Mr. Henry came himself to the door to welcome me: a tall dark young gentleman (the Duries are all black men) of a plain and not cheerful face, very strong in body, but not so strong in health: taking me by the hand without any pride, and putting me at home with plain kind speeches. He led me into the hall, booted as I was, to present me to my lord. It was still daylight; and the first thing I observed was a lozenge of clear glass in the midst of the shield in the painted window, which I remember thinking a blemish9 on a room otherwise so handsome, with its family portraits, and the pargeted ceiling with pendants, and the carved chimney, in one corner of which my old lord sat reading in his Livy. He was like Mr. Henry, with much the same plain countenance10, only more subtle and pleasant, and his talk a thousand times more entertaining. He had many questions to ask me, I remember, of Edinburgh College, where I had just received my mastership of arts, and of the various professors, with whom and their proficiency11 he seemed well acquainted; and thus, talking of things that I knew, I soon got liberty of speech in my new home.
In the midst of this came Mrs. Henry into the room; she was very far gone, Miss Katharine being due in about six weeks, which made me think less of her beauty at the first sight; and she used me with more of condescension12 than the rest; so that, upon all accounts, I kept her in the third place of my esteem13.
It did not take long before all Patey Macmorland’s tales were blotted14 out of my belief, and I was become, what I have ever since remained, a loving servant of the house of Durrisdeer. Mr. Henry had the chief part of my affection. It was with him I worked; and I found him an exacting15 master, keeping all his kindness for those hours in which we were unemployed16, and in the steward17’s office not only loading me with work, but viewing me with a shrewd supervision18. At length one day he looked up from his paper with a kind of timidness, and says he, “Mr. Mackellar, I think I ought to tell you that you do very well.” That was my first word of commendation; and from that day his jealousy19 of my performance was relaxed; soon it was “Mr. Mackellar” here, and “Mr. Mackellar” there, with the whole family; and for much of my service at Durrisdeer, I have transacted20 everything at my own time, and to my own fancy, and never a farthing challenged. Even while he was driving me, I had begun to find my heart go out to Mr. Henry; no doubt, partly in pity, he was a man so palpably unhappy. He would fall into a deep muse21 over our accounts, staring at the page or out of the window; and at those times the look of his face, and the sigh that would break from him, awoke in me strong feelings of curiosity and commiseration22. One day, I remember, we were late upon some business in the steward’s room.
This room is in the top of the house, and has a view upon the bay, and over a little wooded cape23, on the long sands; and there, right over against the sun, which was then dipping, we saw the freetraders, with a great force of men and horses, scouring24 on the beach. Mr. Henry had been staring straight west, so that I marvelled25 he was not blinded by the sun; suddenly he frowns, rubs his hand upon his brow, and turns to me with a smile.
“You would not guess what I was thinking,” says he. “I was thinking I would be a happier man if I could ride and run the danger of my life, with these lawless companions.”
I told him I had observed he did not enjoy good spirits; and that it was a common fancy to envy others and think we should be the better of some change; quoting Horace to the point, like a young man fresh from college.
“Why, just so,” said he. “And with that we may get back to our accounts.”
It was not long before I began to get wind of the causes that so much depressed26 him. Indeed a blind man must have soon discovered there was a shadow on that house, the shadow of the Master of Ballantrae. Dead or alive (and he was then supposed to be dead) that man was his brother’s rival: his rival abroad, where there was never a good word for Mr. Henry, and nothing but regret and praise for the Master; and his rival at home, not only with his father and his wife, but with the very servants.
They were two old serving-men that were the leaders. John Paul, a little, bald, solemn, stomachy man, a great professor of piety27 and (take him for all in all) a pretty faithful servant, was the chief of the Master’s faction28. None durst go so far as John. He took a pleasure in disregarding Mr. Henry publicly, often with a slighting comparison. My lord and Mrs. Henry took him up, to be sure, but never so resolutely29 as they should; and he had only to pull his weeping face and begin his lamentations for the Master—“his laddie,” as he called him—to have the whole condoned30. As for Henry, he let these things pass in silence, sometimes with a sad and sometimes with a black look. There was no rivalling the dead, he knew that; and how to censure31 an old serving-man for a fault of loyalty32, was more than he could see. His was not the tongue to do it.
Macconochie was chief upon the other side; an old, ill-spoken, swearing, ranting35, drunken dog; and I have often thought it an odd circumstance in human nature that these two serving-men should each have been the champion of his contrary, and blackened their own faults and made light of their own virtues36 when they beheld them in a master. Macconochie had soon smelled out my secret inclination37, took me much into his confidence, and would rant34 against the Master by the hour, so that even my work suffered. “They’re a’ daft here,” he would cry, “and be damned to them! The Master—the deil’s in their thrapples that should call him sae! it’s Mr. Henry should be master now! They were nane sae fond o’ the Master when they had him, I’ll can tell ye that. Sorrow on his name! Never a guid word did I hear on his lips, nor naebody else, but just fleering and flyting and profane38 cursing—deil hae him! There’s nane kent his wickedness: him a gentleman! Did ever ye hear tell, Mr. Mackellar, o’ Wully White the wabster? No? Aweel, Wully was an unco praying kind o’ man; a dreigh body, nane o’ my kind, I never could abide39 the sight o’ him; onyway he was a great hand by his way of it, and he up and rebukit the Master for some of his on-goings. It was a grand thing for the Master o’ Ball’ntrae to tak up a feud40 wi’ a’ wabster, wasnae’t?” Macconochie would sneer41; indeed, he never took the full name upon his lips but with a sort of a whine42 of hatred43. “But he did! A fine employ it was: chapping at the man’s door, and crying ‘boo’ in his lum, and puttin’ poother in his fire, and pee-oys [1] in his window; till the man thocht it was auld44 Hornie was come seekin’ him. Weel, to mak a lang story short, Wully gaed gyte. At the hinder end, they couldnae get him frae his knees, but he just roared and prayed and grat straucht on, till he got his release. It was fair murder, a’body said that. Ask John Paul—he was brawly ashamed o’ that game, him that’s sic a Christian45 man! Grand doin’s for the Master o’ Ball’ntrae!” I asked him what the Master had thought of it himself. “How would I ken3?” says he. “He never said naething.” And on again in his usual manner of banning and swearing, with every now and again a “Master of Ballantrae” sneered46 through his nose. It was in one of these confidences that he showed me the Carlisle letter, the print of the horse-shoe still stamped in the paper. Indeed, that was our last confidence; for he then expressed himself so ill-naturedly of Mrs. Henry that I had to reprimand him sharply, and must thenceforth hold him at a distance.
My old lord was uniformly kind to Mr. Henry; he had even pretty ways of gratitude48, and would sometimes clap him on the shoulder and say, as if to the world at large: “This is a very good son to me.” And grateful he was, no doubt, being a man of sense and justice. But I think that was all, and I am sure Mr. Henry thought so. The love was all for the dead son. Not that this was often given breath to; indeed, with me but once. My lord had asked me one day how I got on with Mr. Henry, and I had told him the truth.
“Ay,” said he, looking sideways on the burning fire, “Henry is a good lad, a very good lad,” said he. “You have heard, Mr. Mackellar, that I had another son? I am afraid he was not so virtuous49 a lad as Mr. Henry; but dear me, he’s dead, Mr. Mackellar! and while he lived we were all very proud of him, all very proud. If he was not all he should have been in some ways, well, perhaps we loved him better!” This last he said looking musingly50 in the fire; and then to me, with a great deal of briskness51, “But I am rejoiced you do so well with Mr. Henry. You will find him a good master.” And with that he opened his book, which was the customary signal of dismission. But it would be little that he read, and less that he understood; Culloden field and the Master, these would be the burthen of his thought; and the burthen of mine was an unnatural52 jealousy of the dead man for Mr. Henry’s sake, that had even then begun to grow on me.
I am keeping Mrs. Henry for the last, so that this expression of my sentiment may seem unwarrantably strong: the reader shall judge for himself when I have done. But I must first tell of another matter, which was the means of bringing me more intimate. I had not yet been six months at Durrisdeer when it chanced that John Paul fell sick and must keep his bed; drink was the root of his malady53, in my poor thought; but he was tended, and indeed carried himself, like an afflicted54 saint; and the very minister, who came to visit him, professed55 himself edified56 when he went away. The third morning of his sickness, Mr. Henry comes to me with something of a hang-dog look.
“Mackellar,” says he, “I wish I could trouble you upon a little service. There is a pension we pay; it is John’s part to carry it, and now that he is sick I know not to whom I should look unless it was yourself. The matter is very delicate; I could not carry it with my own hand for a sufficient reason; I dare not send Macconochie, who is a talker, and I am—I have—I am desirous this should not come to Mrs. Henry’s ears,” says he, and flushed to his neck as he said it.
To say truth, when I found I was to carry money to one Jessie Broun, who was no better than she should be, I supposed it was some trip of his own that Mr. Henry was dissembling. I was the more impressed when the truth came out.
It was up a wynd off a side street in St. Bride’s that Jessie had her lodging57. The place was very ill inhabited, mostly by the freetrading sort. There was a man with a broken head at the entry; half-way up, in a tavern58, fellows were roaring and singing, though it was not yet nine in the day. Altogether, I had never seen a worse neighbourhood, even in the great city of Edinburgh, and I was in two minds to go back. Jessie’s room was of a piece with her surroundings, and herself no better. She would not give me the receipt (which Mr. Henry had told me to demand, for he was very methodical) until she had sent out for spirits, and I had pledged her in a glass; and all the time she carried on in a light-headed, reckless way—now aping the manners of a lady, now breaking into unseemly mirth, now making coquettish advances that oppressed me to the ground. Of the money she spoke33 more tragically59.
“It’s blood money!” said she; “I take it for that: blood money for the betrayed! See what I’m brought down to! Ah, if the bonnie lad were back again, it would be changed days. But he’s deid—he’s lyin’ deid amang the Hieland hills—the bonnie lad, the bonnie lad!”
She had a rapt manner of crying on the bonnie lad, clasping her hands and casting up her eyes, that I think she must have learned of strolling players; and I thought her sorrow very much of an affectation, and that she dwelled upon the business because her shame was now all she had to be proud of. I will not say I did not pity her, but it was a loathing61 pity at the best; and her last change of manner wiped it out. This was when she had had enough of me for an audience, and had set her name at last to the receipt. “There!” says she, and taking the most unwomanly oaths upon her tongue, bade me begone and carry it to the Judas who had sent me. It was the first time I had heard the name applied62 to Mr. Henry; I was staggered besides at her sudden vehemence63 of word and manner, and got forth47 from the room, under this shower of curses, like a beaten dog. But even then I was not quit, for the vixen threw up her window, and, leaning forth, continued to revile64 me as I went up the wynd; the freetraders, coming to the tavern door, joined in the mockery, and one had even the inhumanity to set upon me a very savage65 small dog, which bit me in the ankle. This was a strong lesson, had I required one, to avoid ill company; and I rode home in much pain from the bite and considerable indignation of mind.
Mr. Henry was in the steward’s room, affecting employment, but I could see he was only impatient to hear of my errand.
“Well?” says he, as soon as I came in; and when I had told him something of what passed, and that Jessie seemed an undeserving woman and far from grateful: “She is no friend to me,” said he; “but, indeed, Mackellar, I have few friends to boast of, and Jessie has some cause to be unjust. I need not dissemble what all the country knows: she was not very well used by one of our family.” This was the first time I had heard him refer to the Master even distantly; and I think he found his tongue rebellious66 even for that much, but presently he resumed—“This is why I would have nothing said. It would give pain to Mrs. Henry . . . and to my father,” he added, with another flush.
“Mr. Henry,” said I, “if you will take a freedom at my hands, I would tell you to let that woman be. What service is your money to the like of her? She has no sobriety and no economy—as for gratitude, you will as soon get milk from a whinstone; and if you will pretermit your bounty67, it will make no change at all but just to save the ankles of your messengers.”
Mr. Henry smiled. “But I am grieved about your ankle,” said he, the next moment, with a proper gravity.
“And observe,” I continued, “I give you this advice upon consideration; and yet my heart was touched for the woman in the beginning.”
“Why, there it is, you see!” said Mr. Henry. “And you are to remember that I knew her once a very decent lass. Besides which, although I speak little of my family, I think much of its repute.”
And with that he broke up the talk, which was the first we had together in such confidence. But the same afternoon I had the proof that his father was perfectly68 acquainted with the business, and that it was only from his wife that Mr. Henry kept it secret.
“I fear you had a painful errand to-day,” says my lord to me, “for which, as it enters in no way among your duties, I wish to thank you, and to remind you at the same time (in case Mr. Henry should have neglected) how very desirable it is that no word of it should reach my daughter. Reflections on the dead, Mr. Mackellar, are doubly painful.”
Anger glowed in my heart; and I could have told my lord to his face how little he had to do, bolstering69 up the image of the dead in Mrs. Henry’s heart, and how much better he were employed to shatter that false idol70; for by this time I saw very well how the land lay between my patron and his wife.
My pen is clear enough to tell a plain tale; but to render the effect of an infinity71 of small things, not one great enough in itself to be narrated72; and to translate the story of looks, and the message of voices when they are saying no great matter; and to put in half a page the essence of near eighteen months—this is what I despair to accomplish. The fault, to be very blunt, lay all in Mrs. Henry. She felt it a merit to have consented to the marriage, and she took it like a martyrdom; in which my old lord, whether he knew it or not, fomented73 her. She made a merit, besides, of her constancy to the dead, though its name, to a nicer conscience, should have seemed rather disloyalty to the living; and here also my lord gave her his countenance. I suppose he was glad to talk of his loss, and ashamed to dwell on it with Mr. Henry. Certainly, at least, he made a little coterie74 apart in that family of three, and it was the husband who was shut out. It seems it was an old custom when the family were alone in Durrisdeer, that my lord should take his wine to the chimney-side, and Miss Alison, instead of withdrawing, should bring a stool to his knee, and chatter75 to him privately76; and after she had become my patron’s wife the same manner of doing was continued. It should have been pleasant to behold77 this ancient gentleman so loving with his daughter, but I was too much a partisan78 of Mr. Henry’s to be anything but wroth at his exclusion79. Many’s the time I have seen him make an obvious resolve, quit the table, and go and join himself to his wife and my Lord Durrisdeer; and on their part, they were never backward to make him welcome, turned to him smilingly as to an intruding80 child, and took him into their talk with an effort so ill-concealed that he was soon back again beside me at the table, whence (so great is the hall of Durrisdeer) we could but hear the murmur81 of voices at the chimney. There he would sit and watch, and I along with him; and sometimes by my lord’s head sorrowfully shaken, or his hand laid on Mrs. Henry’s head, or hers upon his knee as if in consolation82, or sometimes by an exchange of tearful looks, we would draw our conclusion that the talk had gone to the old subject and the shadow of the dead was in the hall.
I have hours when I blame Mr. Henry for taking all too patiently; yet we are to remember he was married in pity, and accepted his wife upon that term. And, indeed, he had small encouragement to make a stand. Once, I remember, he announced he had found a man to replace the pane83 of the stained window, which, as it was he that managed all the business, was a thing clearly within his attributions. But to the Master’s fancies, that pane was like a relic84; and on the first word of any change, the blood flew to Mrs. Henry’s face.
“I wonder at you!” she cried.
“I wonder at myself,” says Mr. Henry, with more of bitterness than I had ever heard him to express.
Thereupon my old lord stepped in with his smooth talk, so that before the meal was at an end all seemed forgotten; only that, after dinner, when the pair had withdrawn85 as usual to the chimney-side, we could see her weeping with her head upon his knee. Mr. Henry kept up the talk with me upon some topic of the estates—he could speak of little else but business, and was never the best of company; but he kept it up that day with more continuity, his eye straying ever and again to the chimney, and his voice changing to another key, but without check of delivery. The pane, however, was not replaced; and I believe he counted it a great defeat.
Whether he was stout86 enough or no, God knows he was kind enough. Mrs. Henry had a manner of condescension with him, such as (in a wife) would have pricked87 my vanity into an ulcer88; he took it like a favour. She held him at the staff’s end; forgot and then remembered and unbent to him, as we do to children; burthened him with cold kindness; reproved him with a change of colour and a bitten lip, like one shamed by his disgrace: ordered him with a look of the eye, when she was off her guard; when she was on the watch, pleaded with him for the most natural attentions, as though they were unheard-of favours. And to all this he replied with the most unwearied service, loving, as folk say, the very ground she trod on, and carrying that love in his eyes as bright as a lamp. When Miss Katharine was to be born, nothing would serve but he must stay in the room behind the head of the bed. There he sat, as white (they tell me) as a sheet, and the sweat dropping from his brow; and the handkerchief he had in his hand was crushed into a little ball no bigger than a musket-bullet. Nor could he bear the sight of Miss Katharine for many a day; indeed, I doubt if he was ever what he should have been to my young lady; for the which want of natural feeling he was loudly blamed.
Such was the state of this family down to the 7th April, 1749, when there befell the first of that series of events which were to break so many hearts and lose so many lives.
On that day I was sitting in my room a little before supper, when John Paul burst open the door with no civility of knocking, and told me there was one below that wished to speak with the steward; sneering89 at the name of my office.
I asked what manner of man, and what his name was; and this disclosed the cause of John’s ill-humour; for it appeared the visitor refused to name himself except to me, a sore affront90 to the major-domo’s consequence.
“Well,” said I, smiling a little, “I will see what he wants.”
I found in the entrance hall a big man, very plainly habited, and wrapped in a sea-cloak, like one new landed, as indeed he was. Not, far off Macconochie was standing91, with his tongue out of his mouth and his hand upon his chin, like a dull fellow thinking hard; and the stranger, who had brought his cloak about his face, appeared uneasy. He had no sooner seen me coming than he went to meet me with an effusive92 manner.
“My dear man,” said he, “a thousand apologies for disturbing you, but I’m in the most awkward position. And there’s a son of a ramrod there that I should know the looks of, and more betoken93 I believe that he knows mine. Being in this family, sir, and in a place of some responsibility (which was the cause I took the liberty to send for you), you are doubtless of the honest party?”
“You may be sure at least,” says I, “that all of that party are quite safe in Durrisdeer.”
“My dear man, it is my very thought,” says he. “You see, I have just been set on shore here by a very honest man, whose name I cannot remember, and who is to stand off and on for me till morning, at some danger to himself; and, to be clear with you, I am a little concerned lest it should be at some to me. I have saved my life so often, Mr. —, I forget your name, which is a very good one—that, faith, I would be very loath60 to lose it after all. And the son of a ramrod, whom I believe I saw before Carlisle . . . ”
“Oh, sir,” said I, “you can trust Macconochie until to-morrow.”
“Well, and it’s a delight to hear you say so,” says the stranger. “The truth is that my name is not a very suitable one in this country of Scotland. With a gentleman like you, my dear man, I would have no concealments of course; and by your leave I’ll just breathe it in your ear. They call me Francis Burke—Colonel Francis Burke; and I am here, at a most damnable risk to myself, to see your masters—if you’ll excuse me, my good man, for giving them the name, for I’m sure it’s a circumstance I would never have guessed from your appearance. And if you would just be so very obliging as to take my name to them, you might say that I come bearing letters which I am sure they will be very rejoiced to have the reading of.”
Colonel Francis Burke was one of the Prince’s Irishmen, that did his cause such an infinity of hurt, and were so much distasted of the Scots at the time of the rebellion; and it came at once into my mind, how the Master of Ballantrae had astonished all men by going with that party. In the same moment a strong foreboding of the truth possessed94 my soul.
“And I am sure it’s very good of you, Mr. What-is-your-name,” says the Colonel.
Up to the hall I went, slow-footed. There they were, all three—my old lord in his place, Mrs. Henry at work by the window, Mr. Henry (as was much his custom) pacing the low end. In the midst was the table laid for supper. I told them briefly96 what I had to say. My old lord lay back in his seat. Mrs. Henry sprang up standing with a mechanical motion, and she and her husband stared at each other’s eyes across the room; it was the strangest, challenging look these two exchanged, and as they looked, the colour faded in their faces. Then Mr. Henry turned to me; not to speak, only to sign with his finger; but that was enough, and I went down again for the Colonel.
When we returned, these three were in much the same position I same left them in; I believe no word had passed.
“My Lord Durrisdeer, no doubt?” says the Colonel, bowing, and my lord bowed in answer. “And this,” continues the Colonel, “should be the Master of Ballantrae?”
“I have never taken that name,” said Mr. Henry; “but I am Henry Durie, at your service.”
Then the Colonel turns to Mrs. Henry, bowing with his hat upon his heart and the most killing97 airs of gallantry. “There can be no mistake about so fine a figure of a lady,” says he. “I address the seductive Miss Alison, of whom I have so often heard?”
Once more husband and wife exchanged a look.
“I am Mrs. Henry Durie,” said she; “but before my marriage my name was Alison Graeme.”
Then my lord spoke up. “I am an old man, Colonel Burke,” said he, “and a frail98 one. It will be mercy on your part to be expeditious99. Do you bring me news of—” he hesitated, and then the words broke from him with a singular change of voice—“my son?”
“My dear lord, I will be round with you like a soldier,” said the Colonel. “I do.”
My lord held out a wavering hand; he seemed to wave a signal, but whether it was to give him time or to speak on, was more than we could guess. At length he got out the one word, “Good?”
“Why, the very best in the creation!” cries the Colonel. “For my good friend and admired comrade is at this hour in the fine city of Paris, and as like as not, if I know anything of his habits, he will be drawing in his chair to a piece of dinner.—Bedad, I believe the lady’s fainting.”
Mrs. Henry was indeed the colour of death, and drooped100 against the window-frame. But when Mr. Henry made a movement as if to run to her, she straightened with a sort of shiver. “I am well,” she said, with her white lips.
Mr. Henry stopped, and his face had a strong twitch101 of anger. The next moment he had turned to the Colonel. “You must not blame yourself,” says he, “for this effect on Mrs. Durie. It is only natural; we were all brought up like brother and sister.”
Mrs. Henry looked at her husband with something like relief or even gratitude. In my way of thinking, that speech was the first step he made in her good graces.
“You must try to forgive me, Mrs. Durie, for indeed and I am just an Irish savage,” said the Colonel; “and I deserve to be shot for not breaking the matter more artistically102 to a lady. But here are the Master’s own letters; one for each of the three of you; and to be sure (if I know anything of my friend’s genius) he will tell his own story with a better grace.”
He brought the three letters forth as he spoke, arranged them by their superscriptions, presented the first to my lord, who took it greedily, and advanced towards Mrs. Henry holding out the second.
But the lady waved it back. “To my husband,” says she, with a choked voice.
The Colonel was a quick man, but at this he was somewhat nonplussed103. “To be sure!” says he; “how very dull of me! To be sure!” But he still held the letter.
At last Mr. Henry reached forth his hand, and there was nothing to be done but give it up. Mr. Henry took the letters (both hers and his own), and looked upon their outside, with his brows knit hard, as if he were thinking. He had surprised me all through by his excellent behaviour; but he was to excel himself now.
“Let me give you a hand to your room,” said he to his wife. “This has come something of the suddenest; and, at any rate, you will wish to read your letter by yourself.”
Again she looked upon him with the same thought of wonder; but he gave her no time, coming straight to where she stood. “It will be better so, believe me,” said he; “and Colonel Burke is too considerate not to excuse you.” And with that he took her hand by the fingers, and led her from the hall.
Mrs. Henry returned no more that night; and when Mr. Henry went to visit her next morning, as I heard long afterwards, she gave him the letter again, still unopened.
“Oh, read it and be done!” he had cried.
“Spare me that,” said she.
And by these two speeches, to my way of thinking, each undid104 a great part of what they had previously105 done well. But the letter, sure enough, came into my hands, and by me was burned, unopened.
To be very exact as to the adventures of the Master after Culloden, I wrote not long ago to Colonel Burke, now a Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis, begging him for some notes in writing, since I could scarce depend upon my memory at so great an interval106. To confess the truth, I have been somewhat embarrassed by his response; for he sent me the complete memoirs107 of his life, touching108 only in places on the Master; running to a much greater length than my whole story, and not everywhere (as it seems to me) designed for edification. He begged in his letter, dated from Ettenheim, that I would find a publisher for the whole, after I had made what use of it I required; and I think I shall best answer my own purpose and fulfil his wishes by printing certain parts of it in full. In this way my readers will have a detailed109, and, I believe, a very genuine account of some essential matters; and if any publisher should take a fancy to the Chevalier’s manner of narration110, he knows where to apply for the rest, of which there is plenty at his service. I put in my first extract here, so that it may stand in the place of what the Chevalier told us over our wine in the hall of Durrisdeer; but you are to suppose it was not the brutal111 fact, but a very varnished112 version that he offered to my lord.
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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commodiously
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blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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10
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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11
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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12
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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13
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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14
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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15
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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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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17
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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18
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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19
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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20
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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21
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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22
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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23
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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24
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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25
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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27
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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28
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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29
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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30
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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32
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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33
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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34
rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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35
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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36
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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37
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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38
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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39
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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40
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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41
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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42
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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43
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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44
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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45
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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46
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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48
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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49
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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50
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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51
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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52
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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53
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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54
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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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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56
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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58
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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59
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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60
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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61
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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62
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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63
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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64
revile
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| v.辱骂，谩骂 | |
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65
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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66
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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67
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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68
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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69
bolstering
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| v.支持( bolster的现在分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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70
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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71
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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72
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
fomented
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| v.激起，煽动（麻烦等）( foment的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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75
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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76
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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77
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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78
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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79
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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80
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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81
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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82
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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83
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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84
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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85
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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87
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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88
ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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89
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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90
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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91
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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92
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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93
betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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94
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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95
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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96
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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97
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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98
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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99
expeditious
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| adj.迅速的，敏捷的 | |
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100
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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101
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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102
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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103
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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105
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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106
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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107
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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108
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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109
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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110
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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111
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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112
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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