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked, ere this, that I have thus far shown a criminal remissness46 in pursuing, catching47, and bringing to condign48 punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance, at once decorous and exciting—a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon50, the dock, and the "dead-thraw." You might have liked it, reader, but I should not. I and my subject would presently have quarrelled, and then I should have broken down. I was happy to find that facts perfectly51 exonerated52 me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, for the good reason that he was never caught—the result of the further circumstance that he was never pursued. The magistrates53 made a shuffling55, as if they were going to rise and do valiant56 things; but since Moore himself, instead of urging and leading them as heretofore, lay still on his little cottage-couch, laughing in his sleeve, and sneering57 with every feature of his pale, foreign face, they considered better of it, and after fulfilling certain558 indispensable forms, prudently58 resolved to let the matter quietly drop, which they did.
Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver59 once before alluded60 to, a frantic61 Antinomian in religion, and a mad leveller in politics. The poor soul died of delirium62 tremens a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.
The winter is over and gone; spring has followed with beamy and shadowy, with flowery and showery flight. We are now in the heart of summer—in mid-June—the June of 1812.
It is burning weather. The air is deep azure63 and red gold. It fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. The nineteenth century wantons in its giant adolescence64; the Titan boy uproots65 mountains in his game, and hurls66 rocks in his wild sport. This summer Bonaparte is in the saddle; he and his host scour67 Russian deserts. He has with him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians and children of the Rhine, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow. Under old Moscow's walls the rude Cossack waits him. Barbarian68 stoic69! he waits without fear of the boundless70 ruin rolling on. He puts his trust in a snow-cloud; the wilderness71, the wind, and the hail-storm are his refuge; his allies are the elements—air, fire, water. And what are these? Three terrible archangels ever stationed before the throne of Jehovah. They stand clothed in white, girdled with golden girdles; they uplift vials, brimming with the wrath72 of God. Their time is the day of vengeance73; their signal, the word of the Lord of hosts, "thundering with the voice of His excellency."
"Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow? or hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the time of trouble, against the day of battle and war?
"Go your ways. Pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth."
It is done. The earth is scorched74 with fire; the sea becomes "as the blood of a dead man;" the islands flee away; the mountains are not found.
In this year, Lord Wellington assumed the reins75 in Spain.559 They made him generalissimo, for their own salvation's sake. In this year he took Badajos, he fought the field of Vittoria, he captured Pampeluna, he stormed San Sebastian; in this year he won Salamanca.
Men of Manchester, I beg your pardon for this slight résumé of warlike facts, but it is of no consequence. Lord Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now. I rather think some of you have called him a "dotard;" you have taunted76 him with his age and the loss of his physical vigour77. What fine heroes you are yourselves! Men like you have a right to trample78 on what is mortal in a demigod. Scoff79 at your ease; your scorn can never break his grand old heart.
But come, friends, whether Quakers or cotton-printers, let us hold a peace-congress, and let out our venom80 quietly. We have been talking with unseemly zeal about bloody81 battles and butchering generals; we arrive now at a triumph in your line. On the 18th of June 1812 the Orders in Council were repealed82, and the blockaded ports thrown open. You know very well—such of you as are old enough to remember—you made Yorkshire and Lancashire shake with your shout on that occasion. The ringers cracked a bell in Briarfield belfry; it is dissonant84 to this day. The Association of Merchants and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro', and one and all went home in such a plight85 as their wives would never wish to witness more. Liverpool started and snorted like a river-horse roused amongst his reeds by thunder. Some of the American merchants felt threatenings of apoplexy, and had themselves bled—all, like wise men, at this first moment of prosperity, prepared to rush into the bowels87 of speculation88, and to delve89 new difficulties, in whose depths they might lose themselves at some future day. Stocks which had been accumulating for years now went off in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Warehouses90 were lightened, ships were laden91; work abounded92, wages rose; the good time seemed come. These prospects93 might be delusive94, but they were brilliant—to some they were even true. At that epoch95, in that single month of June, many a solid fortune was realized.
When a whole province rejoices, the humblest of its inhabitants tastes a festal feeling; the sound of public bells rouses the most secluded96 abode97, as if with a call to be gay. And so Caroline Helstone thought, when she560 dressed herself more carefully than usual on the day of this trading triumph, and went, attired98 in her neatest muslin, to spend the afternoon at Fieldhead, there to superintend certain millinery preparations for a great event, the last appeal in these matters being reserved for her unimpeachable99 taste. She decided on the wreath, the veil, the dress to be worn at the altar. She chose various robes and fashions for more ordinary occasions, without much reference to the bride's opinion—that lady, indeed, being in a somewhat impracticable mood.
Louis had presaged100 difficulties, and he had found them—in fact, his mistress had shown herself exquisitely102 provoking, putting off her marriage day by day, week by week, month by month, at first coaxing103 him with soft pretences104 of procrastination105, and in the end rousing his whole deliberate but determined106 nature to revolt against her tyranny, at once so sweet and so intolerable.
It had needed a sort of tempest-shock to bring her to the point; but there she was at last, fettered108 to a fixed109 day. There she lay, conquered by love, and bound with a vow110.
Thus vanquished111 and restricted, she pined, like any other chained denizen112 of deserts. Her captor alone could cheer her; his society only could make amends113 for the lost privilege of liberty. In his absence she sat or wandered alone, spoke114 little, and ate less.
She furthered no preparations for her nuptials115; Louis was himself obliged to direct all arrangements. He was virtually master of Fieldhead weeks before he became so nominally—the least presumptuous116, the kindest master that ever was, but with his lady absolute. She abdicated117 without a word or a struggle. "Go to Mr. Moore, ask Mr. Moore," was her answer when applied118 to for orders. Never was wooer of wealthy bride so thoroughly119 absolved120 from the subaltern part, so inevitably121 compelled to assume a paramount122 character.
In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition123; but a remark she made a year afterwards proved that she partly also acted on system. "Louis," she said, "would never have learned to rule if she had not ceased to govern. The incapacity of the sovereign had developed the powers of the premier124."
It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as561 bridesmaid at the approaching nuptials, but Fortune had destined125 her another part.
She came home in time to water her plants. She had performed this little task. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. This plant had received the refreshing126 shower; she was now resting a minute. Near the wall stood a fragment of sculptured stone—a monkish127 relic—once, perhaps, the base of a cross. She mounted it, that she might better command the view. She had still the watering pot in one hand; with the other her pretty dress was held lightly aside, to avoid trickling128 drops. She gazed over the wall, along some lonely fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side by side against the sky; beyond a solitary129 thorn at the head of a solitary lane far off. She surveyed the dusk moors130, where bonfires were kindling131. The summer evening was warm; the bell-music was joyous132; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright. Above them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twinkled a silver point—the star of love.
Caroline was not unhappy that evening—far otherwise; but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had drawn133 near; she received the touch unstartled.
"I am looking at Venus, mamma. See, she is beautiful. How white her lustre134 is, compared with the deep red of the bonfires!"
The answer was a closer caress135; and Caroline turned, and looked, not into Mrs. Pryor's matron face, but up at a dark manly136 visage. She dropped her watering-pot and stepped down from the pedestal.
"I have been sitting with 'mamma' an hour," said the intruder. "I have had a long conversation with her. Where, meantime, have you been?"
"To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert. She will neither say Yes nor No to any question put. She sits alone. I cannot tell whether she is melancholy137 or nonchalant. If you rouse her or scold her, she gives you a look, half wistful, half reckless, which sends you away as queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her, I cannot tell. For my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dare undertake her."
"Never mind them. They were cut out for each other.562 Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these freaks. He will manage her, if any one can. She tries him, however. He has had a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but you see it all ends in victory for him. Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are those bells ringing?"
"Yesterday evening at this time I was packing some books for a sea-voyage. They were the only possessions, except some clothes, seeds, roots, and tools, which I felt free to take with me to Canada. I was going to leave you."
"To leave me? To leave me?"
Her little fingers fastened on his arm; she spoke and looked affrighted.
"Not now—not now. Examine my face—yes, look at me well. Is the despair of parting legible thereon?"
She looked into an illuminated138 countenance139, whose characters were all beaming, though the page itself was dusk. This face, potent140 in the majesty141 of its traits, shed down on her hope, fondness, delight.
"The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I shall not turn bankrupt; now I shall not give up business; now I shall not leave England; now I shall be no longer poor; now I can pay my debts; now all the cloth I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands, and commissions given me for much more. This day lays for my fortunes a broad, firm foundation, on which, for the first time in my life, I can securely build."
"You are saved? Your heavy difficulties are lifted?"
"They are lifted. I breathe. I can act."
"At last! Oh, Providence144 is kind! Thank Him, Robert."
"I do thank Providence."
"Now I can take more workmen, give better wages, lay wiser and more liberal plans, do some good, be less selfish. Now, Caroline, I can have a house—a home which I can truly call mine—and now——"
He paused, for his deep voice was checked.
563"And now," he resumed—"now I can think of marriage, now I can seek a wife."
This was no moment for her to speak. She did not speak.
"Will Caroline, who meekly146 hopes to be forgiven as she forgives—will she pardon all I have made her suffer, all that long pain I have wickedly caused her, all that sickness of body and mind she owed to me? Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition, my sordid147 schemes? Will she let me expiate148 these things? Will she suffer me to prove that, as I once deserted149 cruelly, trifled wantonly, injured basely, I can now love faithfully, cherish fondly, treasure tenderly?"
His hand was in Caroline's still; a gentle pressure answered him.
"Is Caroline mine?"
"Caroline is yours."
"I will prize her. The sense of her value is here, in my heart; the necessity for her society is blended with my life. Not more jealous shall I be of the blood whose flow moves my pulses than of her happiness and well-being150."
"I love you, too, Robert, and will take faithful care of you."
"Will you take faithful care of me? Faithful care! As if that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this hard gray stone! But she will care for me, in her way. These hands will be the gentle ministrants of every comfort I can taste. I know the being I seek to entwine with my own will bring me a solace151, a charity, a purity, to which, of myself, I am a stranger."
Suddenly Caroline was troubled; her lip quivered.
"What flutters my dove?" asked Moore, as she nestled to and then uneasily shrank from him.
"Poor mamma! I am all mamma has. Must I leave her?"
"Do you know, I thought of that difficulty. I and 'mamma' have discussed it."
"Tell me what you wish, what you would like, and I will consider if it is possible to consent. But I cannot desert her, even for you. I cannot break her heart, even for your sake."
"She was faithful when I was false—was she not? I never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessly."
"What must I do? Anything but leave her."
"At my wish you never shall leave her."
"She may live very near us?"
"With us—only she will have her own rooms and servant. For this she stipulates152 herself."
"You know she has an income, that, with her habits, makes her quite independent?"
"She told me that, with a gentle pride that reminded me of somebody else."
"I know her, Cary. But if, instead of being the personification of reserve and discretion155, she were something quite opposite, I should not fear her."
"Yet she will be your mother-in-law?" The speaker gave an arch little nod. Moore smiled.
"Louis and I are not of the order of men who fear their mothers-in-law, Cary. Our foes156 never have been, nor will be, those of our own household. I doubt not my mother-in-law will make much of me."
"That she will—in her quiet way, you know. She is not demonstrative; and when you see her silent, or even cool, you must not fancy her displeased157; it is only a manner she has. Be sure to let me interpret for her whenever she puzzles you; always believe my account of the matter, Robert."
"Oh, implicitly158! Jesting apart, I feel that she and I will suit—on ne peut mieux. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely susceptible—in our French sense of the word—and not, perhaps, always reasonable in her requirements; yet, dear, honest girl, I never painfully wounded her feelings or had a serious quarrel with her in my life."
"No; you are most generously considerate, indeed, most tenderly indulgent to her; and you will be considerate with mamma. You are a gentleman all through, Robert, to the bone, and nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your own fireside."
"A eulogium I like; it is very sweet. I am well pleased my Caroline should view me in this light."
"Mamma just thinks of you as I do."
"Not quite, I hope?"
"She does not want to marry you—don't be vain; but she said to me the other day, 'My dear, Mr. Moore has pleasing manners; he is one of the few gentlemen I have seen who combine politeness with an air of sincerity159.'"
565"'Mamma' is rather a misanthropist, is she not? Not the best opinion of the sterner sex?"
"She forbears to judge them as a whole, but she has her exceptions whom she admires—Louis and Mr. Hall, and, of late, yourself. She did not like you once; I knew that, because she would never speak of you. But, Robert——"
"Well, what now? What is the new thought?"
"You have not seen my uncle yet?"
"I have. 'Mamma' called him into the room. He consents conditionally160. If I prove that I can keep a wife, I may have her; and I can keep her better than he thinks—better than I choose to boast."
"If you get rich you will do good with your money, Robert?"
"I will do good; you shall tell me how. Indeed, I have some schemes of my own, which you and I will talk about on our own hearth161 one day. I have seen the necessity of doing good; I have learned the downright folly162 of being selfish. Caroline, I foresee what I will now foretell163. This war must ere long draw to a close. Trade is likely to prosper86 for some years to come. There may be a brief misunderstanding between England and America, but that will not last. What would you think if, one day—perhaps ere another ten years elapse—Louis and I divide Briarfield parish betwixt us? Louis, at any rate, is certain of power and property. He will not bury his talents. He is a benevolent164 fellow, and has, besides, an intellect of his own of no trifling165 calibre. His mind is slow but strong. It must work. It may work deliberately166, but it will work well. He will be made magistrate54 of the district—Shirley says he shall. She would proceed impetuously and prematurely167 to obtain for him this dignity, if he would let her, but he will not. As usual, he will be in no haste. Ere he has been master of Fieldhead a year all the district will feel his quiet influence, and acknowledge his unassuming superiority. A magistrate is wanted; they will, in time, invest him with the office voluntarily and unreluctantly. Everybody admires his future wife, and everybody will, in time, like him. He is of the pâte generally approved, bon comme le pain—daily bread for the most fastidious, good for the infant and the aged101, nourishing for the poor, wholesome168 for the rich. Shirley, in spite of her whims169 and oddities, her dodges170 and delays, has an infatuated fondness566 for him. She will one day see him as universally beloved as even she could wish. He will also be universally esteemed171, considered, consulted, depended on—too much so. His advice will be always judicious172, his help always good-natured. Ere long both will be in inconvenient173 request. He will have to impose restrictions174. As for me, if I succeed as I intend to do, my success will add to his and Shirley's income. I can double the value of their mill property. I can line yonder barren Hollow with lines of cottages and rows of cottage-gardens——"
"Robert! And root up the copse?"
"The copse shall be firewood ere five years elapse. The beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent; the green natural terrace shall be a paved street. There shall be cottages in the dark ravine, and cottages on the lonely slopes. The rough pebbled175 track shall be an even, firm, broad, black, sooty road, bedded with the cinders176 from my mill; and my mill, Caroline—my mill shall fill its present yard."
"Horrible! You will change our blue hill-country air into the Stilbro' smoke atmosphere."
"I will pour the waters of Pactolus through the valley of Briarfield."
"I like the beck a thousand times better."
"I will get an Act for enclosing Nunnely Common, and parcelling it out into farms."
"Stilbro' Moor49, however, defies you, thank Heaven! What can you grow in Bilberry Moss177? What will flourish on Rushedge?"
"Caroline, the houseless, the starving, the unemployed178 shall come to Hollow's Mill from far and near; and Joe Scott shall give them work, and Louis Moore, Esq., shall let them a tenement179, and Mrs. Gill shall mete180 them a portion till the first pay-day."
She smiled up in his face.
"Such a Sunday school as you will have, Cary! such collections as you will get! such a day school as you and Shirley and Miss Ainley will have to manage between you! The mill shall find salaries for a master and mistress, and the squire181 or the clothier shall give a treat once a quarter."
She mutely offered a kiss—an offer taken unfair advantage of, to the extortion of about a hundred kisses.
"Extravagant182 day-dreams," said Moore, with a sigh and smile, "yet perhaps we may realize some of them.567 Meantime, the dew is falling. Mrs. Moore, I shall take you in."
It is August. The bells clash out again, not only through Yorkshire, but through England. From Spain the voice of a trumpet183 has sounded long; it now waxes louder and louder; it proclaims Salamanca won. This night is Briarfield to be illuminated. On this day the Fieldhead tenantry dine together; the Hollow's Mill workpeople will be assembled for a like festal purpose; the schools have a grand treat. This morning there were two marriages solemnized in Briarfield church—Louis Gérard Moore, Esq., late of Antwerp, to Shirley, daughter of the late Charles Cave Keeldar, Esq., of Fieldhead; Robert Gérard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Mill, to Caroline, niece of the Rev107. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., rector of Briarfield.
The ceremony, in the first instance, was performed by Mr. Helstone, Hiram Yorke, Esq., of Briarmains, giving the bride away. In the second instance, Mr. Hall, vicar of Nunnely, officiated. Amongst the bridal train the two most noticeable personages were the youthful bridesmen, Henry Sympson and Martin Yorke.
I suppose Robert Moore's prophecies were, partially184 at least, fulfilled. The other day I passed up the Hollow, which tradition says was once green, and lone4, and wild; and there I saw the manufacturer's day-dreams embodied185 in substantial stone and brick and ashes—the cinder-black highway, the cottages, and the cottage gardens; there I saw a mighty186 mill, and a chimney ambitious as the tower of Babel. I told my old housekeeper187 when I came home where I had been.
"Ay," said she, "this world has queer changes. I can remember the old mill being built—the very first it was in all the district; and then I can remember it being pulled down, and going with my lake-lasses [companions] to see the foundation-stone of the new one laid. The two Mr. Moores made a great stir about it. They were there, and a deal of fine folk besides, and both their ladies; very bonny and grand they looked. But Mrs. Louis was the grandest; she always wore such handsome dresses. Mrs. Robert was quieter like. Mrs. Louis smiled when she talked. She had a real, happy, glad, good-natured look; but she had een that pierced a body through. There is no such ladies nowadays."
"What was the Hollow like then, Martha?"
"Different to what it is now; but I can tell of it clean different again, when there was neither mill, nor cot, nor hall, except Fieldhead, within two miles of it. I can tell, one summer evening, fifty years syne188, my mother coming running in just at the edge of dark, almost fleyed out of her wits, saying she had seen a fairish [fairy] in Fieldhead Hollow; and that was the last fairish that ever was seen on this countryside (though they've been heard within these forty years). A lonesome spot it was, and a bonny spot, full of oak trees and nut trees. It is altered now."
The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would be an insult to his sagacity to offer directions. I only say, God speed him in the quest!
该作者的其它作品
《Jane Eyre简爱》
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《Jane Eyre简爱》
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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narrate
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narrative
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lone
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promptly
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touching
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discriminating
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varnish
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squeak
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catastrophe
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mere
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16
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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17
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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18
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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19
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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20
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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21
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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22
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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23
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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24
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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25
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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26
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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27
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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28
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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29
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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30
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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31
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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32
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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33
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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34
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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35
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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36
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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37
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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38
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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39
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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40
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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41
dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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42
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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44
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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45
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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46
remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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47
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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48
condign
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| adj.应得的，相当的 | |
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49
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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50
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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54
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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55
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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56
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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57
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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58
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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59
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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60
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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62
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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63
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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64
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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65
uproots
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的第三人称单数 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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66
hurls
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 )；大声叫骂 | |
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67
scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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68
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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69
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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70
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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71
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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72
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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73
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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74
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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75
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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76
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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77
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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78
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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79
scoff
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|
| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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80
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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81
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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82
repealed
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| 撤销，废除( repeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
repeal
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|
| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
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84
dissonant
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|
| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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85
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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86
prosper
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|
| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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87
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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88
speculation
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|
| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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89
delve
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| v.深入探究，钻研 | |
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90
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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91
laden
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|
| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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92
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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94
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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95
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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96
secluded
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|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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97
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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98
attired
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|
| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
unimpeachable
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|
| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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100
presaged
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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102
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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103
coaxing
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|
| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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104
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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105
procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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106
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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107
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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108
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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110
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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111
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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112
denizen
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| n.居民，外籍居民 | |
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113
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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114
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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115
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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116
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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117
abdicated
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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118
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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119
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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120
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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121
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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122
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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123
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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124
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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125
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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126
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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127
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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128
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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129
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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130
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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131
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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132
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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133
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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134
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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135
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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136
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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137
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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138
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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139
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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140
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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141
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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142
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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143
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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144
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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145
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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146
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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147
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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148
expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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149
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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150
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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151
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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152
stipulates
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| n.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的名词复数 )；规定，明确要求v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的第三人称单数 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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153
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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154
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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155
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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156
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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157
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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158
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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159
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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160
conditionally
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| adv. 有条件地 | |
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161
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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162
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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163
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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164
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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165
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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166
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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167
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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168
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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169
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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170
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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171
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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172
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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173
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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174
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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175
pebbled
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| 用卵石铺（pebble的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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176
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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177
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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178
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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179
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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180
mete
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| v.分配；给予 | |
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181
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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182
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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183
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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184
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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185
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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186
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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187
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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188
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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