In the heart of the town was situated6 the banking-house of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin. It was an old-established and most respected firm, sound and wealthy. The third partner and second Godolphin, mentioned in it, was Thomas Godolphin, Sir George Godolphin’s eldest7 son. Until he joined it, it had been Godolphin and Crosse. It was a matter of arrangement, understood by Mr. Crosse, that when anything happened to Sir George, Thomas would step into his father’s place, as head of the firm, and George, whose name at present did not appear, though he had been long in the bank, would represent the last name; so that it would still remain Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin. Mr. Crosse, who, like Sir George, was getting in years, was remarkable8 for nothing but a close attention to business. He was a widower9, without children, and Prior’s Ash wondered who would be the better for the filling of his garners10.
The Godolphins could trace back to the ages of the monks. But of[10] no very high ancestry11 boasted they; no titles, places, or honours; they ranked among the landed gentry12 as owners of Ashlydyat, and that was all. It was quite enough for them: to be lords of Ashlydyat was an honour they would not have bartered13 for a dukedom. They held by Ashlydyat. It was their pride, their stronghold, their boast. Had feudal14 times been in fashion now, they would have dug a moat around it, and fenced it in with fortifications, and called it their castle. Why did they so love it? It was but a poor place at best; nothing to look at; and, in the matter of space inside, was somewhat straitened. Oak-panelled rooms, dark as mahogany and garnished15 with cross beams, low ceilings, and mullioned windows, are not the most consonant16 to modern taste. People thought that the Godolphins loved it from its associations and traditions; from the very fact that certain superstitions18 attached to it. Foolish superstitions, you will be inclined to call them, as contrasted with the enlightenment of these matter-of-fact days—I had almost said these days of materialism19.
Ashlydyat was not entailed21. There was a clause in the old deeds of tenure22 which prevented it. A wicked Godolphin (by which complimentary23 appellation24 his descendants distinguished25 him) had cut off the entail20, and gambled the estate away; and though the Godolphins recovered it again in the course of one or two lives, the entail was not renewed. It was now bequeathed from father to son, and was always the residence of the reigning26 Godolphin. Thomas Godolphin knew that it would become his on the death of his father, as surely as if he were the heir by entail. The late Mr. Godolphin, Sir George’s father, had lived and died in it. Sir George succeeded, and then he lived in it—with his wife and children. But he was not Sir George then: therefore, for a few minutes, while speaking of this part of his life; we will call him what he was—Mr. Godolphin. A pensive27, thoughtful woman was Mrs. Godolphin, never too strong in health. She was Scotch28 by birth. Of her children, Thomas and Janet most resembled her; Bessy was like no one but herself: George and Cecilia inherited the beauty of their father. There was considerable difference in the ages of the children, for they had numbered thirteen. Thomas was the eldest, Cecilia the youngest; Janet, Bessy, and George were between them; and the rest, who had also been between them, had died, most of them in infancy29. But, a moment yet, to give a word to the description of Ashlydyat, before speaking of the death of Mrs. Godolphin.
Passing out of Prior’s Ash towards the west, a turning to the left of the high-road took you to Ashlydyat. Built of greystone, and lying somewhat in a hollow, it wore altogether a gloomy appearance. And it was intensely ugly. A low building of two storeys, irregularly built, with gables and nooks and ins-and-outs of corners, and a square turret30 in the middle, which was good for nothing but the birds to build on. It wore a time-honoured look, though, with all its ugliness, and the moss31 grew, green and picturesque32, on its walls. Perhaps on the principle, or, let us say, by the subtle instinct of nature, that a mother loves a deformed33 child with a deeper affection than she feels for her other children, who are fair and sound of limb, did the Godolphins feel pride in their inheritance because it was ugly. But the grounds around it were beautiful, and the landscape, so much of it as could be seen[11] from that unelevated spot, was most grand to look upon. A full view might be obtained from the turret, though it was somewhat of a mount to get to it. Dark groves34, and bright undulating lawns, shady spots where the water rippled35, pleasant to bask36 in on a summer’s day, sunny parterres of gay flowers scenting37 the air; charming, indeed, were the environs of Ashlydyat. All, except one spot: and that had charms also for some minds—sombre ones.
In one part of the grounds there grew a great quantity of ash-trees—and it was supposed, though not known, that these trees may originally have suggested the name, Ashlydyat: as they most certainly had that of Prior’s Ash, given to the village by the monks. A few people wrote it in accordance with its pronunciation, Ash-lid-yat, but the old way of spelling it was retained by the family. As the village had swollen38 into a town, the ash-trees, growing there, were cleared away as necessity required; but the town was surrounded with them still.
Opposite to the ash-trees on the estate of Ashlydyat there extended a waste plain, totally out of keeping with the high cultivation39 around. It looked like a piece of rude common. Bushes of furze, broom, and other stunted40 shrubs42 grew upon it, none of them rising above the height of a two-year-old child. The description given by Charlotte Pain to George Godolphin was not an inapt one—that the place, with these stunted bushes on it, looked in the moonlight not unlike a graveyard43. At the extremity44, opposite to the ash-trees, there arose a high archway, a bridge built of greystone. It appeared to have formed part of an ancient fortification, but there was no trace of water having run beneath it. Beyond the archway was a low round building, looking like an isolated45 windmill without sails. It was built of greystone also, and was called the belfry: though there was as little sign of bells ever having been in it, as there was of water beneath the bridge. The archway had been kept from decay; the belfry had not, but was open in places to the heavens.
Strange to say, the appellation of this waste piece of land, with its wild bushes, was the “Dark Plain.” Why? The plain was not dark: it was not shaded: it stood out, broad and open, in the full glare of sunlight. That certain dark tales had been handed down with the appellation, is true: and these may have given rise to the name. Immediately before the archway, for some considerable, space, the ground was entirely46 bare. Not a blade of grass, not a shrub41 grew on it. Or, as the story went, would grow. It was on this spot that the appearance, the Shadow, as mentioned by Charlotte Pain, would be sometimes seen. Whence the Shadow came, whether it was ghostly or earthly, whether those learned in science and philosophy could account for it by Nature’s laws, whether it was cast by any gaseous47 vapour arising in the moonbeams, I am unable to say. If you ask me to explain it, I cannot. If you ask, why then do I write about it, I can only answer, because I have seen it. I have seen it with my own unprejudiced eyes; I have sat and watched it, in its strange stillness; I have looked about and around it, low down, high up, for some substance, ever so infinitesimal, that might cast its shade and enable me to account for it: and I have looked in vain. Had the moon been[12] behind the archway, instead of behind me, that might have furnished a loophole of explanation: a very poor and inefficient48 loophole; a curious one also: for how can an archway in the substance be a bier and two mourners in its shadow? but, still, better than none.
No; there was nothing whatever, so far as human eyes—and I can tell you that keen ones and sceptical ones have looked at it—to cast the shade, or to account for it. There, as you sat and watched, stretched out the plain in the moonlight, with its low, tomb-like bushes, its clear space of bare land, the archway rising behind it. But, on the spot of bare land, before the archway, would rise the Shadow; not looking as if it were a shadow cast on the ground, but a palpable fact: as if a bier, with its two bending mourners, actually stood there in the substance. I say that I cannot explain it, or attempt to explain it; but I do say that there it was to be seen. Not often: sometimes not for years together. It was called the Shadow of Ashlydyat: and superstition17 told that its appearance foreshadowed the approach of calamity49, whether of death or other evil, to the Godolphins. The greater the evil that was coming upon them, the plainer and more distinct would be the appearance of the Shadow—the longer the space of time that it would be observed. Rumour50 went, that once, on the approach of some terrible misfortune, it had been seen for months and months before, whenever the moon was sufficiently51 bright. The Godolphins did not care to have the subject mentioned to them: in their scepticism, they (some of them, at least) treated it with ridicule52, or else with silence. But, like disbelievers of a different sort, the scepticism was more in profession than in heart. The Godolphins, in their inmost soul, would cower53 at the appearance of that shadowed bier; as those others have been known to cower, in their anguish54, at the approach of the shadow of death.
This was not all the superstition attaching to Ashlydyat: but you will probably deem this quite enough for the present. And we have to return to Mrs. Godolphin.
Five years before the present time, when pretty Cecilia was in her fifteenth year, and most needed the guidance of a mother, Mrs. Godolphin died. Her illness had been of a lingering nature; little hope in it, from the first. It was towards the latter period of her illness that what had been regarded by four-fifths of Prior’s Ash as an absurd child’s tale, a superstition unworthy the notice of the present-day men and women, grew to be talked of in whispers, as something “strange.” For three months antecedent to the death of Mrs. Godolphin, the Shadow of Ashlydyat was to be seen every light night, and all Prior’s Ash flocked up to look at it. That they went, is of no consequence: they had their walk and their gaze for their pains: but that Mrs. Godolphin should have been told of it, was. She was in the grounds alone one balmy moonlight night, later than she ought to have been, and she discerned people walking in them, making for the ash-trees.
“What can those people be doing here?” she exclaimed to one of her servants, who was returning to Ashlydyat from executing an errand in the town.
“It is to see the Shadow, ma’am,” whispered the girl, in answer, with more direct truth than prudence56.
[13]Mrs. Godolphin paused. “The Shadow!” she uttered. “Is the Shadow to be seen?”
“It has been there ever since last moon, ma’am. It never was so plain, they say.”
Mrs. Godolphin waited her opportunity, and, when the intruders had dispersed57, proceeded to the ash-trees. It is as well to observe that these ash-trees, and also the Dark Plain, though very near to the house, were not in the more private portion of the grounds.
Mrs. Godolphin proceeded to the ash-trees. An hour afterwards, her absence from the house was discovered, and they went out to search. It was her husband who found her. She pointed58 to the shadow, and spoke59.
“You will believe that my death is coming on quickly now, George.” But Mr. Godolphin turned it off with an attempt at joke, and told her she was old enough to know better.
Mrs. Godolphin died. Two years after, Mr. Godolphin came into contact with a wealthy young widow; young, as compared with himself: Mrs. Campbell. He met her in Scotland, at the residence of his first wife’s friends. She was English born, but her husband had been Scotch. Mr. Godolphin married her, and brought her to Ashlydyat. The step did not give pleasure to his children. When sons and daughters are of the age that the Godolphins were, a new wife, brought home to rule, rarely does give pleasure to the first family. Things did not go on very comfortably: there were faults on each side; on that of Mrs. Godolphin, and on that of her step-daughters. After a while, a change was made. Thomas Godolphin and his sisters went to reside in the house attached to the bank, a handsome modern residence hitherto occupied by Mr. Crosse. “You had better come here,” that gentleman had said to them: he was no stranger to the unpleasantness at Ashlydyat. “I will take up my abode60 in the country,” he continued. “I would prefer to do so. I am getting to feel older than I did twenty years ago, and country air may renovate61 me.”
The arrangement was carried out. Thomas Godolphin and his three sisters entered upon their residence in Prior’s Ash, Janet acting62 as mistress of the house, and as chaperon to her sisters. She was then past thirty: a sad, thoughtful woman, who lived much in the inward life.
Just about the time of this change, certain doings of local and public importance were enacted63 in the neighbourhood, in which Mr. Godolphin took a prominent share. There ensued a proposal to knight64 him. He started from it with aversion. His family started also: they and he alike despised these mushroom honours. Not so Mrs. Godolphin. From the moment that the first word of the suggestion was breathed to her, she determined65 that it should be carried out; for the appellation, my lady, was as incense66 in her ears. In vain Mr. Godolphin strove to argue with her: her influence was in the ascendant, and he lay under the spell. At length he yielded; and, though hot war raged in his heart, he bent67 his haughty68 knee at the court of St. James’s, and rose, up Sir George.
“After a storm comes a calm.” A proverb pleasant to remember in some of the sharp storms of life. Mrs. Godolphin had carried her[14] point in being too many for her step-daughters; she had triumphed over opposition69 and become my lady; and now she settled down in calmness at Ashlydyat. But she grew dissatisfied. She was a woman who had no resources within herself, who lived only in excitement, and Ashlydyat’s quietness overwhelmed her with ennui70. She did not join in the love of the Godolphins for Ashlydyat. Mr. Godolphin, ere he had brought her home to it, a bride, had spoken so warmly of the place, in his attachment71 to it, that she had believed she was about to step into some modern paradise: instead of which, she found, as she expressed it, a “cranky old house, full of nothing but passages.” The dislike she formed for it in that early moment never was overcome.
She would beguile72 her husband to her own pretty place in Berwickshire; and, just at first, he was willing to be beguiled73. But after he became Sir George (not that the title had anything to do with it) public local business grew upon him, and he found it inconvenient74 to quit Ashlydyat. He explained this to Lady Godolphin: and said their sojourn75 in Scotland must be confined to an autumn visit. So she perforce dragged out her days at Ashlydyat, idle and listless.
We warn our children that idleness is the root of all evil; that it will infallibly lead into mischief76 those who indulge in it. It so led Lady Godolphin. One day, as she was looking from her drawing-room windows, wishing all sorts of things. That she lived in her pleasant home in Berwickshire; that she could live amidst the gaieties of London; that Ashlydyat was not such a horrid77 old place; that it was more modern and less ugly; that its reception-rooms were lofty, and garnished with gilding78 and glitter, instead of being low, gloomy, and grim; and that it was situated on an eminence79, instead of on a flat, so that a better view of the lovely scenery around might be obtained. On that gentle rise, opposite, for instance—what would be more enchanting80 than to enjoy a constant view from thence? If Ashlydyat could be transported there, as they carry out wooden houses to set up abroad; or, if only that one room, she then stood in, could, with its windows——
Lady Godolphin’s thoughts arrested themselves here. An idea had flashed upon her. Why should she not build a pretty summer-house on that hill; a pavilion? The Countess of Cavemore, in this very county, had done such a thing: had built a pavilion on a hill within view of the windows of Cavemore House, and had called it “Lady Cavemore’s Folly81.” Only the week before, she, Lady Godolphin, in driving past it, had thought what a pretty place it looked; what a charming prospect82 must be obtained from it. Why should she not do the same?
The idea grew into shape and form. It would not leave her again. She had plenty of money of her own, and she would work out her “Folly” to the very top of its bent.
To the top of its bent, indeed! None can tell what a thing will grow into when it is first begun. Lady Godolphin made known her project to Sir George, who, though he saw no particular need for the work, did not object to it. If Lady Godolphin chose to spend money in that way, she might do so. So it was put in hand. Architects, builders, decorators were called together; and the Folly was planned[15] out and begun. Lady Godolphin had done with ennui now; she found employment for her days, in watching the progress of the pavilion.
It is said that the consummation of our schemes generally brings with it a share of disappointment. It did so in this instance to Lady Godolphin. The Folly turned out to be a really pretty place; the views from its windows magnificent; and Lady Godolphin was as enchanted83 as a child with a new toy. The disappointment arose from the fact that she could not make the Folly her home. After spending a morning in it, or an evening, she must leave it to return to that grey Ashlydyat—the only eyesore to be seen, when gazing from the Folly’s windows. If a day turned out wet, she could not walk to the Folly; if she was expecting visitors she must stay at home to receive them; if Sir George felt ill—and his health was then beginning to suffer—she could not leave him for her darling Folly. It was darling because it was new: in six months’ time, Lady Godolphin would have grown tired of it; have rarely entered it: but in her present mood, it was all-in-all to her.
Slowly she formed the resolution to enlarge the Folly—slowly for her, for she deliberated upon it for two whole days. She would add “a reception-room or two,” “a bedroom or two,” “a kitchen,” so that she might be enabled, when she chose to do so, to take up her abode in it for a week. And these additions were begun.
But they did not end; did not end as she had intended. As the Folly grew, so grew the ideas of Lady Godolphin: there must be a suite84 of reception-rooms, there must be several bedrooms, there must be domestic offices in proportion. Sir George told her that she would spend a fortune upon it; my lady answered that, at any rate, she should have something to show for the outlay85.
At length it was completed: and Lady Godolphin’s Folly—for it retained its appellation—stood out to the view of Prior’s Ash, which it overlooked; to the view of Ashlydyat; to the view of the country generally, as a fair, moderate-sized, attractive residence, built in the villa3 style, its white walls dazzling the eye when the sun shone upon them.
“We will reside there, and let Ashlydyat,” said Lady Godolphin to her husband.
“Reside at the Folly! Leave Ashlydyat!” he repeated, in consternation86. “It could not be.”
“It will be,” she added, with a half self-willed, half-caressing laugh. “Why could it not be?”
Sir George fell into a reverie. He admired the modern conveniences of the Folly, greatly admired the lovely scenery, that, look from which room of it he would, charmed his eye. But for one thing, he had been content to do as she wished, and go to live there. That one thing—what was it? Hear the low-breathed, reluctant words he is beginning to say to Lady Godolphin.
“There is an old tradition in our family—a superstition I suppose you will call it—that if the Godolphins leave Ashlydyat, their ruin is at hand.”
Lady Godolphin stared at him in amazement87. Nothing had surprised her on her arrival at Ashlydyat, like the stories of marvel88 which she had[16] been obliged to hear. Sir George had cast ridicule on them, if alluded89 to in his presence; therefore, when the above words dropped from him, she could only wonder. You might search a town through and not find one less prone90 to superstition than was Lady Godolphin: in all that belonged to it, she was a very heathen. Sir George hastened to explain away his words.
“The tradition is nothing, and I regard it as nothing. That such a one has been handed down is certain, and it may have given rise to the reluctance91, which the early Godolphins entertained, to quit Ashlydyat. But that is not our reason: in remaining in it, we only obey a father’s behest. You are aware that Ashlydyat is not entailed. It is bequeathed by will from father to son; and to the bequest92 in each will, so far as I have cognizance of the past wills, there has always been appended a clause—a request—I should best say an injunction—never to quit Ashlydyat. ‘When once you shall have come into possession of Ashlydyat, guard it as your stronghold: resign it neither to your heir nor to a stranger: remain in it until death shall take you.’ It was inserted in my father’s will, by which Ashlydyat became mine: it is inserted in mine, which devises the estate to Thomas.”
“If ever I heard so absurd a story!” uttered Lady Godolphin in her pretty childish manner. “Do I understand you to say that, if you left Ashlydyat to take up your abode elsewhere, it would be no longer yours?”
“Not that, not that,” returned Sir George. “Ashlydyat is mine until my death, and no power can take it from me. But a reluctance to leave Ashlydyat has always clung to the Godolphins: in fact, we have looked upon it as a step impossible to be taken.”
“Pardon me. We love Ashlydyat. To remain in it is pleasant; to leave it would be pain. I speak of the Godolphins in general; of those who have preceded me.”
“I understand now,” said Lady Godolphin resentfully. “You hold a superstition that if you were to leave Ashlydyat for the Folly, some dreadful doom94 would overtake you. Sir George, I thought we lived in the nineteenth century.”
A passing flush rose to the face of Sir George Godolphin. To be suspected of leaning to these superstitions chafed95 his mind unbearably96; he had almost rather be accused of dishonour97: not to his own heart would he admit that they might have weight with him. “Ashlydyat is our homestead,” he said, “and when a man has a homestead, he likes to live and die in it.”
“You cannot think Ashlydyat so desirable a residence as the Folly. We must remove to the Folly, Sir George; I have set my heart upon it. Let Thomas and his sisters come back to Ashlydyat.”
“They would not come.”
“Not come! They were inwardly rebellious98 enough at having to leave it.”
“I am sure that Thomas would not take up his residence here, as the master of Ashlydyat, during my lifetime. Another thing: we should not be justified99 in keeping up two expensive establishments outside the town, leaving the house at the bank to lie idle. People might lose confidence in us, if they saw us launching forth100 into extravagance.”
[17]“Oh, indeed! What did they think of the expense launched upon the Folly?” mockingly smiled my lady.
“They know it is your money which has built that: not mine.”
“If Thomas and the rest came to Ashlydyat you might let the house attached to the bank.”
“It would take a great deal more money to keep up Ashlydyat than it does the house at the bank. The public might lose confidence in us, I say. Besides, no one but a partner could be allowed to live at the bank.”
“You seem to find an answer to all my propositions,” said Lady Godolphin, in her softest and sweetest, and least true tone; “but I warn you, Sir George, that I shall win you over to my way of thinking before the paper shall be dry on the Folly’s walls. If Thomas cannot, or will not, live at Ashlydyat, you must let it.”
In every tittle did Lady Godolphin carry out her words. Almost before the Folly’s embellishments were matured to receive them, Sir George was won over to live at it: and Ashlydyat was advertised to be let. Thomas Godolphin would not have become its master in his father’s lifetime had Sir George filled its rooms with gold as a bribe101. His mother had contrived102 to imbue103 him with some of the Ashlydyat superstition—to which she had lived a slave—and Thomas, though he did not bow down to it, would not brave it. If ruin was to come—as some religiously believed—when a reigning Godolphin voluntarily abandoned Ashlydyat, Thomas, at least, would not help it on by taking part in the step. So Ashlydyat, to the intense astonishment104 of Prior’s Ash, was put up in the market for hire.
It was taken by a Mr. Verrall; a gentleman from London. Prior’s Ash knew nothing of him, except that he was fond of field sports, and appeared to be a man of money: but, the fact of his establishing himself at Ashlydyat, stamped him, in their estimation, as one worthy55 to be courted. His wife was a pretty, fascinating woman; her sister, Miss Pain, was beautiful; their entertainments were good, their style was dashing, and they became the fashion in the neighbourhood.
But, from the very first day that the step was mooted105 of Sir George Godolphin’s taking up his residence at the Folly, until that of his removal thither106, the Shadow had hovered107 over the Dark Plain at Ashlydyat.
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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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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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garners
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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30
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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31
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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37
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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38
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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41
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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42
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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43
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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46
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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gaseous
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| adj.气体的，气态的 | |
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48
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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49
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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52
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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53
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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54
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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59
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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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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renovate
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| vt.更新，革新，刷新 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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79
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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81
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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83
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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84
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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85
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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86
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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87
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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88
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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89
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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92
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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93
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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94
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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95
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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96
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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97
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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98
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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99
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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100
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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101
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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102
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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103
imbue
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| v.灌输(某种强烈的情感或意见)，感染 | |
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104
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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105
mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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107
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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