November 1st. This is Huxter’s Cross, and I live here. I have lived here a week. I should like to live here for ever. O, let me be rational for a few hours, while I write the record of this last blissful week; let me be reasonable, and business-like, and Sheldon-like for this one wet afternoon, and then I may be happy and foolish again. Be still, beating heart! as the heroines of Minerva-press romances were accustomed to say to themselves on the smallest provocation2. Be still, foolish, fluttering, schoolboy heart, which has taken a new lease of youth and folly3 from a fair landlord called Charlotte Halliday.
Drip, drip, drip, O rain! “The day is dark and cold and dreary4, and the vine still clings to the mouldering5 wall; and with every gust6 the dead leaves fall:” but thy sweet sad verse wakes no responsive echo in my heart, O tender Transatlantic Poet, for my heart is light and glad — recklessly glad — heedless of to-morrow — forgetful of yesterday — full to the very brim with the dear delight of to-day.
And now to business. I descend7 from the supernal8 realms of fancy to the dry record of commonplace fact. This day week I arrived at Hidling, after a tedious journey, which, with stoppages at Derby and Normanton, and small delays at obscurer stations, had occupied the greater part of the day. It was dusk when I took my place in the hybrid9 vehicle, half coach, half omnibus, which was to convey me from Hidling to Huxter’s Cross. A transient glimpse at Hidling showed me one long straggling street and a square church-tower. Our road branched off from the straggling street, and in the autumn dusk I could just discover the dim outlines of distant hills encircling a broad waste of moor10.
I have been so steeped in London that this wild barren scene had a charm for me which it could scarcely possess for others. Even the gloom of that dark waste of common land was pleasant to me. I shared the public vehicle with one old woman, who snored peacefully in the remotest corner, while I looked out at the little open window and watched the darkening landscape.
Our drive occupied some hours. We passed two or three little clusters of cottages and homesteads, where the geese screamed and the cocks crowed at our approach, and where a few twinkling tapers11 in upper windows proclaimed the hour of bed-time. At one of these clusters of habitation, a little island of humanity in the waste of wold and moor, we changed horses, with more yo-oh-ing and come-up-ing than would have attended the operation in a civilised country. At this village I heard the native tongue for the first time in all its purity; and for any meaning which it conveyed to my ear I might as well have been listening to the patois12 of agricultural Carthage.
After changing horses, we went up hill, with perpetual groanings, and grumblings, and grindings, and whip-smacking and come-up-ing, for an indefinite period; and then we came to a cluster of cottages, suspended high up in the sharp autumn atmosphere as it seemed to me; and the driver of the vehicle came to my little peephole of a window, and told me with some slight modification14 of the Carthaginian patois that I was “theer.”
I alighted, and found myself at the door of a village inn, with the red light from within shining out upon me where I stood, and a battered15 old sign groaning13 and creaking above my head. For me, who in all my life had been accustomed to find my warmest welcome at an inn, this was to be at home. I paid my fare, took up my carpet-bag, and entered the hostelry.
I found a rosy16-faced landlady17, clean and trim, though a trifle floury as to the arms and apron18. She had emerged from a kitchen, an old-fashioned chamber19 with a floor of red brick; a chamber which was all in a rosy glow with the firelight, and looked like a Dutch picture, as I peeped at it through the open doorway20. There were the most picturesque21 of cakes and loaves heaped on a wooden bench by the hearth22, and the whole aspect of the place was delicious in its homely23 comfort.
“O,” I said to myself, “how much better the northern winds blowing over these untrodden hills, and the odour of home-made loaves, than the booming bells of St. Dunstan’s, and the greasy24 steam of tavern25 chops and steaks!”
My heart warmed to this Yorkshire and these Yorkshire people. Was it for Charlotte’s sake, I wonder, that I was so ready to open my heart to everybody and everything in this unknown land?
A very brief parley26 set me quite at ease with my landlady. Even, the Carthaginian patois became intelligible27 to me after a little experience. I found that I could have a cosy28, cleanly chamber, and be fed and cared for upon terms that seemed absurdly small, even to a person of my limited means. My cordial hostess brought me a meal which was positively29 luxurious30; broiled31 ham and poached eggs, such as one scarcely hopes to see out of a picture of still life; crisp brown cakes fresh from that wonderful oven whose door I had seen yawning open in the Flemish interior below; strong tea and cream — the cream that one reads of in pastoral stories.
I enjoyed my banquet, and then opened my window and looked out at the still landscape, dimly visible in the faint starlight.
I was at the top of a hill — the topmost of an ascending32 range of hills — and to some minds that alone is rapture33. To inhale34 the fresh night air was to drink deeply of an ethereal beverage35. I had never experienced so delicious a sensation since I had stood on the grassy36 battlements of the Chateau37 d’Arques, with the orchards38 and gardens of sunny Normandy spread like a carpet below my feet.
But this hill was loftier than that on which the feudal39 castle rears its crumbling40 towers, and the landscape below me was wilder than verdant41 Normandy.
No words can tell how I rejoiced in this untrodden region — this severance42 from the Strand43 and Temple Bar. I felt as if my old life was falling away from me — like the scales of the lepers who were cleansed44 by the Divine Healer. I felt myself worthier45 to love, or even to be loved by, the bright true-hearted girl whose image fills my heart. Ah, if Heaven gave me that dear angel, I think my old life, my old recklessness, my old want of principle, would drop away from me altogether, and the leper would stand forth46 cleansed and whole. Could I not be happy with her here, among these forgotten hills, these widely scattered47 homesteads? Could I not be happy dissevered eternally from billiard-room and kursaal, race-ground and dancing-rooms? Yes, completely and unreservedly happy — happy as a village curate with seventy pounds a year and a cast-off coat, supplied by the charity of a land too poor to pay its pastors48 the wage of a decent butler — happy as a struggling farmer, though the clay soil of my scanty49 acres were never so sour and stubborn, my landlord never so hard about his rent — happy as a pedlar, with my pack of cheap tawdry wares50 slung51 behind me, and my Charlotte tramping gaily52 by my side.
I breakfasted next morning in a snug53 little parlour behind the bar, where I overheard two carters conversing54 in the Carthaginian patois, to which I became hourly more accustomed. My brisk cheery landlady came in and out while I took my meal; and whenever I could detain her long enough, I tried to engage her in conversation.
I asked her if she had ever heard the name of Meynell; and after profound consideration she replied in the negative.
“I don’t mind hearing aught of folks called Meynell,” she said with more or less of the patois, which I was beginning to understand; “but I haven’t got mooch memory for nee-ams. I might have heard o’ such folks, and not minded t’ nee-am.”
This was rather dispiriting; but I knew that if any record of Christian55 Meynell’s daughter existed at Huxter’s Cross, it was in my power to discover it.
I asked if there was any official in the way of a registrar56 to be found in the village; and found that there was no one more important than an old man who kept the keys of the church. The registers were kept in the vestry, my landlady believed, and the old man was called Jonas Gorles, and lived half a mile off, at the homestead of his son-in-law. But my landlady said she would send for him immediately, and pledged herself to produce him in the course of an hour. I told her that I would find my way to the churchyard in the mean time, whither Mr. Gorles could follow me as soon as convenient.
The autumnal morning was fresh and bright as spring, and Huxter’s Cross seemed the most delightful57 place on earth to me, though it is only a cluster of cottages, relieved by one farmhouse58 of moderate pretensions59, my hostelry of the Magpie60, a general shop, which is also the post-office, and a fine old Norman church, which lies away from the village, and bears upon it the traces of better days. Near the church there is an old granite61 cross, around which the wild flowers and grasses grow rank and high. It marks the spot where there was once a flourishing market-place; but all mortal habitations have vanished, and the Huxter’s Cross of the past has now no other memorial than this crumbling stone.
The churchyard was unutterably still and solitary62. A robin63 was perched on the topmost bar of the old wooden gate, singing his joyous64 carol. As I approached, he hopped65 from the gate to the low moss-grown wall, and went on singing as I passed him. I was in the humour to apostrophise skylark or donkey, or to be sentimental66 about anything in creation, just then; so I told my robin what a pretty creature he was, and that I would sooner perish than hurt him by so much as the tip of a feather.
Being bound to remember my Sheldon even when most sentimental, I endeavoured to combine the meditative67 mood of a Hervey with the business-like sharpness of a lawyer’s clerk; and while musing68 on the common lot of man in general, I did not omit to search the mouldering tombstones for some record of the Meynells in particular.
I found none; and yet, if the daughter of Christian Meynell had been buried in that churchyard, the name of her father would surely have been inscribed69 upon her tombstone. I had read all the epitaphs when the wooden gate creaked on its hinges, and admitted a wizen little old man — one of those ancient meanderers who seem to have been created on purpose to fill the post of sexton.
With this elderly individual I entered the church of Huxter’s Cross, which had the same mouldy atmosphere as the church at Spotswold. The vestry was an icy little chamber, which had once been a family vault70; but it was not much colder than Miss Judson’s best parlour; and I endured the cold bravely while I searched the registries of the last sixty years.
I searched in vain. After groping amongst the names of all the nonentities71 who had been married at Huxter’s Cross since the beginning of the century, I found myself no nearer the secret of Charlotte Meynell’s marriage. And then I reflected upon all the uncertainties72 surrounding that marriage. Miss Meynell had gone to Yorkshire, to visit her mother’s relations, and had married in Yorkshire; and the place which Anthony Sparsfield remembered having heard of in connection with that marriage was Huxter’s Cross. But it did not by any means follow that the marriage had taken place at that obscure village. Miss Meynell might have been married at Hull73, or York, or Leeds, or at any of the principal places of the county. With that citizen class of people marriage was a grand event, a solemn festivity; and Miss Meynell and her friends would have been likely to prefer that so festive74 an occasion should be celebrated75 anywhere rather than at that forgotten old church among the hills. “I shall have to search every register in Yorkshire till I light upon the record I want,” I thought to myself, “unless Sheldon will consent to advertise for the Meynell marriage certificate. There could scarcely be danger in such an advertisement, as the connection between the name of Meynell and the Haygarth estate is only known to ourselves.”
Acting76 upon this idea, I wrote to George Sheldon by that afternoon’s post, urging him to advertise for descendants of Miss Charlotte Meynell.
Charlotte! dear name, which is a kind of music for me. It was almost a pleasure to write that letter, because of the repetition of that delightful noun.
The next day I devoted77 to a drive round the neighbourhood, in a smart little dog-cart, hired on very moderate terms from mine host. I had acquainted myself with the geography of the surrounding country; and I contrived78 to visit every village church within a certain radius79 of Huxter’s Cross. But my inspection80 of mildewed81 old books, and my heroic endurance of cold and damp in mouldy old churches, resulted in nothing but disappointment.
I returned to my “Magpie” after dark a little disheartened and thoroughly82 tired, but still very well pleased with my rustic83 quarters and my adopted county. My landlord’s horse had shown himself a very model of equine perfection.
Candles were lighted and curtains drawn84 in my cosy little chamber, and the table creaked beneath one of those luxurious Yorkshire teas which might wean an alderman from the coarser delights of turtle or conger-eel soup and venison.
At noon the following day a very primitive85 kind of postman brought me a letter from Sheldon. That astute86 individual told me that he declined to advertise, or to give any kind of publicity87 to his requirements.
“If I were not afraid of publicity, I should not be obliged to pay you a pound a week,” he remarked, with pleasing candour, “since advertisements would get me more information in a week than you may scrape together in a twelvemonth. But I happen to know the danger of publicity, and that many a good thing has been snatched out of a man’s hands just as he was working it into shape. I don’t say that this could be done in my case; and you know very well that it could not be done, as I hold papers which are essential to the very first move in the business.”
I perfectly88 understand the meaning of these remarks, and I am inclined to doubt the existence of those important papers. Suspicion is a fundamental principle in the Sheldon mind. My friend George trusts me because he is obliged to trust me — and only so far as he is obliged — and is tormented89, more or less, by the idea that I may at any moment attempt to steal a march upon him.
But to return to his letter:
“I should recommend you to examine the registries of every town or village within, say, thirty miles of Huxter’s Cross. If you find nothing in such registries, we must fall back upon the larger towns, beginning with Hull, as being nearest to our starting-point. The work will, I fear, be slow, and very expensive for me. I need scarcely again urge upon you the necessity of confining your outlay91 to the minimum, as you know that my affairs are desperate. It couldn’t well be lower water than it is with me, in a pecuniary92 sense; and I expect every day to find myself aground.
“And now for my news. I have discovered the burial-place of Samuel Meynell, after no end of trouble, the details of which I needn’t bore you with, since you are now pretty well up in that sort of work. I am thankful to say I have secured the evidence that settles for Samuel, and ascertained93 by tradition that he died unmarried. The onus94 probandi would fall upon any one purporting95 to be descended96 from the said Samuel, and we know how uncommonly97 difficult said person would find it to prove anything.
“So, having disposed of Samuel, I came back to London by the next mail; Calais, in the month of November, not being one of those wildly-gay watering-places which tempt90 the idler. I arrived just in time to catch this afternoon’s post; and now I look impatiently to your Miss Charlotte Meynell, of Huxter’s Cross. — Yours, &c. G.S.”
I obeyed my employer to the letter; hired my landlord’s dog-cart for another day’s exploration; and went further afield in search of Miss Charlotte’s marriage-lines. I came home late at night — this time thoroughly worn out — studied a railway guide with a view to my departure, and decided98 on starting for Hull by a train that would leave Hidling station at four o’clock on the following afternoon.
I went to bed tired in body and depressed99 in spirit. Why was I so sorry to leave Huxter’s Cross? What subtle instinct of the brain or heart made me aware that the desert region amongst the hills held earth’s highest felicity for me?
The next morning was bright and clear. I heard the guns of sportsmen popping merrily in the still air as I breakfasted before an open window, while a noble sea-coal fire blazed on the hearth opposite me. There is no stint100 of fuel at the Magpie. Everything in Yorkshire seems to be done with a lavish101 hand. I have heard Yorkshiremen called mean. As if meanness could exist in the hearts of my Charlotte’s countrymen! My own experience of the county is brief; but I can only say that my friends of the Magpie are liberality itself, and that a Yorkshire tea is the very acme102 of unsophisticated bliss1 in the way of eating and drinking. I have dined at Philippe’s; I know every dish in the menu of the Maison Dorée; but if I am to make my life a burden beneath the dark sway of the demon103 dyspepsia, let my destruction arrive in the shape of the ham and eggs, the crisp golden-brown cakes, and undefiled honey, of this northern Arcadia.
I told my friendly hostess that I was going to leave her, and she was sorry. She was sorry for me, the wanderer. I can picture to myself the countenance104 of a London landlady if informed thus suddenly of her lodger’s departure, and her suppressed mutterings about the ill-convenience of such a proceeding105.
After breakfast I went out to take my own pleasure. I had done my duty in the matter of mouldy churches and mildewed registries; and I considered myself entitled to a holiday during the few hours that must elapse before the starting of the hybrid vehicle for Hidling.
I sauntered past the little cluster of cottages, admiring their primitive aspect, the stone-crop on the red-tiled roofs, that had sunk under the weight of years. All was unspeakably fresh and bright; the tiny panes106 of the casement107 twinkled in the autumn sunlight, birds sang, and hardy108 red geraniums bloomed in the cottage windows. What pleasure or distraction109 had the good housewives of Huxter’s Cross to lure110 them from the domestic delights of scrubbing and polishing? I saw young faces peeping at me from between snow-white muslin curtains, and felt that I was a personage for once in my life; and it was pleasant to feel one’s self of some importance even in the eyes of Huxter’s Cross.
Beyond the cottages and the post-office there were three roads stretching far away over hill and moorland. With two of those roads I had made myself thoroughly familiar; but the third remained to be explored.
“So now for ‘fresh fields and pastures new,’” I said to myself as I quickened my pace, and walked briskly along my unknown road.
Ah, surely there is some meaning in the fluctuations111 of the mental barometer112. What but an instinctive113 consciousness of approaching happiness could have made me so light-hearted that morning? I sang as I hastened along that undiscovered road. Fragments of old Italian serenades and barcarolles came back to me as if I had heard them yesterday for the first time. The perfume of the few lingering wild-flowers, the odour of burning weeds in the distance, the fresh autumn breeze, the clear cold blue sky — all were intensely delicious to me; and I felt as if this one lonely walk were a kind of renovating114 process, from which my soul would emerge cleansed of all its stains.
“I have to thank George Sheldon for a great deal,” I said to myself, “since through him I have been obliged to educate myself in the school of man’s best teacher, Solitude115. I do not think I can ever be a thorough Bohemian again. These lonely wanderings have led me to discover a vein116 of seriousness in my nature which I was ignorant of until now. How thoroughly some men are the creatures of their surroundings! With Paget I have been a Paget. But a few hours tête-à-tête with Nature renders one averse117 from the society of Pagets, be they never so brilliant.”
From moralising thus, I fell into a delicious day-dream. All my dreams of late had moved to the same music. How happy I could be if Fate gave me Charlotte and three hundred a year! In sober moods I asked for this much of worldly wealth, just to furnish a nest for my bird. In my wilder moments I asked Fate for nothing but Charlotte.
“Give me the bird without the nest,” I cried to Fortune; “and we will take wing to some trackless forest where there are shelter and berries for nestless birds. We will imitate that delightful bride and bridegroom of Parisian Bohemia, who married and settled in an attic118, and when their stock of fuel was gone fell foul119 of the staircase that led to their bower120, and so supplied themselves merrily enough till the staircase was all consumed, and the poor little bride, peeping out of her door one morning, found herself upon the verge121 of an abyss.
“And then came the furious landlord, demanding restitution122. But close behind the landlord came the good fairy of all love-stories, with Pactolus in her pocket. Ah, yes, there is always a providence123 for true lovers.”
I had passed away by this time from the barren moor to the regions of cultivation124. The trimly-cut hedges on each side of the way showed me that my road now lay between farm lands. I was outside the boundary of some upland farm. I saw sheep cropping trefoil in a field on the other side of the brown hedgerow, and at a distance I saw the red-tiled roof of a farm-house.
I looked at my watch, and found that I had still half an hour to spare; so I went on towards the farm-house, bent125 upon seeing what sort of habitation it was. In a solitary landscape like this, every dwelling-place has a kind of attraction for the wayfarer126.
I went on till I came to a white gate, against which a girlish figure was leaning.
It was a graceful127 figure, dressed in that semi-picturesque costume which has been adopted by women of late years. The vivid blue of a boddice was tempered by the sober gray of a skirt, and a bright-hued ribbon gleamed among rich tresses of brown hair.
The damsel’s face was turned away from me, but there was something in the carriage of the head, something in the modelling of the firm full throat, which reminded me of —
But then, when a man is over head and ears in love, everything in creation reminds him more or less of his idol128. Your pious129 Catholic gives all his goods for the adornment130 of a church; your true lover devotes his every thought to the dressing131 up of one dear image.
The damsel turned as my steps drew near, loud on the crisp gravel132. She turned, and showed me the face of Charlotte Halliday.
I must entreat133 posterity134 to forgive me, if I leave a blank at this stage of my story. “There are chords in the human heart which had better not be wibrated,” said Sim Tappertit. There are emotions which can only be described by the pen of a poet. I am not a poet; and if my diary is so happy as to be of some use to posterity as a picture of the manners of a repentant135 Bohemian, posterity must not quarrel with my shortcomings in the way of sentimental description.
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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supernal
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| adj.天堂的，天上的；崇高的 | |
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hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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tavern
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parley
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intelligible
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cosy
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positively
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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ascending
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rapture
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inhale
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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42
severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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43
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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44
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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46
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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47
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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48
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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49
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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50
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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51
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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52
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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53
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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54
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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55
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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56
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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57
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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58
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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59
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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60
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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61
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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62
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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63
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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64
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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65
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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66
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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67
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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68
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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69
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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70
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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71
nonentities
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| n.无足轻重的人( nonentity的名词复数 )；蝼蚁 | |
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72
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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73
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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74
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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75
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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76
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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77
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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78
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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79
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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80
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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81
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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83
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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84
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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85
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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86
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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87
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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88
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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89
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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90
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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91
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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92
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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93
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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94
onus
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| n.负担；责任 | |
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95
purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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96
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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97
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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98
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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99
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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100
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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101
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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102
acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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103
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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104
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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105
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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106
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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107
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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108
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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109
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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110
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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111
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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112
barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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113
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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114
renovating
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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115
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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116
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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117
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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118
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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119
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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120
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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121
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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122
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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123
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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124
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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125
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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126
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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127
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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128
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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129
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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130
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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131
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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132
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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133
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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134
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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135
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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