At his third long vacation, Esmond came as usual to Castlewood, always feeling an eager thrill of pleasure when he found himself once more in the house where he had passed so many years, and beheld1 the kind familiar eyes of his mistress looking upon him. She and her children (out of whose company she scarce ever saw him) came to greet him. Miss Beatrix was grown so tall that Harry2 did not quite know whether he might kiss her or no; and she blushed and held back when he offered that salutation, though she took it, and even courted it, when they were alone. The young lord was shooting up to be like his gallant3 father in look, though with his mother’s kind eyes: the lady of Castlewood herself seemed grown, too, since Harry saw her — in her look more stately, in her person fuller, in her face still as ever most tender and friendly, a greater air of command and decision than had appeared in that guileless sweet countenance4 which Harry remembered so gratefully. The tone of her voice was so much deeper and sadder when she spoke5 and welcomed him, that it quite startled Esmond, who looked up at her surprised as she spoke, when she withdrew her eyes from him; nor did she ever look at him afterwards when his own eyes were gazing upon her. A something hinting at grief and secret, and filling his mind with alarm undefinable, seemed to speak with that low thrilling voice of hers, and look out of those clear sad eyes. Her greeting to Esmond was so cold that it almost pained the lad, (who would have liked to fall on his knees, and kiss the skirt of her robe, so fond and ardent6 was his respect and regard for her,) and he faltered7 in answering the questions which she, hesitating on her side, began to put to him. Was he happy at Cambridge? Did he study too hard? She hoped not. He had grown very tall, and looked very well.
“He has got a moustache!” cries out Master Esmond.
“Why does he not wear a peruke like my Lord Mohun?” asked Miss Beatrix. “My lord says that nobody wears their own hair.”
“I believe you will have to occupy your old chamber8,” says my lady. “I hope the housekeeper9 has got it ready.”
“Why, mamma, you have been there ten times these three days yourself!” exclaims Frank.
“And she cut some flowers which you planted in my garden — do you remember, ever so many years ago? when I was quite a little girl,” cries out Miss Beatrix, on tiptoe. “And mamma put them in your window.”
“I remember when you grew well after you were ill that you used to like roses,” said the lady, blushing like one of them. They all conducted Harry Esmond to his chamber; the children running before, Harry walking by his mistress hand-inhand.
The old room had been ornamented10 and beautified not a little to receive him. The flowers were in the window in a china vase; and there was a fine new counterpane on the bed, which chatterbox Beatrix said mamma had made too. A fire was crackling on the hearth11, although it was June. My lady thought the room wanted warming; everything was done to make him happy and welcome: “And you are not to be a page any longer, but a gentleman and kinsman12, and to walk with papa and mamma,” said the children. And as soon as his dear mistress and children had left him to himself, it was with a heart overflowing13 with love and gratefulness that he flung himself down on his knees by the side of the little bed, and asked a blessing14 upon those who were so kind to him.
The children, who are always house tell-tales, soon made him acquainted with the little history of the house and family. Papa had been to London twice. Papa often went away now. Papa had taken Beatrix to Westlands, where she was taller than Sir George Harper’s second daughter, though she was two years older. Papa had taken Beatrix and Frank both to Bellminster, where Frank had got the better of Lord Bellminster’s son in a boxing-match — my lord, laughing, told Harry afterwards. Many gentlemen came to stop with papa, and papa had gotten a new game from London, a French game, called a billiard — that the French king played it very well: and the Dowager Lady Castlewood had sent Miss Beatrix a present; and papa had gotten a new chaise, with two little horses, which he drove himself, beside the coach, which mamma went in; and Dr. Tusher was a cross old plague, and they did not like to learn from him at all; and papa did not care about them learning, and laughed when they were at their books, but mamma liked them to learn, and taught them; and “I don’t think papa is fond of mamma,” said Miss Beatrix, with her great eyes. She had come quite close up to Harry Esmond by the time this prattle15 took place, and was on his knee, and had examined all the points of his dress, and all the good or bad features of his homely16 face.
“You shouldn’t say that papa is not fond of mamma,” said the boy, at this confession17. “Mamma never said so; and mamma forbade you to say it, Miss Beatrix.”
’Twas this, no doubt, that accounted for the sadness in Lady Castlewood’s eyes, and the plaintive18 vibrations19 of her voice. Who does not know of eyes, lighted by love once, where the flame shines no more?— of lamps extinguished, once properly trimmed and tended? Every man has such in his house. Such mementoes make our splendidest chambers20 look blank and sad; such faces seen in a day cast a gloom upon our sunshine. So oaths mutually sworn, and invocations of heaven, and priestly ceremonies, and fond belief, and love, so fond and faithful that it never doubted but that it should live for ever, are all of no avail towards making love eternal: it dies, in spite of the banns and the priest; and I have often thought there should be a visitation of the sick for it, and a funeral service, and an extreme unction, and an abi in pace. It has its course, like all mortal things — its beginning, progress, and decay. It buds and it blooms out into sunshine, and it withers21 and ends. Strephon and Chloe languish22 apart; join in a rapture23: and presently you hear that Chloe is crying, and Strephon has broken his crook24 across her back. Can you mend it so as to show no marks of rupture25? Not all the priests of Hymen, not all the incantations to the gods, can make it whole!
Waking up from dreams, books, and visions of college honors, in which for two years, Harry Esmond had been immersed, he found himself, instantly, on his return home, in the midst of this actual tragedy of life, which absorbed and interested him more than all his tutor had taught him. The persons whom he loved best in the world, and to whom he owed most, were living unhappily together. The gentlest and kindest of women was suffering ill usage and shedding tears in secret: the man who made her wretched by neglect, if not by violence, was Harry’s benefactor26 and patron. In houses where, in place of that sacred, inmost flame of love, there is discord27 at the centre, the whole household becomes hypocritical, and each lies to his neighbor. The husband (or it may be the wife) lies when the visitor comes in, and wears a grin of reconciliation28 or politeness before him. The wife lies (indeed, her business is to do that, and to smile, however much she is beaten), swallows her tears, and lies to her lord and master; lies in bidding little Jackey respect dear papa; lies in assuring grandpapa that she is perfectly29 happy. The servants lie, wearing grave faces behind their master’s chair, and pretending to be unconscious of the fighting; and so, from morning till bedtime, life is passed in falsehood. And wiseacres call this a proper regard of morals, and point out Baucis and Philemon as examples of a good life.
If my lady did not speak of her griefs to Harry Esmond, my lord was by no means reserved when in his cups, and spoke his mind very freely, bidding Harry in his coarse way, and with his blunt language, beware of all women as cheats, jades30, jilts, and using other unmistakable monosyllables in speaking of them. Indeed, ’twas the fashion of the day, as I must own; and there’s not a writer of my time of any note, with the exception of poor Dick Steele, that does not speak of a woman as of a slave, and scorn and use her as such. Mr. Pope, Mr. Congreve, Mr. Addison, Mr. Gay, every one of ’em, sing in this key, each according to his nature and politeness, and louder and fouler31 than all in abuse is Dr. Swift, who spoke of them as he treated them, worst of all.
Much of the quarrels and hatred32 which arise between married people come in my mind from the husband’s rage and revolt at discovering that his slave and bedfellow, who is to minister to all his wishes, and is church-sworn to honor and obey him — is his superior; and that HE, and not she, ought to be the subordinate of the twain; and in these controversies33, I think, lay the cause of my lord’s anger against his lady. When he left her, she began to think for herself, and her thoughts were not in his favor. After the illumination, when the love-lamp is put out that anon we spoke of, and by the common daylight we look at the picture, what a daub it looks! what a clumsy effigy34! How many men and wives come to this knowledge, think you? And if it be painful to a woman to find herself mated for life to a boor35, and ordered to love and honor a dullard; it is worse still for the man himself perhaps, whenever in his dim comprehension the idea dawns that his slave and drudge36 yonder is, in truth, his superior; that the woman who does his bidding, and submits to his humor, should be his lord; that she can think a thousand things beyond the power of his muddled37 brains; and that in yonder head, on the pillow opposite to him, lie a thousand feelings, mysteries of thought, latent scorns and rebellions, whereof he only dimly perceives the existence as they look out furtively38 from her eyes: treasures of love doomed39 to perish without a hand to gather them; sweet fancies and images of beauty that would grow and unfold themselves into flower; bright wit that would shine like diamonds could it be brought into the sun: and the tyrant40 in possession crushes the outbreak of all these, drives them back like slaves into the dungeon41 and darkness, and chafes42 without that his prisoner is rebellious43, and his sworn subject undutiful and refractory44. So the lamp was out in Castlewood Hall, and the lord and lady there saw each other as they were. With her illness and altered beauty my lord’s fire for his wife disappeared; with his selfishness and faithlessness her foolish fiction of love and reverence45 was rent away. Love!— who is to love what is base and unlovely? Respect!— who is to respect what is gross and sensual? Not all the marriage oaths sworn before all the parsons, cardinals46, ministers, muftis, and rabbins in the world, can bind47 to that monstrous48 allegiance. This couple was living apart then; the woman happy to be allowed to love and tend her children (who were never of her own good-will away from her), and thankful to have saved such treasures as these out of the wreck49 in which the better part of her heart went down.
These young ones had had no instructors50 save their mother, and Doctor Tusher for their theology occasionally, and had made more progress than might have been expected under a tutor so indulgent and fond as Lady Castlewood. Beatrix could sing and dance like a nymph. Her voice was her father’s delight after dinner. She ruled over the house with little imperial ways, which her parents coaxed51 and laughed at. She had long learned the value of her bright eyes, and tried experiments in coquetry, in corpore vili, upon rustics53 and country squires54, until she should prepare to conquer the world and the fashion. She put on a new ribbon to welcome Harry Esmond, made eyes at him, and directed her young smiles at him, not a little to the amusement of the young man, and the joy of her father, who laughed his great laugh, and encouraged her in her thousand antics. Lady Castlewood watched the child gravely and sadly: the little one was pert in her replies to her mother, yet eager in her protestations of love and promises of amendment55; and as ready to cry (after a little quarrel brought on by her own giddiness) until she had won back her mamma’s favor, as she was to risk the kind lady’s displeasure by fresh outbreaks of restless vanity. From her mother’s sad looks she fled to her father’s chair and boozy laughter. She already set the one against the other: and the little rogue56 delighted in the mischief57 which she knew how to make so early.
The young heir of Castlewood was spoiled by father and mother both. He took their caresses58 as men do, and as if they were his right. He had his hawks59 and his spaniel dog, his little horse and his beagles. He had learned to ride, and to drink, and to shoot flying: and he had a small court, the sons of the huntsman and woodman, as became the heir-apparent, taking after the example of my lord his father. If he had a headache, his mother was as much frightened as if the plague were in the house: my lord laughed and jeered60 in his abrupt61 way —(indeed, ’twas on the day after New Year’s Day, and an excess of mince-pie)— and said with some of his usual oaths —“D— n it, Harry Esmond — you see how my lady takes on about Frank’s megrim. She used to be sorry about me, my boy (pass the tankard, Harry), and to be frightened if I had a headache once. She don’t care about my head now. They’re like that — women are — all the same, Harry, all jilts in their hearts. Stick to college — stick to punch and buttery ale: and never see a woman that’s handsomer than an old cinder-faced bed-maker. That’s my counsel.”
It was my lord’s custom to fling out many jokes of this nature, in presence of his wife and children, at meals — clumsy sarcasms62 which my lady turned many a time, or which, sometimes, she affected63 not to hear, or which now and again would hit their mark and make the poor victim wince64 (as you could see by her flushing face and eyes filling with tears), or which again worked her up to anger and retort, when, in answer to one of these heavy bolts, she would flash back with a quivering reply. The pair were not happy; nor indeed was it happy to be with them. Alas65 that youthful love and truth should end in bitterness and bankruptcy66! To see a young couple loving each other is no wonder; but to see an old couple loving each other is the best sight of all. Harry Esmond became the confidant of one and the other — that is, my lord told the lad all his griefs and wrongs (which were indeed of Lord Castlewood’s own making), and Harry divined my lady’s; his affection leading him easily to penetrate67 the hypocrisy68 under which Lady Castlewood generally chose to go disguised, and see her heart aching whilst her face wore a smile. ’Tis a hard task for women in life, that mask which the world bids them wear. But there is no greater crime than for a woman who is ill used and unhappy to show that she is so. The world is quite relentless69 about bidding her to keep a cheerful face; and our women, like the Malabar wives, are forced to go smiling and painted to sacrifice themselves with their husbands; their relations being the most eager to push them on to their duty, and, under their shouts and applauses, to smother70 and hush71 their cries of pain.
So, into the sad secret of his patron’s household, Harry Esmond became initiated72, he scarce knew how. It had passed under his eyes two years before, when he could not understand it; but reading, and thought, and experience of men, had oldened him; and one of the deepest sorrows of a life which had never, in truth, been very happy, came upon him now, when he was compelled to understand and pity a grief which he stood quite powerless to relieve.
It hath been said my lord would never take the oath of allegiance, nor his seat as a peer of the kingdom of Ireland, where, indeed, he had but a nominal73 estate; and refused an English peerage which King William’s government offered him as a bribe74 to secure his loyalty75.
He might have accepted this, and would doubtless, but for the earnest remonstrances76 of his wife, who ruled her husband’s opinions better than she could govern his conduct, and who being a simple-hearted woman, with but one rule of faith and right, never thought of swerving77 from her fidelity78 to the exiled family, or of recognizing any other sovereign but King James; and though she acquiesced79 in the doctrine80 of obedience81 to the reigning82 power, no temptation, she thought, could induce her to acknowledge the Prince of Orange as rightful monarch83, nor to let her lord so acknowledge him. So my Lord Castlewood remained a nonjuror all his life nearly, though his self-denial caused him many a pang84, and left him sulky and out of humor.
The year after the Revolution, and all through King William’s life, ’tis known there were constant intrigues85 for the restoration of the exiled family; but if my Lord Castlewood took any share of these, as is probable, ’twas only for a short time, and when Harry Esmond was too young to be introduced into such important secrets.
But in the year 1695, when that conspiracy86 of Sir John Fenwick, Colonel Lowick, and others, was set on foot, for waylaying87 King William as he came from Hampton Court to London, and a secret plot was formed, in which a vast number of the nobility and people of honor were engaged, Father Holt appeared at Castlewood, and brought a young friend with him, a gentleman whom ’twas easy to see that both my lord and the Father treated with uncommon88 deference89. Harry Esmond saw this gentleman, and knew and recognized him in after life, as shall be shown in its place; and he has little doubt now that my Lord Viscount was implicated90 somewhat in the transactions which always kept Father Holt employed and travelling hither and thither91 under a dozen of different names and disguises. The Father’s companion went by the name of Captain James; and it was under a very different name and appearance that Harry Esmond afterwards saw him.
It was the next year that the Fenwick conspiracy blew up, which is a matter of public history now, and which ended in the execution of Sir John and many more, who suffered manfully for their treason, and who were attended to Tyburn by my lady’s father Dean Armstrong, Mr. Collier, and other stout92 nonjuring clergymen, who absolved93 them at the gallows-foot.
’Tis known that when Sir John was apprehended94, discovery was made of a great number of names of gentlemen engaged in the conspiracy; when, with a noble wisdom and clemency95, the Prince burned the list of conspirators96 furnished to him, and said he would know no more. Now it was after this that Lord Castlewood swore his great oath, that he would never, so help him heaven, be engaged in any transaction against that brave and merciful man; and so he told Holt when the indefatigable97 priest visited him, and would have had him engage in a farther conspiracy. After this my lord ever spoke of King William as he was — as one of the wisest, the bravest, and the greatest of men. My Lady Esmond (for her part) said she could never pardon the King, first, for ousting98 his father-inlaw from his throne, and secondly99, for not being constant to his wife, the Princess Mary. Indeed, I think if Nero were to rise again, and be king of England, and a good family man, the ladies would pardon him. My lord laughed at his wife’s objections — the standard of virtue100 did not fit him much.
The last conference which Mr. Holt had with his lordship took place when Harry was come home for his first vacation from college (Harry saw his old tutor but for a half-hour, and exchanged no private words with him), and their talk, whatever it might be, left my Lord Viscount very much disturbed in mind — so much so, that his wife, and his young kinsman, Henry Esmond, could not but observe his disquiet101. After Holt was gone, my lord rebuffed Esmond, and again treated him with the greatest deference; he shunned102 his wife’s questions and company, and looked at his children with such a face of gloom and anxiety, muttering, “Poor children — poor children!” in a way that could not but fill those whose life it was to watch him and obey him with great alarm. For which gloom, each person interested in the Lord Castlewood, framed in his or her own mind an interpretation103.
My lady, with a laugh of cruel bitterness said, “I suppose the person at Hexton has been ill, or has scolded him” (for my lord’s infatuation about Mrs. Marwood was known only too well). Young Esmond feared for his money affairs, into the condition of which he had been initiated; and that the expenses, always greater than his revenue, had caused Lord Castlewood disquiet.
One of the causes why my Lord Viscount had taken young Esmond into his special favor was a trivial one, that hath not before been mentioned, though it was a very lucky accident in Henry Esmond’s life. A very few months after my lord’s coming to Castlewood, in the winter time — the little boy, being a child in a petticoat, trotting104 about — it happened that little Frank was with his father after dinner, who fell asleep over his wine, heedless of the child, who crawled to the fire; and, as good fortune would have it, Esmond was sent by his mistress for the boy just as the poor little screaming urchin’s coat was set on fire by a log; when Esmond, rushing forward, tore the dress off the infant, so that his own hands were burned more than the child’s, who was frightened rather than hurt by this accident. But certainly ’twas providential that a resolute105 person should have come in at that instant, or the child had been burned to death probably, my lord sleeping very heavily after drinking, and not waking so cool as a man should who had a danger to face.
Ever after this the father, loud in his expressions of remorse106 and humility107 for being a tipsy good-for-nothing, and of admiration108 for Harry Esmond, whom his lordship would style a hero for doing a very trifling109 service, had the tenderest regard for his son’s preserver, and Harry became quite as one of the family. His burns were tended with the greatest care by his kind mistress, who said that heaven had sent him to be the guardian110 of her children, and that she would love him all her life.
And it was after this, and from the very great love and tenderness which had grown up in this little household, rather than from the exhortations111 of Dean Armstrong (though these had no small weight with him), that Harry came to be quite of the religion of his house and his dear mistress, of which he has ever since been a professing112 member. As for Dr. Tusher’s boasts that he was the cause of this conversion113 — even in these young days Mr. Esmond had such a contempt for the Doctor, that had Tusher bade him believe anything (which he did not — never meddling114 at all), Harry would that instant have questioned the truth on’t.
My lady seldom drank wine; but on certain days of the year, such as birthdays (poor Harry had never a one) and anniversaries, she took a little; and this day, the 29th December, was one. At the end, then, of this year, ‘96, it might have been a fortnight after Mr. Holt’s last visit, Lord Castlewood being still very gloomy in mind, and sitting at table — my lady bidding a servant bring her a glass of wine, and looking at her husband with one of her sweet smiles, said —
“My lord, will you not fill a bumper115 too, and let me call a toast?”
“What is it, Rachel?” says he, holding out his empty glass to be filled.
“’Tis the 29th of December,” says my lady, with her fond look of gratitude116: “and my toast is, ‘Harry — and God bless him, who saved my boy’s life!’”
My lord looked at Harry hard, and drank the glass, but clapped it down on the table in a moment, and, with a sort of groan117, rose up, and went out of the room. What was the matter? We all knew that some great grief was over him.
Whether my lord’s prudence118 had made him richer, or legacies119 had fallen to him, which enabled him to support a greater establishment than that frugal120 one which had been too much for his small means, Harry Esmond knew not; but the house of Castlewood was now on a scale much more costly121 than it had been during the first years of his lordship’s coming to the title. There were more horses in the stable and more servants in the hall, and many more guests coming and going now than formerly122, when it was found difficult enough by the strictest economy to keep the house as befitted one of his lordship’s rank, and the estate out of debt. And it did not require very much penetration123 to find that many of the new acquaintances at Castlewood were not agreeable to the lady there: not that she ever treated them or any mortal with anything but courtesy; but they were persons who could not be welcome to her; and whose society a lady so refined and reserved could scarce desire for her children. There came fuddling squires from the country round, who bawled124 their songs under her windows and drank themselves tipsy with my lord’s punch and ale: there came officers from Hexton, in whose company our little lord was made to hear talk and to drink, and swear too, in a way that made the delicate lady tremble for her son. Esmond tried to console her by saying what he knew of his College experience; that with this sort of company and conversation a man must fall in sooner or later in his course through the world: and it mattered very little whether he heard it at twelve years old or twenty — the youths who quitted mother’s apron-strings the latest being not uncommonly125 the wildest rakes. But it was about her daughter that Lady Castlewood was the most anxious, and the danger which she thought menaced the little Beatrix from the indulgences which her father gave her, (it must be owned that my lord, since these unhappy domestic differences especially, was at once violent in his language to the children when angry, as he was too familiar, not to say coarse, when he was in a good humor,) and from the company into which the careless lord brought the child.
Not very far off from Castlewood is Sark Castle, where the Marchioness of Sark lived, who was known to have been a mistress of the late King Charles — and to this house, whither indeed a great part of the country gentry126 went, my lord insisted upon going, not only himself, but on taking his little daughter and son, to play with the children there. The children were nothing loth, for the house was splendid, and the welcome kind enough. But my lady, justly no doubt, thought that the children of such a mother as that noted127 Lady Sark had been, could be no good company for her two; and spoke her mind to her lord. His own language when he was thwarted128 was not indeed of the gentlest: to be brief, there was a family dispute on this, as there had been on many other points — and the lady was not only forced to give in, for the other’s will was law — nor could she, on account of their tender age, tell her children what was the nature of her objection to their visit of pleasure, or indeed mention to them any objection at all — but she had the additional secret mortification129 to find them returning delighted with their new friends, loaded with presents from them, and eager to be allowed to go back to a place of such delights as Sark Castle. Every year she thought the company there would be more dangerous to her daughter, as from a child Beatrix grew to a woman, and her daily increasing beauty, and many faults of character too, expanded.
It was Harry Esmond’s lot to see one of the visits which the old Lady of Sark paid to the Lady of Castlewood Hall: whither she came in state with six chestnut130 horses and blue ribbons, a page on each carriage step, a gentleman of the horse, and armed servants riding before and behind her. And, but that it was unpleasant to see Lady Castlewood’s face, it was amusing to watch the behavior of the two enemies: the frigid131 patience of the younger lady, and the unconquerable good-humor of the elder — who would see no offence whatever her rival intended, and who never ceased to smile and to laugh, and to coax52 the children, and to pay compliments to every man, woman, child, nay132 dog, or chair and table, in Castlewood, so bent133 was she upon admiring everything there. She lauded134 the children, and wished as indeed she well might — that her own family had been brought up as well as those cherubs135. She had never seen such a complexion136 as dear Beatrix’s — though to be sure she had a right to it from father and mother — Lady Castlewood’s was indeed a wonder of freshness, and Lady Sark sighed to think she had not been born a fair woman; and remarking Harry Esmond, with a fascinating superannuated137 smile, she complimented him on his wit, which she said she could see from his eyes and forehead; and vowed138 that she would never have HIM at Sark until her daughter were out of the way.
收听单词发音 |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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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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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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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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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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20
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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21
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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22
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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23
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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24
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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25
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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26
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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27
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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28
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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29
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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30
jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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31
fouler
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的比较级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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32
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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33
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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34
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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35
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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36
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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37
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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38
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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39
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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40
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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41
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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42
chafes
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的第三人称单数 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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43
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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44
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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45
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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46
cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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47
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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48
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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49
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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50
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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51
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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52
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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53
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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54
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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55
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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56
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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57
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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58
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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59
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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60
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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62
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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63
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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64
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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65
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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66
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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67
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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68
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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69
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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70
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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71
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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72
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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73
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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74
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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75
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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76
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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77
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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78
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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79
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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81
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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82
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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83
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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84
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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85
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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86
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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87
waylaying
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的现在分词 ) | |
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88
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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89
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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90
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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91
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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93
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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94
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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95
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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96
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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97
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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98
ousting
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| 驱逐( oust的现在分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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99
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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100
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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101
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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102
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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104
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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105
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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106
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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107
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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108
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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109
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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110
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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111
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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112
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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113
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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114
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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115
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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116
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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117
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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118
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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119
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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120
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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121
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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122
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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123
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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124
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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125
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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126
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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127
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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128
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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129
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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130
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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131
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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132
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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133
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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134
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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136
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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137
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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138
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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