Second Scene.— Vange Abbey.— The Forewarnings
vi.
As we approached the harbor at Folkestone, Romayne’s agitation1 appeared to subside2. His head drooped3; his eyes half closed — he looked like a weary man quietly falling asleep.
On leaving the steamboat, I ventured to ask our charming fellow-passenger if I could be of any service in reserving places in the London train for her mother and herself. She thanked me, and said they were going to visit some friends at Folkestone. In making this reply, she looked at Romayne. “I am afraid he is very ill,” she said, in gently lowered tones. Before I could answer, her mother turned to her with an expression of surprise, and directed her attention to the friends whom she had mentioned, waiting to greet her. Her last look, as they took her away, rested tenderly and sorrowfully on Romayne. He never returned it — he was not even aware of it. As I led him to the train he leaned more and more heavily on my arm. Seated in the carriage, he sank at once into profound sleep.
We drove to the hotel at which my friend was accustomed to reside when he was in London. His long sleep on the journey seemed, in some degree, to have relieved him. We dined together in his private room. When the servants had withdrawn4, I found that the unhappy result of the duel5 was still preying6 on his mind.
“The horror of having killed that man,” he said, “is more than I can bear alone. For God’s sake, don’t leave me!”
I had received letters at Boulogne, which informed me that my wife and family had accepted an invitation to stay with some friends at the sea-side. Under these circumstances I was entirely7 at his service. Having quieted his anxiety on this point, I reminded him of what had passed between us on board the steamboat. He tried to change the subject. My curiosity was too strongly aroused to permit this; I persisted in helping8 his memory.
“We were looking into the engine-room,” I said; “and you asked me what I heard there. You promised to tell me what you heard, as soon as we got on shore —”
He stopped me, before I could say more.
“I begin to think it was a delusion9,” he answered. “You ought not to interpret too literally10 what a person in my dreadful situation may say. The stain of another man’s blood is on me —”
I interrupted him in my turn. “I refuse to hear you speak of yourself in that way,” I said. “You are no more responsible for the Frenchman’s death than if you had been driving, and had accidentally run over him in the street. I am not the right companion for a man who talks as you do. The proper person to be with you is a doctor.” I really felt irritated with him — and I saw no reason for concealing11 it.
Another man, in his place, might have been offended with me. There was a native sweetness in Romayne’s disposition12, which asserted itself even in his worst moments of nervous irritability13. He took my hand.
“Don’t be hard on me,” he pleaded. “I will try to think of it as you do. Make some little concession14 on your side. I want to see how I get through the night. We will return to what I said to you on board the steamboat to-morrow morning. Is it agreed?”
It was agreed, of course. There was a door of communication between our bedrooms. At his suggestion it was left open. “If I find I can’t sleep,” he explained, “I want to feel assured that you can hear me if I call to you.”
Three times in the night I woke, and, seeing the light burning in his room, looked in at him. He always carried some of his books with him when he traveled. On each occasion when I entered the room, he was reading quietly. “I suppose I forestalled15 my night’s sleep on the railway,” he said. “It doesn’t matter; I am content. Something that I was afraid of has not happened. I am used to wakeful nights. Go back to bed, and don’t be uneasy about me.”
The next morning the deferred16 explanation was put off again.
“Do you mind waiting a little longer?” he asked.
“Not if you particularly wish it.”
“Will you do me another favor? You know that I don’t like London. The noise in the streets is distracting. Besides, I may tell you I have a sort of distrust of noise, since —” He stopped, with an appearance of confusion.
“Since I found you looking into the engine-room?” I asked.
“Yes. I don’t feel inclined to trust the chances of another night in London. I want to try the effect of perfect quiet. Do you mind going back with me to Vange? Dull as the place is, you can amuse yourself. There is good shooting, as you know.”
In an hour more we had left London.
vii.
VANGE ABBEY is, I suppose, the most solitary17 country house in England. If Romayne wanted quiet, it was exactly the place for him.
On the rising ground of one of the wildest moors19 in the North Riding of Yorkshire, the ruins of the old monastery20 are visible from all points of the compass. There are traditions of thriving villages clustering about the Abbey, in the days of the monks21, and of hostleries devoted22 to the reception of pilgrims from every part of the Christian23 world. Not a vestige24 of these buildings is left. They were deserted25 by the pious26 inhabitants, it is said, at the time when Henry the Eighth suppressed the monasteries27, and gave the Abbey and the broad lands of Vange to his faithful friend and courtier, Sir Miles Romayne. In the next generation, the son and heir of Sir Miles built the dwelling-house, helping himself liberally from the solid stone walls of the monastery. With some unimportant alterations28 and repairs, the house stands, defying time and weather, to the present day.
At the last station on the railway the horses were waiting for us. It was a lovely moonlight night, and we shortened the distance considerably29 by taking the bridle30 path over the moor18. Between nine and ten o’clock we reached the Abbey.
Years had passed since I had last been Romayne’s guest. Nothing, out of the house or in the house, seemed to have undergone any change in the interval31. Neither the good North-country butler, nor his buxom32 Scotch33 wife, skilled in cookery, looked any older: they received me as if I had left them a day or two since, and had come back again to live in Yorkshire. My well-remembered bedroom was waiting for me; and the matchless old Madeira welcomed us when my host and I met in the inner-hall, which was the ordinary dining-room of the Abbey.
As we faced each other at the well-spread table, I began to hope that the familiar influences of his country home were beginning already to breathe their blessed quiet over the disturbed mind of Romayne. In the presence of his faithful old servants, he seemed to be capable of controlling the morbid34 remorse35 that oppressed him. He spoke36 to them composedly and kindly37; he was affectionately glad to see his old friend once more in the old house.
When we were near the end of our meal, something happened that startled me. I had just handed the wine to Romayne, and he had filled his glass — when he suddenly turned pale, and lifted his head like a man whose attention is unexpectedly roused. No person but ourselves was in the room; I was not speaking to him at the time. He looked round suspiciously at the door behind him, leading into the library, and rang the old-fashioned handbell which stood by him on the table. The servant was directed to close the door.
“Are you cold?” I asked.
“No.” He reconsidered that brief answer, and contradicted himself. “Yes — the library fire has burned low, I suppose.”
In my position at the table, I had seen the fire: the grate was heaped with blazing coals and wood. I said nothing. The pale change in his face, and his contradictory38 reply, roused doubts in me which I had hoped never to feel again.
He pushed away his glass of wine, and still kept his eyes fixed39 on the closed door. His attitude and expression were plainly suggestive of the act of listening. Listening to what?
After an interval, he abruptly40 addressed me. “Do you call it a quiet night?” he said.
“As quiet as quiet can be,” I replied. “The wind has dropped — and even the fire doesn’t crackle. Perfect stillness indoors and out.”
“Out?” he repeated. For a moment he looked at me intently, as if I had started some new idea in his mind. I asked as lightly as I could if I had said anything to surprise him. Instead of answering me, he sprang to his feet with a cry of terror, and left the room.
I hardly knew what to do. It was impossible, unless he returned immediately to let this extraordinary proceeding41 pass without notice. After waiting for a few minutes I rang the bell.
The old butler came in. He looked in blank amazement42 at the empty chair. “Where’s the master?” he asked.
I could only answer that he had left the table suddenly, without a word of explanation. “He may perhaps be ill,” I added. “As his old servant, you can do no harm if you go and look for him. Say that I am waiting here, if he wants me.”
The minutes passed slowly and more slowly. I was left alone for so long a time that I began to feel seriously uneasy. My hand was on the bell again, when there was a knock at the door. I had expected to see the butler. It was the groom43 who entered the room.
“Garthwaite can’t come down to you, sir,” said the man. “He asks, if you will please go up to the master on the Belvidere.”
The house — extending round three sides of a square — was only two stories high. The flat roof, accessible through a species of hatchway, and still surrounded by its sturdy stone parapet, was called “The Belvidere,” in reference as usual to the fine view which it commanded. Fearing I knew not what, I mounted the ladder which led to the roof. Romayne received me with a harsh outburst of laughter — that saddest false laughter which is true trouble in disguise.
“Here’s something to amuse you!” he cried. “I believe old Garthwaite thinks I am drunk — he won’t leave me up here by myself.”
Letting this strange assertion remain unanswered, the butler withdrew. As he passed me on his way to the ladder, he whispered: “Be careful of the master! I tell you, sir, he has a bee in his bonnet44 this night.”
Although not of the north country myself, I knew the meaning of the phrase. Garthwaite suspected that the master was nothing less than mad!
Romayne took my arm when we were alone — we walked slowly from end to end of the Belvidere. The moon was, by this time, low in the heavens; but her mild mysterious light still streamed over the roof of the house and the high heathy ground round it. I looked attentively45 at Romayne. He was deadly pale; his hand shook as it rested on my arm — and that was all. Neither in look nor manner did he betray the faintest sign of mental derangement46. He had perhaps needlessly alarmed the faithful old servant by something that he had said or done. I determined47 to clear up that doubt immediately.
“You left the table very suddenly,” I said. “Did you feel ill?”
“Not ill,” he replied. “I was frightened. Look at me — I’m frightened still.”
“What do you mean?”
Instead of answering, he repeated the strange question which he had put to me downstairs.
“Do you call it a quiet night?”
Considering the time of year, and the exposed situation of the house, the night was almost preternaturally quiet. Throughout the vast open country all round us, not even a breath of air could be heard. The night-birds were away, or were silent at the time. But one sound was audible, when we stood still and listened — the cool quiet bubble of a little stream, lost to view in the valley-ground to the south.
“I have told you already,” I said. “So still a night I never remember on this Yorkshire moor.”
He laid one hand heavily on my shoulder. “What did the poor boy say of me, whose brother I killed?” he asked. “What words did we hear through the dripping darkness of the mist?”
“I won’t encourage you to think of them. I refuse to repeat the words.”
He pointed48 over the northward49 parapet.
“It doesn’t matter whether you accept or refuse,” he said, “I hear the boy at this moment — there!”
He repeated the horrid50 words — marking the pauses in the utterance51 of them with his finger, as if they were sounds that he heard:
“Assassin! Assassin! where are you?”
“Good God!” I cried. “You don’t mean that you really hear the voice?”
“Do you hear what I say? I hear the boy as plainly as you hear me. The voice screams at me through the clear moonlight, as it screamed at me through the sea-fog. Again and again. It’s all round the house. That way now, where the light just touches on the tops of the heather. Tell the servants to have the horses ready the first thing in the morning. We leave Vange Abbey to-morrow.”
These were wild words. If he had spoken them wildly, I might have shared the butler’s conclusion that his mind was deranged52. There was no undue53 vehemence54 in his voice or his manner. He spoke with a melancholy55 resignation — he seemed like a prisoner submitting to a sentence that he had deserved. Remembering the cases of men suffering from nervous disease who had been haunted by apparitions56, I asked if he saw any imaginary figure under the form of a boy.
“I see nothing,” he said; “I only hear. Look yourself. It is in the last degree improbable — but let us make sure that nobody has followed me from Boulogne, and is playing me a trick.”
We made the circuit of the Belvidere. On its eastward57 side the house wall was built against one of the towers of the old Abbey. On the westward58 side, the ground sloped steeply down to a deep pool or tarn59. Northward and southward, there was nothing to be seen but the open moor. Look where I might, with the moonlight to make the view plain to me, the solitude60 was as void of any living creature as if we had been surrounded by the awful dead world of the moon.
“Was it the boy’s voice that you heard on the voyage across the Channel?” I asked.
“Yes, I heard it for the first time — down in the engine-room; rising and falling, rising and falling, like the sound of the engines themselves.”
“And when did you hear it again?”
“I feared to hear it in London. It left me, I should have told you, when we stepped ashore61 out of the steamboat. I was afraid that the noise of the traffic in the streets might bring it back to me. As you know, I passed a quiet night. I had the hope that my imagination had deceived me — that I was the victim of a delusion, as people say. It is no delusion. In the perfect tranquillity62 of this place the voice has come back to me. While we were at table I heard it again — behind me, in the library. I heard it still, when the door was shut. I ran up here to try if it would follow me into the open air. It has followed me. We may as well go down again into the hall. I know now that there is no escaping from it. My dear old home has become horrible to me. Do you mind returning to London tomorrow?”
What I felt and feared in this miserable63 state of things matters little. The one chance I could see for Romayne was to obtain the best medical advice. I sincerely encouraged his idea of going back to London the next day.
We had sat together by the hall fire for about ten minutes, when he took out his handkerchief, and wiped away the perspiration64 from his forehead, drawing a deep breath of relief. “It has gone!” he said faintly.
“When you hear the boy’s voice,” I asked, “do you hear it continuously?”
“No, at intervals65; sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.”
“And thus far, it comes to you suddenly, and leaves you suddenly?”
“Yes.”
“Do my questions annoy you?”
“I make no complaint,” he said sadly. “You can see for yourself — I patiently suffer the punishment that I have deserved.”
I contradicted him at once. “It is nothing of the sort! It’s a nervous malady66, which medical science can control and cure. Wait till we get to London.”
This expression of opinion produced no effect on him.
“I have taken the life of a fellow-creature,” he said. “I have closed the career of a young man who, but for me, might have lived long and happily and honorably. Say what you may, I am of the race of Cain. He had the mark set on his brow. I have my ordeal67. Delude68 yourself, if you like, with false hopes. I can endure — and hope for nothing. Good-night.”
viii.
EARLY the next morning, the good old butler came to me, in great perturbation, for a word of advice.
“Do come, sir, and look at the master! I can’t find it in my heart to wake him.”
It was time to wake him, if we were to go to London that day. I went into the bedroom. Although I was no doctor, the restorative importance of that profound and quiet sleep impressed itself on me so strongly, that I took the responsibility of leaving him undisturbed. The event proved that I had acted wisely. He slept until noon. There was no return of “the torment69 of the voice”— as he called it, poor fellow. We passed a quiet day, excepting one little interruption, which I am warned not to pass over without a word of record in this narrative70.
We had returned from a ride. Romayne had gone into the library to read; and I was just leaving the stables, after a look at some recent improvements, when a pony-chaise with a gentleman in it drove up to the door. He asked politely if he might be allowed to see the house. There were some fine pictures at Vange, as well as many interesting relics72 of antiquity73; and the rooms were shown, in Romayne’s absence, to the very few travelers who were adventurous74 enough to cross the heathy desert that surrounded the Abbey. On this occasion, the stranger was informed that Mr. Romayne was at home. He at once apologized — with an appearance of disappointment, however, which induced me to step forward and speak to him.
“Mr. Romayne is not very well,” I said; “and I cannot venture to ask you into the house. But you will be welcome, I am sure, to walk round the grounds, and to look at the ruins of the Abbey.”
He thanked me, and accepted the invitation. I find no great difficulty in describing him, generally. He was elderly, fat and cheerful; buttoned up in a long black frockcoat, and presenting that closely shaven face and that inveterate75 expression of watchful76 humility77 about the eyes, which we all associate with the reverend personality of a priest.
To my surprise, he seemed, in some degree at least, to know his way about the place. He made straight for the dreary78 little lake which I have already mentioned, and stood looking at it with an interest which was so incomprehensible to me, that I own I watched him.
He ascended79 the slope of the moorland, and entered the gate which led to the grounds. All that the gardeners had done to make the place attractive failed to claim his attention. He walked past lawns, shrubs80, and flower-beds, and only stopped at an old stone fountain, which tradition declared to have been one of the ornaments81 of the garden in the time of the monks. Having carefully examined this relic71 of antiquity, he took a sheet of paper from his pocket, and consulted it attentively. It might have been a plan of the house and grounds, or it might not — I can only report that he took the path which led him, by the shortest way, to the ruined Abbey church.
As he entered the roofless inclosure, he reverently82 removed his hat. It was impossible for me to follow him any further, without exposing myself to the risk of discovery. I sat down on one of the fallen stones, waiting to see him again. It must have been at least half an hour before he appeared. He thanked me for my kindness, as composedly as if he had quite expected to find me in the place that I occupied.
“I have been deeply interested in all that I have seen,” he said. “May I venture to ask, what is perhaps an indiscreet question on the part of a stranger?”
I ventured, on my side, to inquire what the question might be.
“Mr. Romayne is indeed fortunate,” he resumed, “in the possession of this beautiful place. He is a young man, I think?”
“Yes.”
“Is he married?”
“No.”
“Excuse my curiosity. The owner of Vange Abbey is an interesting person to all good antiquaries like myself. Many thanks again. Good-day.”
His pony-chaise took him away. His last look rested — not on me — but on the old Abbey.
ix.
MY record of events approaches its conclusion.
On the next day we returned to the hotel in London. At Romayne’s suggestion, I sent the same evening to my own house for any letters which might be waiting for me. His mind still dwelt on the duel; he was morbidly83 eager to know if any communication had been received from the French surgeon.
When the messenger returned with my letters, the Boulogne postmark was on one of the envelopes. At Romayne’s entreaty84, this was the letter that I opened first. The surgeon’s signature was at the end.
One motive85 for anxiety — on my part — was set at rest in the first lines. After an official inquiry86 into the circumstances, the French authorities had decided87 that it was not expedient88 to put the survivor89 of the duelists on his trial before a court of law. No jury, hearing the evidence, would find him guilty of the only charge that could be formally brought against him — the charge of “homicide by premeditation.” Homicide by misadventure, occurring in a duel, was not a punishable offense90 by the French law. My correspondent cited many cases in proof of it, strengthened by the publicly-expressed opinion of the illustrious Berryer himself. In a word, we had nothing to fear.
The next page of the letter informed us that the police had surprised the card playing community with whom we had spent the evening at Boulogne, and that the much-bejeweled old landlady91 had been sent to prison for the offense of keeping a gambling-house. It was suspected in the town that the General was more or less directly connected with certain disreputable circumstances discovered by the authorities. In any case, he had retired92 from active service.
He and his wife and family had left Boulogne, and had gone away in debt. No investigation93 had thus far succeeded in discovering the place of their retreat.
Reading this letter aloud to Romayne, I was interrupted by him at the last sentence.
“The inquiries94 must have been carelessly made,” he said. “I will see to it myself.”
“What interest can you have in the inquiries?” I exclaimed.
“The strongest possible interest,” he answered. “It has been my one hope to make some little atonement to the poor people whom I have so cruelly wronged. If the wife and children are in distressed95 circumstances (which seems to be only too likely) I may place them beyond the reach of anxiety — anonymously96, of course. Give me the surgeon’s address. I shall write instructions for tracing them at my expense — merely announcing that an Unknown Friend desires to be of service to the General’s family.”
This appeared to me to be a most imprudent thing to do. I said so plainly — and quite in vain. With his customary impetuosity, he wrote the letter at once, and sent it to the post that night.
X.
ON the question of submitting himself to medical advice (which I now earnestly pressed upon him), Romayne was disposed to be equally unreasonable97. But in this case, events declared themselves in my favor.
Lady Berrick’s last reserves of strength had given way. She had been brought to London in a dying state while we were at Vange Abbey. Romayne was summoned to his aunt’s bedside on the third day of our residence at the hotel, and was present at her death. The impression produced on his mind roused the better part of his nature. He was more distrustful of himself, more accessible to persuasion98 than usual. In this gentler frame of mind he received a welcome visit from an old friend, to whom he was sincerely attached. The visit — of no great importance in itself — led, as I have since been informed, to very serious events in Romayne’s later life. For this reason, I briefly99 relate what took place within my own healing.
Lord Loring — well known in society as the head of an old English Catholic family, and the possessor of a magnificent gallery of pictures — was distressed by the change for the worse which he perceived in Romayne when he called at the hotel. I was present when they met, and rose to leave the room, feeling that the two friends might perhaps be embarrassed by the presence of a third person. Romayne called me back. “Lord Loring ought to know what has happened to me,” he said. “I have no heart to speak of it myself. Tell him everything, and if he agrees with you, I will submit to see the doctors.” With those words he left us together.
It is almost needless to say that Lord Loring did agree with me. He was himself disposed to think that the moral remedy, in Romayne’s case, might prove to be the best remedy.
“With submission100 to what the doctors may decide,” his lordship said, “the right thing to do, in my opinion, is to divert our friend’s mind from himself. I see a plain necessity for making a complete change in the solitary life that he has been leading for years past. Why shouldn’t he marry? A woman’s influence, by merely giving a new turn to his thoughts, might charm away that horrible voice which haunts him. Perhaps you think this a merely sentimental101 view of the case? Look at it practically, if you like, and you come to the same conclusion. With that fine estate — and with the fortune which he has now inherited from his aunt — it is his duty to marry. Don’t you agree with me?”
“I agree most cordially. But I see serious difficulties in your lordship’s way. Romayne dislikes society; and, as to marrying, his coldness toward women seems (so far as I can judge) to be one of the incurable102 defects of his character.”
Lord Loring smiled. “My dear sir, nothing of that sort is incurable, if we can only find the right woman.”
The tone in which he spoke suggested to me that he had got “the right woman”— and I took the liberty of saying so. He at once acknowledged that I had guessed right.
“Romayne is, as you say, a difficult subject to deal with,” he resumed. “If I commit the slightest imprudence, I shall excite his suspicion — and there will be an end of my hope of being of service to him. I shall proceed carefully, I can tell you. Luckily, poor dear fellow, he is fond of pictures! It’s quite natural that I should ask him to see some recent additions to my gallery — isn’t it? There is the trap that I set! I have a sweet girl to tempt103 him, staying at my house, who is a little out of health and spirits herself. At the right moment, I shall send word upstairs. She may well happen to look in at the gallery (by the merest accident) just at the time when Romayne is looking at my new pictures. The rest depends, of course, on, the effect she produces. If you knew her, I believe you would agree with me that the experiment is worth trying.”
Not knowing the lady, I had little faith in the success of the experiment. No one, however, could doubt Lord Loring’s admirable devotion to his friend — and with that I was fain to be content.
When Romayne returned to us, it was decided to submit his case to a consultation104 of physicians at the earliest possible moment. When Lord Loring took his departure, I accompanied him to the door of the hotel, perceiving that he wished to say a word more to me in private. He had, it seemed, decided on waiting for the result of the medical consultation before he tried the effect of the young lady’s attractions; and he wished to caution me against speaking prematurely105 of visiting the picture gallery to our friend.
Not feeling particularly interested in these details of the worthy106 nobleman’s little plot, I looked at his carriage, and privately107 admired the two splendid horses that drew it. The footman opened the door for his master, and I became aware, for the first time, that a gentleman had accompanied Lord Loring to the hotel, and had waited for him in the carriage. The gentleman bent108 forward, and looked up from a book that he was reading. To my astonishment109, I recognized the elderly, fat and cheerful priest who had shown such a knowledge of localities, and such an extraordinary interest in Vange Abbey!
It struck me as an odd coincidence that I should see the man again in London, so soon after I had met with him in Yorkshire. This was all I thought about it, at the time. If I had known then, what I know now, I might have dreamed, let us say, of throwing that priest into the lake at Vange, and might have reckoned the circumstance among the wisely-improved opportunities of my life.
To return to the serious interests of the present narrative, I may now announce that my evidence as an eye-witness of events has come to an end. The day after Lord Loring’s visit, domestic troubles separated me, to my most sincere regret, from Romayne. I have only to add, that the foregoing narrative of personal experience has been written with a due sense of responsibility, and that it may be depended on throughout as an exact statement of the truth.
JOHN PHILIP HYND, (late Major, 110th Regiment).
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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preying
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| v.掠食( prey的现在分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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helping
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delusion
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literally
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concealing
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disposition
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irritability
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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19
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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32
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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33
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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36
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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41
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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42
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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43
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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44
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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48
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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52
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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67
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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69
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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76
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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77
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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78
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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79
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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81
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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83
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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84
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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85
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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86
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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87
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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88
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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89
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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92
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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94
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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96
anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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97
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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98
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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99
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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100
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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101
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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102
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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103
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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104
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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105
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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106
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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107
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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108
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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109
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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