Mr. Sheldon’s visitors arrived in due course. They were provincial1 people of the middle class, accounted monstrously2 genteel in their own neighbourhood, but in nowise resembling Londoners of the same rank.
Mr. Thomas Halliday was a big, loud-spoken, good-tempered Yorkshireman, who had inherited a comfortable little estate from a plodding3, money-making father, and for whom life had been very easy. He was a farmer, and nothing but a farmer; a man for whom the supremest pleasure of existence was a cattle-show or a country horse-fair. The farm upon which he had been born and brought up was situated5 about six miles from Barlingford, and all the delights of his boyhood and youth were associated with that small market town. He and the two Sheldons had been schoolfellows, and afterwards boon6 companions, taking such pleasure as was obtainable in Barlingford together; flirting7 with the same provincial beauties at prim8 tea-parties in the winter, and getting up friendly picnics in the summer — picnics at which eating and drinking were the leading features of the day’s entertainment. Mr. Halliday had always regarded George and Philip Sheldon with that reverential admiration9 which a stupid man, who is conscious of his own mental inferiority, generally feels for a clever friend and companion. But he was also fully10 aware of the advantage which a rich man possesses over a poor one, and would not have exchanged the fertile acres of Hyley for the intellectual gifts of his schoolfellows. He had found the substantial value of his comfortably furnished house and well-stocked farm when he and his friend Philip Sheldon became suitors for the hand of Georgina Cradock, youngest daughter of a Barlingford attorney, who lived next door to the Barlingford dentist, Philip Sheldon’s father. Philip and the girl had been playfellows in the long-walled gardens behind the two houses, and there had been a brotherly and sisterly intimacy11 between the juvenile12 members of the two families. But when Philip and Georgina met at the Barlingford tea-parties in later years, the parental13 powers frowned upon any renewal14 of that childish friendship. Miss Cradock had no portion, and the worthy15 solicitor16 her father was a prudent17 man, who was apt to look for the promise of domestic happiness in the plate-basket and the linen-press, rather than for such superficial qualifications as black whiskers and white teeth. So poor Philip was “thrown over the bridge,” as he said himself, and Georgy Cradock married Mr. Halliday, with all attendant ceremony and splendour, according to the “lights” of Barlingford gentry18.
But this provincial bride’s story was no passionate19 record of anguish20 and tears. The Barlingford Juliet had liked Romeo as much as she was capable of liking21 any one; but when Papa Capulet insisted on her union with Paris, she accepted her destiny with decent resignation, and, in the absence of any sympathetic father confessor, was fain to seek consolation22 from a more mundane23 individual in the person of the Barlingford milliner. Nor did Philip Sheldon give evidence of any extravagant24 despair. His father was something of a doctor as well as a dentist; and there were plenty of dark little phials lurking25 on the shelves of his surgery in which the young man could have found “mortal drugs” without the aid of the apothecary26, had he been so minded. Happily no such desperate idea ever occurred to him in connection with his grief. He held himself sulkily aloof27 from Mr. and Mrs. Halliday for some time after their marriage, and allowed people to see that he considered himself very hardly used; but Prudence28, which had always been Philip Sheldon’s counsellor, proved herself also his consoler in this crisis of his life. A careful consideration of his own interests led him to perceive that the successful result of his love-suit would have been about the worst thing that could have happened to him.
Georgina had no money. All was said in that. As the young dentist’s worldly wisdom ripened29 with experience, he discovered that the worldly ease of the best man in Barlingford was something like that of a canary-bird who inhabits a clean cage and is supplied with abundant seed and water. The cage is eminently30 comfortable, and the sleepy, respectable, elderly bird sighs for no better abiding-place, no wider prospect31 than that patch of the universe which he sees between the bars. But now and then there is hatched a wild young fledgeling, which beats its wings against the inexorable wires, and would fain soar away into that wide outer world, to prosper32 or perish in its freedom.
Before Georgy had been married a year, her sometime lover had fully resigned himself to the existing state of things, and was on the best possible terms with his friend Tom. He could eat his dinner in the comfortable house at Hyley with an excellent appetite; for there was a gulf33 between him and his old love far wider than any that had been dug by that ceremonial in the parish church of Barlingford. Philip Sheldon had awakened34 to the consciousness that life in his native town was little more than a kind of animal vegetation — the life of some pulpy35 invertebrate36 creature, which sprawls37 helplessly upon the sands whereon the wave has deposited it, and may be cloven in half without feeling itself noticeably worse for the operation. He had awakened to the knowledge that there was a wider and more agreeable world beyond that little provincial borough38, and that a handsome face and figure and a vigorous intellect were commodities for which there must be some kind of market.
Once convinced of the utter worthlessness of his prospects39 in Barlingford, Mr. Sheldon turned his eyes Londonwards; and his father happening at the same time very conveniently to depart this life, Philip, the son and heir, disposed of the business to an aspiring40 young practitioner41, and came to the metropolis42, where he made that futile43 attempt to establish himself which has been described.
The dentist had wasted four years in London, and ten years had gone by since Georgy’s wedding; and now for the first time he had an opportunity of witnessing the domestic happiness or the domestic misery44 of the woman who had jilted him, and the man who had been his successful rival. He set himself to watch them with the cool deliberation of a social anatomist, and he experienced very little difficulty in the performance of this moral dissection45. They were established under his roof, his companions at every meal; and they were a kind of people who discuss their grievances46 and indulge in their “little differences” with perfect freedom in the presence of a third, or a fourth, or even a fifth party.
Mr. Sheldon was wise enough to preserve a strict neutrality. He would take up a newspaper at the beginning of a little difference, and lay it down when the little difference was finished, with the most perfect assumption of unconsciousness; but it is doubtful whether the matrimonial disputants were sufficiently47 appreciative48 of this good breeding. They would have liked to have had Mr. Sheldon for a court of appeal; and a little interference from him would have given zest49 to their quarrels. Meanwhile Philip watched them slyly from the covert50 of his newspaper, and formed his own conclusions about them. If he was pleased to see that his false love’s path was not entirely51 rose-bestrewn, or if he rejoiced at beholding52 the occasional annoyance53 of his rival, he allowed no evidence of his pleasure to appear in his face or manner.
Georgina Cradock’s rather insipid54 prettiness had developed into matronly comeliness55. Her fair complexion56 and pink cheeks had lost none of their freshness. Her smooth auburn hair was as soft and bright as it had been when she had braided it preparatory to a Barlingford tea-party in the days of her spinsterhood. She was a pretty, weak little woman, whose education had never gone beyond the routine of a provincial boarding-school, and who believed that she had attained57 all necessary wisdom in having mastered Pinnock’s abridgments of Goldsmith’s histories and the rudiments58 of the French language. She was a woman who thought that the perfection of feminine costume was a moire-antique dress and a conspicuous59 gold chain. She was a woman who considered a well-furnished house and a horse and gig the highest form of earthly splendour or prosperity.
This was the shallow commonplace creature whom Philip Sheldon had once admired and wooed. He looked at her now, and wondered how he could ever have felt even as much as he had felt on her account. But he had little leisure to devote to any such abstract and useless consideration. He had his own affairs to think about, and they were very desperate.
In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Halliday occupied themselves in the pursuit of pleasure or business, as the case might be. They were eager for amusement: went to exhibitions in the day and to theatres at night, and came home to cozy60 little suppers in Fitzgeorge-street, after which Mr. Halliday was wont61 to waste the small hours in friendly conversation with his quondam companion, and in the consumption of much brandy-and-water.
Unhappily for Georgy, these halcyon62 days were broken by intervals63 of storm and cloud. The weak little woman was afflicted64 with that intermittent65 fever called jealousy66; and the stalwart Thomas was one of those men who can scarcely give the time of day to a feminine acquaintance without some ornate and loud-spoken gallantry. Having no intellectual resources wherewith to beguile67 the tedium68 of his idle prosperous life, he was fain to seek pleasure in the companionship of other men; and had thus become a haunter of tavern69 parlours and small racecourses, being always ready for any amusement his friends proposed to him. It followed, therefore, that he was very often absent from his commonplace substantial home, and his pretty weak-minded wife. And poor Georgy had ample food for her jealous fears and suspicions; for where might a man not be who was so seldom at home? She had never been particularly fond of her husband, but that was no reason why she should not be particularly jealous about him; and her jealousy betrayed itself in a peevish70 worrying fashion, which was harder to bear than the vengeful ferocity of a Clytemnestra. It was in vain that Thomas Halliday and those jolly good fellows his friends and companions attested71 the Arcadian innocence72 of racecourses, and the perfect purity of that smoky atmosphere peculiar73 to tavern parlours. Georgy’s suspicions were too vague for refutation; but they were nevertheless sufficient ground for all the alternations of temper — from stolid74 sulkiness to peevish whining75, from murmured lamentations to loud hysterics — to which the female temperament76 is liable.
In the meantime poor honest, loud-spoken Tom did all in his power to demonstrate his truth and devotion. He bought his wife as many stiff silk gowns and gaudy77 Barlingford bonnets78 as she chose to sigh for. He made a will, in which she was sole legatee, and insured his life in different offices to the amount of five thousand pounds.
“I’m the sort of fellow that’s likely to go off the hooks suddenly, you know, Georgy,” he said, “and your poor dad was always anxious I should make things square for you. I don’t suppose you’re likely to marry again, my lass, so I’ve no need to tie up Lottie’s little fortune. I must trust some one, and I’d better confide80 in my little wife than in some canting methodistical fellow of a trustee, who would speculate my daughter’s money upon some Stock–Exchange hazard, and levant to Australia when it was all swamped. If you can’t trust me, Georgy, I’ll let you see that I can trust you”, added Tom reproachfully.
Whereupon poor weak little Mrs. Halliday murmured plaintively81 that she did not want fortunes or life insurances, but that she wanted her husband to stay at home, content with the calm and rather sleepy delights of his own fireside. Poor Tom was wont to promise amendment82, and would keep his promise faithfully so long as no supreme4 temptation, in the shape of a visit from some friend of the jolly-good-fellow species, arose to vanquish83 his good resolutions. But a good-tempered, generous-hearted young man who farms his own land, has three or four good horses in his stable, a decent cellar of honest port and sherry —“none of your wishy-washy sour stuff in the way of hock or claret,” cried Tom Halliday — and a very comfortable balance at his banker’s, finds it no easy matter to shake off friends of the jolly-good-fellow fraternity.
In London Mr. Halliday found the spirit of jolly-dog-ism rampant84. George Sheldon had always been his favourite of these two brothers; and it was George who lured85 him from the safe shelter of Fitzgeorge-street and took him to mysterious haunts, whence he returned long after midnight, boisterous86 of manner and unsteady of gait, and with garments reeking87 of stale tobacco-smoke.
He was always good-tempered, even after these diabolical88 orgies on some unknown Brocken, and protested indistinctly that there was no harm — ”‘pon m’ wor’, ye know, ol’ gur’! Geor’ an’ me — half-doz’ oyst’r — c’gar — botl’ p’l ale — str’t home,” and much more to the same effect. When did any married man ever take more than half a dozen oysters90 — or take any undomestic pleasure for his own satisfaction? It is always those incorrigible91 bachelors, Thomas, Richard, or Henry, who hinder the unwilling92 Benedick from returning to his sacred Lares and Penates.
Poor Georgy was not to be pacified93 by protestations about oysters and cigars from the lips of a husband who was thick of utterance94, and who betrayed a general imbecility of mind and unsteadiness of body. This London excursion, which had begun in sunshine, threatened to end in storm and darkness. Georgy Sheldon and his set had taken possession of the young farmer; and Georgy had no better amusement in the long blustrous March evenings than to sit at her work under the flaming gas in Mr. Sheldon’s drawing-room, while that gentleman — who rarely joined in the dissipations of his friend and his brother — occupied himself with mechanical dentistry in the chamber95 of torture below.
Fitzgeorge-street in general, always on the watch to discover evidences of impecuniosity96 or doubtful morality on the part of any one citizen in particular, could find no food for scandal in the visit of Mr. and Mrs. Halliday to their friend and countryman. It had been noised abroad, through the agency of Mrs. Woolper, that Mr. Sheldon had been a suitor for the lady’s hand, and had been jilted by her. The Fitzgeorgians had been, therefore, especially on the alert to detect any sign of backsliding in the dentist. There would have been much pleasant discussion in kitchens and back-parlours if Mr. Sheldon had been particularly attentive97 to his fair guest; but it speedily became known, always by the agency of Mrs. Woolper and that phenomenon of idleness and iniquity98, the London “girl,” that Mr. Sheldon was not by any means attentive to the pretty young woman from Yorkshire; but that he suffered her to sit alone hour after hour in her husband’s absence, with no amusement but her needlework wherewith to “pass the time,” while he scraped and filed and polished those fragments of bone which were to assist in the renovation99 of decayed beauty.
The third week of Mr. and Mrs. Halliday’s visit was near its close, and as yet the young farmer had arrived at no decision as to the subject which had brought him to London. The sale of Hyley Farm was an accomplished100 fact, and the purchase-money duly bestowed101 at Tom’s banker’s; but very little had been done towards finding the new property which was to be a substitute for the estate his father and grandfather had farmed before him. He had seen auctioneers, and had brought home plans of estates in Herefordshire and Devonshire, Cornwall and Somersetshire, all of which seemed to be, in their way, the most perfect things imaginable — land of such fertility as one would scarcely expect to find out of Arcadia — live stock which seemed beyond all price, to be taken at a valuation. — roads and surrounding neighbourhood unparalleled in beauty and convenience — outbuildings that must have been the very archetypes of barns and stables — a house which to inhabit would be to adore. But as yet he had seen none of these peerless domains102. He was waiting for decent weather in which to run down to the West and “look about him,” as he said to himself. In the meantime the blustrous March weather, which was so unsuited to long railroad journeys, and all that waiting about at junctions103 and at little windy stations on branch lines, incidental to the inspection104 of estates scattered105 over a large area of country, served very well for “jolly-dog-ism;” and what with a hand at cards in George Sheldon’s chambers106, and another hand at cards in somebody else’s chambers, and a run down to an early meeting at Newmarket, and an evening at some rooms where there was something to be seen which was as near prize-fighting as the law allowed, and other evenings in unknown regions, Mr. Halliday found time slipping by him, and his domestic peace vanishing away.
It was on an evening at the end of this third week that Mr. Sheldon abandoned his mechanical dentistry for once in a way, and ascended107 to the drawing-room where poor Georgy sat busy with that eternal needlework, but for which melancholy108 madness would surely overtake many desolate109 matrons in houses whose common place comfort and respectable dulness are more dismal110 than the picturesque111 dreariness112 of a moated grange amid the Lincolnshire fens113. To the masculine mind this needlework seems nothing more than a purposeless stabbing and sewing of strips of calico; but to lonely womanhood it is the prison-flower of the captive, it is the spider of Latude.
Mr. Sheldon brought his guest an evening newspaper.
“There’s an account of the opening of Parliament,” he said, “which you may perhaps like to see. I wish I had a piano, or some female acquaintances to drop in upon you. I am afraid you must be dull in these long evenings when Tom is out of the way.”
“I am indeed dull,” Mrs. Halliday answered peevishly114; “and if Tom cared for me, he wouldn’t leave me like this evening after evening. But he doesn’t care for me.”
Mr Sheldon laid down the newspaper, and seated himself opposite his guest. He sat for a few minutes in silence, beating time to some imaginary air with the tips of his fingers on the old-fashioned mahogany table. Then he said, with a half-smile upon his face —
“But surely Tom is the best of husbands! He has been a little wild since his coming to London, I know; but then you see he doesn’t often come to town.”
“He’s just as bad in Yorkshire,” Georgy answered gloomily; “he’s always going to Barlingford with somebody or other, or to meet some of his old friends. I’m sure, if I had known what he was, I would never have married him.”
“Why, I thought he was such a good husband. He was telling me only a few days ago how he had made a will leaving you every sixpence he possesses, without reservation, and how he has insured his life for five thousand pounds.”
“O yes, I know that; but I don’t call that being a good husband. I don’t want him to leave me his money. I don’t want him to die. I want him to stay at home.”
“Poor Tom! I’m afraid he’s not the sort of man for that kind of thing. He likes change and amusement. You married a rich man, Mrs. Halliday; you made your choice, you know, without regard to the feelings of any one else. You sacrificed truth and honour to your own inclination115, or your own interest, I do not know, and do not ask which. If the bargain has turned out a bad one, that’s your look-out.”
Philip Sheldon sat with his folded arms resting on the little table and his eyes fixed116 on Georgy’s face. They could be very stern and hard and cruel, those bright black eyes, and Mrs. Halliday grew first red and then pale under their searching gaze. She had seen Mr. Sheldon very often during the years of her married life, but this was the first time he had ever said anything to her that sounded like a reproach. The dentist’s eyes softened117 a little as he watched her, not with any special tenderness, but with an expression of half-disdainful compassion119 — such as a strong stern man might feel for a foolish child. He could see that this woman was afraid of him, and it served his interests that she should fear him. He had a purpose in everything he did, and his purpose to-night was to test the strength of his influence over Georgina Halliday. In the old time before her marriage that influence had been very strong. It was for him, to discover now whether it still endured.
“You made your choice, Mrs. Halliday,” he went on presently, “and it was a choice which all prudent people must have approved. What chance had a man, who was only heir to a practice worth four or five hundred pounds, against the inheritor of Hyley Farm with its two hundred and fifty acres, and three thousand pounds’ worth of live stock, plant, and working capital? When do the prudent people ever stop to consider truth and honour, or old promises, or an affection that dates from childhood? They calculate everything by pounds, shillings, and pence; and according to their mode of reckoning you were in the right when you jilted me to marry Tom Halliday.”
Georgy laid down her work and took out her handkerchief. She was one of those women who take refuge in tears when they find themselves at a disadvantage. Tears had always melted honest Tom, was his wrath120 never so dire121, and tears would no doubt subdue122 Philip Sheldon.
But Georgy had to discover that the dentist was made of a stuff very different from that softer clay which composed the rollicking good-tempered farmer. Mr. Sheldon watched her tears with the cold-blooded deliberation of a scientific experimentalist. He was glad to find that he could make her cry. She was a necessary instrument in the working out of certain plans that he had made for himself, and he was anxious to discover whether she was likely to be a plastic instrument. He knew that her love for him had never been worth much at its best, and that the poor little flickering123 flame had been utterly124 extinguished by nine years of commonplace domesticity and petty jealousy. But his purpose was one that would be served as well by her fear as by her love, and he had set himself to-night to gauge125 his power in relation to this poor weak creature.
“It’s very unkind of you to say such dreadful things, Mr. Sheldon,” she whimpered presently; “you know very well that my marriage with Tom was pa’s doing, and not mine. I’m sure if I’d known how he would stay out night after night, and come home in such dreadful states time after time, I never would have consented to marry him.”
“Wouldn’t you? — O yes, you would. If you were a widow to-morrow, and free to marry again, you would choose just such another man as Tom — a man who laughs loud, and pays flourishing compliments, and drives a gig with a high-stepping horse. That’s the sort of man women like, and that’s the sort of man you’d marry.”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t marry at all,” answered Mrs. Halliday, in a voice that was broken by little gasping126 sobs127. “I have seen enough of the misery of married life. But I don’t want Tom to die, unkind as he is to me. People are always saying that he won’t make old bones — how horrid128 it is to talk of a person’s bones! — and I’m sure I sometimes make myself wretched about him, as he knows, though he doesn’t thank me for it.”
And here Mrs Halliday’s sobs got the better of her utterance, and Mr. Sheldon was fain to say something of a consolatory129 nature.
“Come, come,” he said, “I won’t tease you any more. That’s against the laws of hospitality, isn’t it? — only there are some things which you can’t expect a man to forget, you know. However, let bygones be bygones. As for poor old Tom, I daresay he’ll live to be a hale, hearty130 old man, in spite of the croakers. People always will croak131 about something; and it’s a kind of fashion to say that a big, hearty, six-foot man is a fragile blossom likely to be nipped by any wintry blast. Come, come, Mrs. Halliday, your husband mustn’t discover that I’ve been making you cry when he comes home. He may be home early this evening, perhaps; and if he is, we’ll have an oyster89 supper, and a chat about old times.”
Mrs. Halliday shook her head dolefully.
“It’s past ten o’clock already,” she said, “and I don’t suppose Tom will be home till after twelve. He doesn’t like my sitting up for him; but I wonder what time he would come home if I didn’t sit up for him?”
“Let’s hope for the best,” exclaimed Mr. Sheldon cheerfully. “I’ll go and see about the oysters.”
“Don’t get them for me, or for Tom,” protested Mrs. Halliday; “he will have had his supper when he comes home, you may be sure, and I couldn’t eat a morsel132 of anything.”
To this resolution Mrs. Halliday adhered; so the dentist was fain to abandon all jovial133 ideas in relation to oysters and pale ale. But he did not go back to his mechanical dentistry. He sat opposite his visitor, and watched her, silently and thoughtfully, for some time as she worked. She had brushed away her tears, but she looked very peevish and miserable134, and took out her watch several times in an hour. Mr. Sheldon made two or three feeble attempts at conversation, but the talk languished135 and expired on each occasion, and they sat on in silence.
Little by little the dentist’s attention seemed to wander away from his guest. He wheeled his chair round, and sat looking at the fire with the same fixed gloom upon his face which had darkened it on the night of his return from Yorkshire. Things had been so desperate with him of late, that he had lost his old orderly habit of thinking out a business at one sitting, and making an end of all deliberation and hesitation136 about it. There were subjects that forced themselves upon his thoughts, and certain ideas which repeated themselves with a stupid persistence137. He was such an eminently practical man, that this disorder138 of his brain troubled him more even than the thoughts that made the disorder. He sat in the same attitude for a long while, scarcely conscious of Mrs. Halliday’s presence, not at all conscious of the progress of time. Georgy had been right in her gloomy forebodings of bad behaviour on the part of Mr. Halliday. It was nearly one o’clock when a loud double knock announced that gentleman’s return. The wind had been howling drearily139, and a sharp, slanting140 rain had been pattering against the windows for the last half-hour, while Mrs. Halliday’s breast had been racked by the contending emotions of anxiety and indignation.
“I suppose he couldn’t get a cab,” she exclaimed, as the knock startled her from her listening attitude — for however intently a midnight watcher may be listening for the returning wanderer’s knock, it is not the less startling when it comes? —“and he has walked home through the wet, and now he’ll have a violent cold, I daresay,” added Georgy peevishly.
“Then it’s lucky for him he’s in a doctor’s house,” answered Mr. Sheldon, with a smile. He was a handsome man, no doubt, according to the popular idea of masculine perfection, but he had not a pleasant smile. “I went through the regular routine, you know, and am as well able to see a patient safely through a cold or fever as I am to make him a set of teeth.”
Mr. Halliday burst into the room at this moment, singing a fragment of the “Chough and Crow” chorus, very much out of tune79. He was in boisterously141 high spirits, and very little the worse for liquor. He had only walked from Covent Garden, he said, and had taken nothing but a tankard of stout142 and a Welsh rarebit. He had been hearing the divinest singing — boys with the voices of angels — and had been taking his supper in a place which duchesses themselves did not disdain118 to peep at from the sacred recesses143 of a loge grillee, George Sheldon had told him. But poor country-bred Georgina Halliday would not believe in the duchesses, or the angelic singing boys, or the primitive144 simplicity145 of Welsh rarebits. She had a vision of beautiful women, and halls of dazzling light, where there was the mad music of perpetual Post-horn Galops, with a riotous146 accompaniment of huzzas and the popping of champagne147 corks148 — where the sheen of satin and the glitter of gems149 bewildered the eye of the beholder150. She had seen such a picture once on the stage, and had vaguely151 associated it with all Tom’s midnight roisterings ever afterwards.
The roisterer’s garments were very wet, and it was in vain that his wife and Philip Sheldon entreated152 him to change them for dry ones, or to go to bed immediately. He stood before the fire relating his innocent adventures, and trying to dispel153 the cloud from Georgy’s fair young brow; and, when he did at last consent to go to his room, the dentist shook his head ominously154.
“You’ll have a severe cold to-morrow, depend upon it, Tom, and you’ll have yourself to thank for it,” he said, as he bade the good-tempered reprobate155 good night. “Never mind, old fellow,” answered Tom; “if I am ill, you shall nurse me. If one is doomed156 to die by doctors’ stuff, it’s better to have a doctor one does know than a doctor one doesn’t know for one’s executioner.”
After which graceful157 piece of humour Mr. Halliday went blundering up the staircase, followed by his aggrieved158 wife.
Philip Sheldon stood on the landing looking after his visitors for some minutes. Then he went slowly back to the sitting-room159, where he replenished160 the fire, and seated himself before it with a newspaper in his hand.
“What’s the use of going to bed, if I can’t sleep?” he muttered, in a discontented tone.
收听单词发音 |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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monstrously
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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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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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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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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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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20
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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21
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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22
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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23
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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24
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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25
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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26
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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27
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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28
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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29
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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31
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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32
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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33
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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34
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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35
pulpy
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| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
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36
invertebrate
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| n.无脊椎动物 | |
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37
sprawls
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| n.（城市）杂乱无序拓展的地区( sprawl的名词复数 )；随意扩展；蔓延物v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的第三人称单数 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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38
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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39
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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40
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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41
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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42
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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43
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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44
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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45
dissection
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| n.分析；解剖 | |
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46
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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47
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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48
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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49
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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50
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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51
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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52
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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53
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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54
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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55
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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56
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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57
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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58
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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59
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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60
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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61
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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62
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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63
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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64
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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65
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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66
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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67
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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68
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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69
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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70
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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71
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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72
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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73
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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74
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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75
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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76
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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77
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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78
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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79
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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80
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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81
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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82
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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83
vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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84
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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85
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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86
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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87
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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88
diabolical
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|
| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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89
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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90
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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91
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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92
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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93
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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94
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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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
impecuniosity
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| n.（经常）没有钱，身无分文，贫穷 | |
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97
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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98
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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99
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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100
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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101
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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103
junctions
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| 联结点( junction的名词复数 )； 会合点； （公路或铁路的）交叉路口； （电缆等的）主结点 | |
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104
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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105
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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106
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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107
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
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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109
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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110
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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111
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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112
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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113
fens
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| n.（尤指英格兰东部的）沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
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114
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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115
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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116
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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117
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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118
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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119
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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120
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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121
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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122
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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123
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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124
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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125
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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126
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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127
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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128
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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129
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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130
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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131
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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132
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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133
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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134
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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135
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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136
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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137
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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138
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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139
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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140
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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141
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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143
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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144
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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145
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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146
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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148
corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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149
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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150
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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151
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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152
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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155
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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156
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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157
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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158
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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159
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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160
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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