Oct. 5th. My dreams last night were haunted by the image of gray-eyed Molly, with her wild loose hair. She must needs have been a sweet creature; and how she came amongst those prim1 fishy-eyed men and women with absurd head-gear is much more than I can understand. That she should mix herself up with Diana Paget, and play rouge-et-noir at Forêtdechêne in a tucked-up chintz gown and a quilted satin petticoat, in my dreams last night — that I should meet her afterwards in the little stucco temple on the Belgian hills, and stab her to the heart, whereon she changed into Charlotte Halliday — is only in the nature of dreams, and therefore no subject for wonder.
On referring to Sheldon’s letter I found that the next people to be looked up were descendants of Brice the lawyer; so I devoted2 my breakfast-hour to the cultivation3 of an intimacy4 with the oldest of the waiters — a very antique specimen5 of his brotherhood6, with a white stubble upon his chin and a tendency to confusion of mind in the matter of forks and spoons.
“Do you know, or have you ever known, an attorney of the name of Brice in this town?” I asked him.
He rubbed the white stubble contemplatively with his hand, and then gave his poor old head a dejected shake. I felt at once that I should get very little good out of him.
“No,” he murmured despondently7, “not that I can call to mind.”
I should like to know what he could call to mind, piteous old meanderer!
“And yet you belong to Ullerton, I suppose?”
“Yes; and have belonged to it these seventy-five years, man and boy;” whereby, no doubt, the dreary8 confusion of the unhappy being’s mind. Figurez donc, mon cher. Qui-que-ce-soit, fifty-five years or so of commercial breakfasts and dinners in such a place as Ullerton! Five-and-fifty years of steaks and chops; five-and-fifty years of ham and eggs, indifferently buttered toasts, and perennial9 sixes of brandy-and-water! After rambling10 to and fro with spoons and forks, and while in progress of clearing my table, and dropping the different items of my breakfast equipage, the poor soddened11 faded face of this dreary wanderer became suddenly illumined with a faint glimmer12 that was almost the light of reason.
“There were a Brice in Ullerton when I were a lad; I’ve heard father tell on him,” he murmured slowly.
“An attorney?”
“Yes. He were a rare wild one, he were! It was when the Prince of Wales were Regent for his poor old mad father, as the saying is, and folks was wilder like in general in those times, and wore spencers — lawyer Brice wore a plum-coloured one.”
Imagine then again, mon cher, an attorney in a plum-coloured spencer! Who, in these enlightened days, would trust his business to such a practitioner13? I perked14 up considerably15, believing that my aged16 imbecile was going to be of real service to me.
“Yes, he were a rare wild one, he were,” said my ancient friend with excitement. “I can remember him as well as if it was yesterday, at Tiverford races — there was races at Tiverford in those days, and gentlemen jocks. Lawyer Brice rode his roan mare17 — Queen Charlotte they called her. But after that he went wrong, folks said — speckilated with some money, you see, that he didn’t ought to have touched — and went to America, and died.” “Died in America, did he? Why the deuce couldn’t he die in Ullerton? I should fancy it was a pleasanter place to die in than it is to live in. And how about his sons?”
“Lawyer Brice’s sons?”
“Yes, of course.”
My imbecile’s lips expanded into a broad grin.
“Lawyer Brice never had no sons,” he exclaimed, with a tone which seemed to express a contemptuous pity for my ignorance; “he never married.”
“Well, well; his brothers. He had brothers, I suppose?”
“Not as I ever heard tell on,” answered my imbecile, relapsing into hopeless inanity18.
It was clear that no further help was to be obtained from him. I went to the landlord — a brisk business-like individual of Transatlantic goaheadism. From him I learned that there were no Brices in Ullerton, and never had been within the thirty years of his experience in that town. He gave me an Ullerton directory in confirmation19 of that fact — a neat little shilling volume, which I begged leave to keep for a quarter of an hour before returning it.
Brice was evidently a failure. I turned to the letter G, and looked up the name of Goodge. Goodge, Jonah, minister of Beulah Chapel20, resided at No. 7, Waterhouse-lane — the lane in which I had seen the chapel.
I determined21 upon waiting on the worthy22 Goodge. He may be able to enlighten me as to the name of the pastor23 who preached to the Wesleyan flock in the time of Rebecca Caulfield; and from the descendants of such pastor I may glean24 some straws and shreds25 of information. The pious27 Rebecca would have been likely to confide28 much to her spiritual director. The early Wesleyans had all the exaltation of the Quietists, and something of the lunatic fervour of the Convulsionists, who kicked and screamed themselves into epilepsy under the influence of the Unigenitus Bull. The pious Rebecca was no doubt an enthusiast29.
I found No. 7, Waterhouse-lane. It is a neat little six-roomed house, with preternaturally green palings enclosing about sixty square feet of bright yellow gravel30, adorned31 by a row of whitewashed32 shells. Some scarlet33 geraniums bloomed in pots of still more vivid scarlet; and the sight of those bright red blossoms recalled Philip Sheldon’s garden at Bayswater, and that sweet girl by whose side I have walked its trim pathways.
But business is business; and if I am ever to sue for my Charlotte’s hand, I must present myself before her as the winner of the three thousand. Remembering this, I lifted Mr. Goodge’s knocker, and presently found myself in conversation with that gentleman.
Whether unordained piety34 has a natural tendency to become greasy35 of aspect, and whether, among the many miracles vouchsafed36 to the amiable37 and really great Wesley, he received for his disciples38 of all time to come the gift of a miraculous39 straightness and lankiness40 of hair, I know not; but I do know that every Methodist parson I have had the honour to know has been of one pattern, and that Mr. Goodge is no exception to the rule.
I am bound to record that I found him a very civil person, quite willing to afford me any help in his power, and far more practical and business-like than the rector of Dewsdale.
It seems that the gift of tongues descended41 on the Goodges during the lifetime of John Wesley himself, and during the earlier part of that teacher’s career. It was a Goodge who preached in the draper’s warehouse42, and it was the edifying43 discourse44 of a Goodge which developed the piety of Miss Rebecca Caulfield, afterwards Mrs. Haygarth.
“That Goodge was my great-uncle,” said the courteous45 Jonah, “and there was no one in Ullerton better acquainted with Rebecca Caulfield. I’ve heard my grandmother talk of her many a time. She used to send him poultry46 and garden-stuff from her house at Dewsdale, and at his instigation she contributed handsomely to the erection of the chapel in which it is my privilege to preach.”
I felt that I had struck upon a vein47 of gold. Here was a sharp-witted, middle-aged48 man — not an ancient mariner49, or a meandering50 imbecile — who could remember the talk of a grandmother who had known Matthew Haygarth’s wife. And this visit to Mr. Goodge was my own idea, not prompted by the far-seeing Sheldon. I felt myself advancing in the insidious51 arts of a private inquirer.
“I am employed in the prosecution52 of a business which has a remote relation to the Haygarth family history,” I said; “and if you can afford me any information on that subject I should be extremely obliged.”
I emphasised the adjective “remote,” and felt myself, in my humble53 way, a Talleyrand.
“What kind of information, do you require?” asked Mr. Goodge thoughtfully.
“Any information respecting Matthew Haygarth or his wife.”
Mr. Goodge became profoundly meditative54 after this.
“I am not given to act unadvisedly,” he began — and I felt that I was in for a little professional discourse: “the creatures of impulse are the children of Satan, the babes of Lucifer, the infants of Beelzebub. I take counsel in the silence of the night, and wait the whispers of wisdom in the waking hours of darkness. You must allow me time to ponder this business in my heart and to be still.”
I told Mr. Goodge that I would willingly await his own time for affording me any information in his power to give.
“That is pleasant,” said the pastor blandly55: “the worldly are apt to rush blindly through life, as the roaring lion rushes through the forest. I am not one of those rushing worldlings. I presume, by the way, that such information as I may afford is likely to become a source of pecuniary56 profit to your employer?”
I began to see that my friend Goodge and the rector of Dewsdale were very different kind of people, and that I must play my cards accordingly.
“That will depend upon the nature of your information,” I replied diplomatically; “it may be worth something to us, or it may be worthless.”
“And in case it should be worth something?”
“In that case my employer would be glad to remunerate the person from whom he obtained it.”
Mr. Goodge again became meditative.
“It was the habit of the sainted Wesley to take counsel from the Scriptures57,” he said presently: “if you will call again tomorrow, young man, I shall have taken counsel, and may be able to entreat59 with you.”
I did not much relish60 being addressed as “young man,” even by such a shining light as the Rev61. Jonah Goodge. But as I wanted the Rev. Jonah’s aid, I submitted with a tolerable grace to his patriarchal familiarity, and bade him good morning, after promising62 to call again on the following day. I returned to my inn and wrote to Sheldon in time for the afternoon mail, recounting my interview with Mr. Goodge, and asking how far I should be authorised to remunerate that gentleman, or to pledge myself to remunerate him for such information as he might have to dispose of.
Oct. 6th. A letter from Sheldon.
“DEAR HAWKEHURST — There may be something very important behind that mysterious burial at Dewsdale. Go without delay to Spotswold; examine registers, tombstones, &c; hunt up oldest inhabitant or inhabitants, from whom you may be able to discover whether any Haygarth or Haygarths ever lived there, and all that is known respecting such Haygarth or Haygarths. You have got a cine to something. Follow it up till it breaks off short, as such clues often do, or till you find it is only leading you on a wild-goose chase. The Dewsdale business is worth investigation63.
“Mem. How about descendants of lawyer Brice? — Yours truly, G.S.
“G.‘s Inn, Oct. 5th.”
Before starting for Spotswold it was necessary for me to see Mr. Goodge. I found that gentleman in a pious and yet business-like frame of mind. He had taken counsel from the Scriptures, like the founder64 of his sect65; but I fancy with rather less spiritual aspirations66.
“The text upon which the lot fell was the 12th verse of the 9th chapter in the Book of Proverbs, ‘If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself,’” he said solemnly; “whereby I perceive that I shall not be justified67 in parting with that which you seek without fitting recompense. I ask you, therefore, young man, what are you prepared to give?”
The Rev. Jonah’s tone could scarcely have been more lofty, or his manner more patronising, if he had been Saul and I the humble David; but a man who is trying to earn three thousand pounds must put up with a great deal. Finding that the minister was prepared to play the huckster, I employed no further ceremony.
“The price must of course depend on the quality of the article you have to sell,” I said; “I must know that before I can propose terms.”
“Suppose my information took the form of letters?”
“Letters from whom — to whom?”
“From Mrs. Rebecca Haygarth to my great-uncle, Samson Goodge.”
“How many of such letters have you to sell?”
I put it very plainly; but the Rev. Jonah’s susceptibilities were not of the keenest order. He did not wince68.
“Say forty odd letters.”
I pricked69 up my ears; and it needed all my diplomacy70 to enable me to conceal71 my sense of triumph. Forty odd letters! There must be an enormous amount of information in forty odd letters; unless the woman wrote the direst twaddle ever penned by a feminine correspondent.
“Over what period do the dates of these letters extend?” I asked.
“Over about seven years; from 1769 to 1776.”
Four years prior to the marriage with our friend Matthew; three years after the marriage.
“Are they tolerably long letters, or mere72 scrawls73?”
“They were written in a period when nobody wrote short letters,” answered Mr. Goodge sententiously — “the period of Bath post and dear postage. The greater number of the epistles cover three sides of a sheet of letter-paper; and Mrs. Rebecca’s caligraphy was small and neat.”
“Good!” I exclaimed. “I suppose it is no use my asking you to let me see one of these letters before striking a bargain — eh, Mr. Goodge?” “Well, I think not,” answered the oily old hypocrite. “I have taken counsel, and I will abide74 by the light that has been shown me. ‘If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself;’ such are the words of inspiration. No, I think not.”
“And what do you ask for the forty odd letters?”
“Twenty pounds.”
“A stiff sum, Mr. Goodge, for forty sheets of old letter-paper.”
“But if they were not likely to be valuable, you would scarcely happen to want them,” answered the minister. “I have taken counsel, young man.”
“And those are your lowest terms?”
“I cannot accept sixpence less. It is not in me to go from my word. As Jacob served Laban seven years, and again another seven years, having promised, so do I abide by my bond. Having said twenty pounds, young man, Heaven forbid that I should take so much as twenty pence less than those twenty pounds!”
The solemn unction with which he pronounced this twaddle is beyond description. The pretence75 of conscientious76 feeling which he contrived77 to infuse into his sordid79 bargain-driving might have done honour to Molière’s Tartuffe. Seeing that he was determined to stick to his terms, I departed. I telegraphed to Sheldon for instructions as to whether I was to give Goodge the money he asked, and then went back to my inn, where I devoted myself for the next ten minutes to the study of a railway time-table, with a view to finding the best route to Spotswold.
After a close perusal80 of bewildering strings81 of proper names and dazzling columns of figures, I found a place called Black Harbour, “for Wisborough, Spotswold, and Chilton.” A train left Ullerton for Black Harbour at six o’clock in the afternoon, and was due at the latter place at 8.40.
This gave me an interval82 of some hours, in which I could do nothing, unless I received a telegram from Sheldon. The chance of a reply from him kept me a prisoner in the coffee-room of the Swan Inn, where I read almost every line in the local and London newspapers pending83 the arrival of the despatch84, which came at last.
“Tell Goodge he shall have the sum asked, and get the letters at once. Money by to-night’s post.”
This was Sheldon’s message; sharp and short, and within the eighteen penny limit. Acting85 upon this telegram, I returned to the abode86 of Mr. Goodge, told him his terms were to be complied with, showed him the telegram, at his request, and asked for the letters.
I ought to have known my reverend friend better than to imagine he would part with those ancient documents except for money upon the counter.
He smiled a smile which might have illuminated87 the visage of Machiavelli.
“The letters have kept a long time, young man,” he said, after having studied the telegram as closely as if it had been written in Punic; “and lo you, they are in nowise the worse for keeping: so they will keep yet longer. ‘If thou be wise, then shalt be wise for thyself.’ You can come for the letters tomorrow, and bring the money with you. Say at 11 A.M.”
I put on my hat and bade my friend good day. I have often been tempted88 to throw things at people, and have withheld89 my hand; but I never felt Satan so strong upon me as at that moment, and I very much fear that if I had had anything in the way of a kitchen-poker or a carving-knife about me, I should have flung that missile at the patriarchal head of my saintly Jonah. As it was, I bade him good day and returned to the Swan, where I took a hurried repast and started for the station, carrying a light carpet-bag with me, as I was not likely to return till the following night, at the earliest.
I arrived at the station ten minutes before the starting of the train, and had to endure ten minutes of that weariness called waiting. I exhausted90 the interest of all the advertisements on the station walls; found out how I could have my furniture removed with the utmost convenience — supposing myself to possess furniture; discovered where I ought to buy a dinner-service, and the most agreeable kind of blind to screen my windows in sunny weather. I was still lingering over the description of this new invention in blinds, when a great bell set up a sudden clanging, and the down train from London came thundering into the station.
This was also the train for Black Harbour. There were a good many passengers going northwards, a good many alighting at Ullerton; and in the hurry and confusion I had some difficulty in finding a place in a second-class carriage, the passengers therein blocking up the windows with that unamiable exclusiveness peculiar91 to railway travellers. I found a place at last, however; but in hurrying from carriage to carriage I was startled by an occurrence which I have since pondered very seriously.
I ran bolt against my respected friend and patron Horatio Paget.
We had only time to recognise each other with exclamations92 of mutual93 surprise when the clanging bell rang again, and I was obliged to scuffle into my seat. A moment’s delay would have caused me to be left behind. And to have remained behind would have been very awkward for me; as the Captain would undoubtedly94 have questioned me as to my business in Ullerton. Was I not supposed to be at Dorking, enjoying the hospitality of an aged aunt?
It would have been unlucky to lose that train.
But what “makes” the gallant95 Captain in Ullerton? That is a question which I deliberated as the train carried me towards Black Harbour.
Sheldon warned me of the necessity for secrecy96, and I have been as secret as the grave. It is therefore next to an impossibility that Horatio Paget can have any idea of the business I am engaged in. He is the very man of all others to try and supersede97 me if he had an inkling of my plans; but I am convinced he can have no such inkling.
And yet the advertisement of the Haygarth property in the Times was as open to the notice of all the world as it was open to the notice of George Sheldon. What if my patron should have been struck by the same advertisement, and should have come to Ullerton on the same business?
It is possible, but it is not likely. When I left town the Captain was engaged in Philip Sheldon’s affairs. He has no doubt come to Ullerton on Philip Sheldon’s business. The town, which seems an abomination of desolation to a man who is accustomed to London and Paris, is nevertheless a commercial centre; and the stockbroker’s schemes may involve the simple Ullertonians, as well as the more experienced children of the metropolis98.
Having thought the business out thus, I gave myself no further trouble about the unexpected appearance of my friend and benefactor99.
At Black Harbour I found a coach, which carried me to Spotswold, whither I travelled in a cramped100 and painful position as regards my legs, and with a pervading101 sensation which was like a determination of luggage to the brain, so close to my oppressed head was the heavily-laden roof of the vehicle. It was pitch dark when I and two fellow-passengers of agricultural aspect were turned out of the coach at Spotswold, which in the gloom of night appeared to consist of half a dozen houses shut in from the road by ghastly white palings, a grim looming102 church, and a low-roofed inn with a feeble light glimmering103 athwart a red stuff curtain.
At this inn I was fain to take up my abode for the night, and was conducted to a little whitewashed bedchamber, draperied with scanty105 dimity and smelling of apples — the humblest, commonest cottage chamber104, but clean and decent, and with a certain countrified aspect which was pleasing to me. I fancied myself the host of such an inn, with Charlotte for my wife; and it seemed to me that it would be nice to live in that remote and unknown village, “the world forgetting, by the world forgot.” I beguiled106 myself by such foolish fancies — I, who have been reared amidst the clamour and riot of the Strand107!
Should I be happy with that dear girl if she were mine? Alas108! I doubt it. A man who has led a disreputable life up to the age of seven-and-twenty is very likely to have lost all capacity for such pure and perfect happiness as that which good men find in the tranquil109 haven110 of a home.
Should I not hear the rattle111 of the billiard-balls, or the voice of the croupier calling the main, as I sat by my quiet fireside? Should I not yearn112 for the glitter and confusion of West-end dancing-rooms, or the mad excitement of the ring, while my innocent young wife was sitting by my side and asking me to look at the blue eyes of my first-born?
No; Charlotte is not for me. There must be always the two classes — the sheep and the goats; and my lot has been cast among the goats.
And yet there are some people who laugh to scorn the doctrines113 of Calvin, and say there is no such thing as predestination.
Is there not predestination? Was not I predestined to be born in a gaol114 and reared in a gutter115, educated among swindlers and scoundrels, fed upon stolen victuals116, and clad in garments never to be paid for? Did no Eumenides preside over the birth of Richard Savage117, so set apart for misery118 that the laws of nature were reversed, and even his mother hated him? Did no dismal119 fatality120 follow the footsteps of Chatterton? Has no mysterious ban been laid upon the men who have been called Dukes of Buckingham?
What foolish lamentations am I scribbling121 in this diary, which is intended to be only the baldest record of events! It is so natural to mankind to complain, that, having no ear in which to utter his discontent, a man is fain to resort to pen and ink.
I devoted my evening to conversation with the landlord and his wife, but found that the name of Haygarth was as strange to them as if it had been taken from an inscription122 in the tomb of the Pharaohs. I inquired about the few inhabitants of the village, and ascertained123 that the oldest man in the place is the sexton, native-born, and supposed by mine host never to have travelled twenty miles from his birthplace. His name is Peter Drabbles. What extraordinary names that class of people contrive78 to have! My first business to-morrow morning will be to find my friend Drabbles — another ancient mariner, no doubt — and to examine the parish registers.
Oct. 7th. A misty124 morning, and a perpetual drizzle125 — to say nothing of a damp, penetrating126 cold, which creeps through the thickest overcoat, and chills one to the bone. I do not think Spotswold can have much brightness or prettiness even on the fairest summer morning that ever beautified the earth. I know that, seen as I see it to-day, the place is the very archetype of all that is darksome, dull, desolate127, dismal, and dreary. (How odd, by the way, that all that family of epithets128 should have the same initial!) A wide stretch of moorland lies around and about the little village, which crouches129 in a hollow, like some poor dejected animal that seeks to shelter itself from the bitter blast. On the edge of the moorland, and above the straggling cottages and the little inn, rises the massive square tower of an old church, so far out of proportion to the pitiful cluster of houses, that I imagine it must be the remnant of some monastic settlement.
Towards this church I made my way, under the dispiriting drip, drip of the rain, and accompanied by a feeble old man, who is sexton, clerk, gravedigger, and anything or everything of an official nature.
We went into the church after my ancient mariner No. 2 had fumbled130 a good deal with a bunch of ghostly-looking keys. The door opened with a dismal scroop, and shut with an appalling131 bang. Grim and dark as the church is without, it is grimmer and darker within, and damp and vault-like, à faire frémir. There are all the mysterious cupboards and corners peculiar to such edifices132; an organ-loft, from which weird133 noises issue at every opening or closing of a door; a vaulted134 roof, which echoes one’s footsteps with a moan, as of some outraged135 spirit hovering136 in empty space, and ejaculating piteously, “Another impious intruder after the sacramental plate! another plebeian137 sole trampling138 on the brasses139 of the De Montacutes, lords of the manor140!”
The vestry is, if anything, more ghostly than the general run of vestries; but the business mind is compelled to waive141 all considerations of a supernatural character. For the moment there flashed across my brain the shadows of all the Christmas stories I had ever read or heard concerning vestries; the phantom142 bridal, in which the bride’s beautiful white hand changed to the bony fingers of a skeleton as she signed the register; the unearthly christening, in which all at once, after the ceremony having been conducted with the utmost respectability, to the edification of the unauthorised intruder hiding behind a pillar, the godfathers and godmothers, nurse and baby, priest and clerk, became in a moment dilapidated corpses143; whereon the appalled144 intruder fell prone145 at the foot of his pillar, there to be discovered the next morning by his friends, and the public generally, with his hair blanched146 to an awful whiteness, or his noble intellect degraded to idiocy147. For a moment, the memory of about a hundred Christmas stories was too much for me — so weird of aspect and earthy of atmosphere was the vestry at Spotswold. And then “being gone” the shadows of the Christmas stories, I was a man and a lawyer’s clerk again, and set myself assiduously to search the registers and interrogate148 my ancient.
I found that individual a creature of mental fogginess compared with whom my oldest inhabitant of Ullerton would have been a Pitt, Earl of Chatham. But I questioned and cross-questioned him until I had in a manner turned his poor old wits the seamy side without, and had discovered, first, that he had never known any one called Haygarth in the whole course of those seventy-five years’ vegetation which politeness compelled me to speak of as his “life;” secondly149, that he had never known any one who knew a Haygarth; thirdly, that he was intimately acquainted with every creature in the village, and that he knew that no one of the inhabitants could give me the smallest shred26 of such information as I required.
Having extorted150 so much as this from my ancient with unutterable expenditure151 of time and trouble, I next set to work upon the registers.
If the ink manufactured in the present century is of no more durable152 nature than that abominable153 fluid employed in the penmanship of a hundred years ago, I profoundly pity the generations that are to come after us. The registers of Spotswold might puzzle a Bunsen. However, bearing in mind the incontrovertible fact that three thousand pounds is a very agreeable sum of money, I stuck to my work for upwards154 of two hours, and obtained as a result the following entries:—
“1. Matthew Haygarthe, aged foure yeares, berrid in this churcheyarde, over against ye tombe off Mrs. Marttha Stileman, about 10 fete fromm ye olde yue tre. Febevarie 6th, 1753.”
“2. Mary Haygarthe, aged twentie sevene yeers, berrid under ye yue tree, Nov. 21, 1754.”
After copying these two entries, I went out into the churchyard to look for Mary Haygarth’s grave.
Under a fine old yew155 — which had been old a hundred years ago, it seems — I found huddled156 amongst other headstones one so incrusted with moss157, that it was only after scraping the parasite159 verdure from the stone with my penknife that I was able to discover the letters that had been cut upon it. I found at last a brief inscription:
“Here lieth ye body of MARY HAYGARTH, aged 27. Born 1727. Died 1754. This stone has been set up by one who sorroweth without hope of consolation160.” A strange epitaph: no scrap158 of Latin, no text from Scripture58, no conventional testimony161 to the virtues162 and accomplishments163 of the departed, no word to tell whether the dead woman had been maid, wife, or widow. It was the most provoking inscription for a lawyer or a genealogist164, but such as might have pleased a poet.
I fancy this Mary Haygarth must have been some quiet creature, with very few friends to sorrow for her loss; perhaps only that one person who sorrowed without hope of consolation.
Such a tombstone might have been set above the grave of that simple maid who dwelt “beside the banks of Dove.”
This is the uttermost that my patience or ingenuity165 can do for me at Spotswold. I have exhausted every possibility of obtaining further information. So, having written and posted my report to Sheldon, I have no more to do but to return to Ullerton. I take back with me nothing but the copy of the two entries in the register of burials. Who this Matthew Haygarth or this Mary Haygarth was, and how related to the Matthew, is an enigma166 not to be solved at Spotswold.
Here the story of the Haygarths ends with the grave under the yew-tree.
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prim
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devoted
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cultivation
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intimacy
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specimen
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brotherhood
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despondently
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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perennial
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rambling
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soddened
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| v.（液体）沸腾( seethe的过去分词 )( sodden的过去分词 )；激动，大怒；强压怒火；生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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12
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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13
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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14
perked
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| （使）活跃( perk的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）增值； 使更有趣 | |
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15
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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16
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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17
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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18
inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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19
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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20
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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21
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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22
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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23
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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24
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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25
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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26
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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27
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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28
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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29
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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30
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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31
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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32
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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34
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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35
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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36
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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37
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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38
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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39
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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40
lankiness
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| n.又瘦又高的，过分细长的 | |
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41
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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42
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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43
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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44
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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45
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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46
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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47
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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48
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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49
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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50
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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51
insidious
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|
| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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52
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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53
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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54
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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55
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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56
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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57
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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58
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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59
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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60
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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61
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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62
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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63
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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64
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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65
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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66
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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67
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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68
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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69
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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70
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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71
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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72
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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73
scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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74
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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75
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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76
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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77
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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78
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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79
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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80
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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81
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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82
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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83
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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84
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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85
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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86
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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87
illuminated
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|
| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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88
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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89
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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90
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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91
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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92
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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93
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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94
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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95
gallant
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|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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96
secrecy
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|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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97
supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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98
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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99
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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100
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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101
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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102
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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103
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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104
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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105
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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106
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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107
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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108
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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109
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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110
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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111
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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112
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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113
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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114
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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115
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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116
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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117
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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118
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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119
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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120
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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121
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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122
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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123
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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125
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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126
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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127
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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128
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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129
crouches
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| n.蹲着的姿势( crouch的名词复数 )v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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131
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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132
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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133
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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134
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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135
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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136
hovering
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|
| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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137
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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138
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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139
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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140
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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141
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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142
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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143
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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144
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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145
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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146
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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147
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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148
interrogate
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| vt.讯问，审问，盘问 | |
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149
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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150
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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151
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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152
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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153
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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154
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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155
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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156
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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157
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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158
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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159
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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160
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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161
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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162
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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163
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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164
genealogist
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| 系谱学者 | |
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165
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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166
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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