I have always been much interested by the traditions which are scattered1 up and down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the national spelling of the name), and I fully2 enter into the feeling which makes the Welsh peasant still look upon him as the hero of his country. There was great joy among many of the inhabitants of the principality, when the subject of the Welsh prize poem at Oxford3, some fifteen or sixteen years ago, was announced to be “Owain Glendwr.” It was the most proudly national subject that had been given for years.
Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even in the present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate4 countrymen for his magical powers as for his patriotism5. He says himself—or Shakespeare says it for him, which is much the same thing—
‘At my nativity
Of burning cressets . . . .
. . . . I can call spirits from the vasty deep.’
And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of asking Hotspur’s irreverent question in reply.
Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welsh hero’s character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to this tale. When Sir David Gam, “as black a traitor7 as if he had been born in Builth,” sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one with him whose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with his enemies. Rhys ap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his more than brother, had consented unto his blood. Sir David Gam might be forgiven, but one whom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never be forgiven. Glendwr was too deeply read in the human heart to kill him. No, he let him live on, the loathing8 and scorn of his compatriots, and the victim of bitter remorse9. The mark of Cain was upon him.
But before he went forth10—while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering11 beneath his conscience before Owain Glendwr—that chieftain passed a doom12 upon him and his race:
“I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt13 pray for death. Thou shalt live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn of all good men. The very children shall point to thee with hissing14 tongue, and say, ‘There goes one who would have shed a brother’s blood!’ For I loved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live on to see all of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by the sword. Thy race shall be accursed. Each generation shall see their lands melt away like snow; yea their wealth shall vanish, though they may labour night and day to heap up gold. And when nine generations have passed from the face of the earth, thy blood shall no longer flow in the veins15 of any human being. In those days the last male of thy race shall avenge16 me. The son shall slay17 the father.”
Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr’s speech to his once-trusted friend. And it was declared that the doom had been fulfilled in all things; that live in as miserly a manner as they would, the Griffiths never were wealthy and prosperous—indeed that their worldly stock diminished without any visible cause.
But the lapse18 of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring power of the whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards19 of Memory when some untoward20 event happened to the Griffiths family; and in the eighth generation the faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, by the marriage of the Griffiths of that day, to a Miss Owen, who, unexpectedly, by the death of a brother, became an heiress—to no considerable amount, to be sure, but enough to make the prophecy appear reversed. The heiress and her husband removed from his small patrimonial22 estate in Merionethshire, to her heritage in Caernarvonshire, and for a time the prophecy lay dormant23.
If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial church of Ynysynhanarn, situated24 in a boggy25 valley running from the mountains, which shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay. This tract26 of land has every appearance of having been redeemed27 at no distant period of time from the sea, and has all the desolate28 rankness often attendant upon such marshes29. But the valley beyond, similar in character, had yet more of gloom at the time of which I write. In the higher part there were large plantations30 of firs, set too closely to attain31 any size, and remaining stunted32 in height and scrubby in appearance. Indeed, many of the smaller and more weakly had died, and the bark had fallen down on the brown soil neglected and unnoticed. These trees had a ghastly appearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim light which struggled through the thick boughs33 above. Nearer to the sea, the valley assumed a more open, though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked dark and overhung by sea-fog through the greater part of the year, and even a farm-house, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to a landscape, failed to do so here. This valley formed the greater part of the estate to which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his wife. In the higher part of the valley was situated the family mansion34, or rather dwelling35-house, for “mansion” is too grand a word to apply to the clumsy, but substantially-built Bodowen. It was square and heavy-looking, with just that much pretension36 to ornament37 necessary to distinguish it from the mere38 farm-house.
In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her husband two sons—Llewellyn, the future Squire39, and Robert, who was early destined40 for the Church. The only difference in their situation, up to the time when Robert was entered at Jesus College, was, that the elder was invariably indulged by all around him, while Robert was thwarted41 and indulged by turns; that Llewellyn never learned anything from the poor Welsh parson, who was nominally42 his private tutor; while occasionally Squire Griffiths made a great point of enforcing Robert’s diligence, telling him that, as he had his bread to earn, he must pay attention to his learning. There is no knowing how far the very irregular education he had received would have carried Robert through his college examinations; but, luckily for him in this respect, before such a trial of his learning came round, he heard of the death of his elder brother, after a short illness, brought on by a hard drinking-bout. Of course, Robert was summoned home, and it seemed quite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for him to “earn his bread by his learning,” that he should not return to Oxford. So the half-educated, but not unintelligent, young man continued at home, during the short remainder of his parent’s lifetime.
His was not an uncommon43 character. In general he was mild, indolent, and easily managed; but once thoroughly44 roused, his passions were vehement45 and fearful. He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in common hardly dared to give way to justifiable46 anger—so much did he dread47 losing his self-control. Had he been judiciously48 educated, he would, probably, have distinguished49 himself in those branches of literature which call for taste and imagination, rather than any exertion50 of reflection or judgment51. As it was, his literary taste showed itself in making collections of Cambrian antiquities52 of every description, till his stock of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. Pugh himself, had he been alive at the time of which I write.
There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted to note, and which was peculiar53 among his class. He was no hard drinker; whether it was that his head was easily affected54, or that his partially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication55 and its attendant circumstances, I cannot say; but at five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths was habitually56 sober—a thing so rare in Llyn, that he was almost shunned57 as a churlish, unsociable being, and paused much of his time in solitude58.
About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the Caernarvon assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of his agent, a shrewd, sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had charms enough to captivate Robert Griffiths. Though he remained only a few days at her father’s house, they were sufficient to decide his affections, and short was the period allowed to elapse before he brought home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. Griffiths was a gentle, yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of whom, nevertheless, she stood something in awe60, partly arising from the difference in their ages, partly from his devoting much time to studies of which she could understand nothing.
She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called Augharad after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years in the household of Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all declared that the cradle would not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son and heir. His birth was soon followed by his mother’s death: she had been ailing61 and low-spirited during her pregnancy62, and she seemed to lack the buoyancy of body and mind requisite63 to bring her round after her time of trial. Her husband, who loved her all the more from having few other claims on his affections, was deeply grieved by her early death, and his only comforter was the sweet little boy whom she had left behind. That part of the squire’s character, which was so tender, and almost feminine, seemed called forth by the helpless situation of the little infant, who stretched out his arms to his father with the same earnest cooing that happier children make use of to their mother alone. Augharad was almost neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still next to his father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so accustomed to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By night and by day Owen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing years seemed only to confirm the custom. It was an unnatural64 life for the child, seeing no bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharad was, as I said before, five or six years older, and her face, poor motherless girl! was often anything but bright), hearing no din59 of clear ringing voices, but day after day sharing the otherwise solitary65 hours of his father, whether in the dim room, surrounded by wizard-like antiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his “tada” in his mountain rambles66 or shooting excursions. When the pair came to some little foaming67 brook68, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, the father carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when the lad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father’s arms, or the Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy was indulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish of sharing his meals and keeping the same hours. All this indulgence did not render Owen unamiable, but it made him wilful69, and not a happy child. He had a thoughtful look, not common to the face of a young boy. He knew no games, no merry sports; his information was of an imaginative and speculative70 character. His father delighted to interest him in his own studies, without considering how far they were healthy for so young a mind.
Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware71 of the prophecy which was to be fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it when among his friends, with sceptical levity72; but in truth it lay nearer to his heart than he chose to acknowledge. His strong imagination rendered him peculiarly impressible on such subjects; while his judgment, seldom exercised or fortified73 by severe thought, could not prevent his continually recurring74 to it. He used to gaze on the half-sad countenance75 of the child, who sat looking up into his face with his large dark eyes, so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the old legend swelled76 around his heart, and became too painful for him not to require sympathy. Besides, the overpowering love he bore to the child seemed to demand fuller vent21 than tender words; it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid77 its object for the fearful contrast foretold78. Still Squire Griffiths told the legend, in a half-jesting manner, to his little son, when they were roaming over the wild heaths in the autumn days, “the saddest of the year,” or while they sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics79 that gleamed strangely forth by the flickering80 fire-light. The legend was wrought81 into the boy’s mind, and he would crave82, yet tremble, to hear it told over and over again, while the words were intermingled with caresses84 and questions as to his love. Occasionally his loving words and actions were cut short by his father’s light yet bitter speech—“Get thee away, my lad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this love.”
When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of the parish in which Bodowen was situated, endeavoured to prevail on Squire Griffiths to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had many congenial tastes with his parishioner, and was his only intimate; and, by repeated arguments, he succeeded in convincing the Squire that the unnatural life Owen was leading was in every way injurious. Unwillingly86 was the father wrought to part from his son; but he did at length send him to the Grammar School at Bangor, then under the management of an excellent classic. Here Owen showed that he had more talents than the rector had given him credit for, when he affirmed that the lad had been completely stupefied by the life he led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do credit to the school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it was famous. But he was not popular among his schoolfellows. He was wayward, though, to a certain degree, generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle, except when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar in character to those of his father) forced their way.
On his return from school one Christmas-time, when he had been a year or so at Bangor, he was stunned87 by hearing that the undervalued Augharad was about to be married to a gentleman of South Wales, residing near Aberystwith. Boys seldom appreciate their sisters; but Owen thought of the many slights with which he had requited88 the patient Augharad, and he gave way to bitter regrets, which, with a selfish want of control over his words, he kept expressing to his father, until the Squire was thoroughly hurt and chagrined89 at the repeated exclamations90 of “What shall we do when Augharad is gone?” “How dull we shall be when Augharad is married!” Owen’s holidays were prolonged a few weeks, in order that he might be present at the wedding; and when all the festivities were over, and the bride and bridegroom had left Bodowen, the boy and his father really felt how much they missed the quiet, loving Augharad. She had performed so many thoughtful, noiseless little offices, on which their daily comfort depended; and now she was gone, the household seemed to miss the spirit that peacefully kept it in order; the servants roamed about in search of commands and directions, the rooms had no longer the unobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheerful, the very fires burned dim, and were always sinking down into dull heaps of gray ashes. Altogether Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and this also the mortified92 parent perceived. Squire Griffiths was a selfish parent.
Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen usually received one during his half-yearly absences from home, and occasionally his father paid him a visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor even a letter, till very near the time of his leaving school, and then he was astounded93 by the intelligence that his father was married again.
Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more disastrous94 in its effects upon his character because it could find no vent in action. Independently of slight to the memory of the first wife which children are so apt to fancy such an action implies, Owen had hitherto considered himself (and with justice) the first object of his father’s life. They had been so much to each other; and now a shapeless, but too real something had come between him and his father there for ever. He felt as if his permission should have been asked, as if he should have been consulted. Certainly he ought to have been told of the intended event. So the Squire felt, and hence his constrained95 letter which had so much increased the bitterness of Owen’s feelings.
With all this anger, when Owen saw his stepmother, he thought he had never seen so beautiful a woman for her age; for she was no longer in the bloom of youth, being a widow when his father married her. Her manners, to the Welsh lad, who had seen little of female grace among the families of the few antiquarians with whom his father visited, were so fascinating that he watched her with a sort of breathless admiration96. Her measured grace, her faultless movements, her tones of voice, sweet, till the ear was sated with their sweetness, made Owen less angry at his father’s marriage. Yet he felt, more than ever, that the cloud was between him and his father; that the hasty letter he had sent in answer to the announcement of his wedding was not forgotten, although no allusion97 was ever made to it. He was no longer his father’s confidant—hardly ever his father’s companion, for the newly-married wife was all in all to the Squire, and his son felt himself almost a cipher98, where he had so long been everything. The lady herself had ever the softest consideration for her stepson; almost too obtrusive91 was the attention paid to his wishes, but still he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning advances. There was a watchful99 glance of the eye that Owen once or twice caught when she had imagined herself unobserved, and many other nameless little circumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of want of sincerity100 in his stepmother. Mrs. Owen brought with her into the family her little child by her first husband, a boy nearly three years old. He was one of those elfish, observant, mocking children, over whose feelings you seem to have no control: agile101 and mischievous102, his little practical jokes, at first performed in ignorance of the pain he gave, but afterward103 proceeding104 to a malicious105 pleasure in suffering, really seemed to afford some ground to the superstitious106 notion of some of the common people that he was a fairy changeling.
Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he became more observant. He saw, even in his occasional visits at home (for from school he had passed on to college), that a great change had taken place in the outward manifestations107 of his father’s character; and, by degrees, Owen traced this change to the influence of his stepmother; so slight, so imperceptible to the common observer, yet so resistless in its effects. Squire Griffiths caught up his wife’s humbly108 advanced opinions, and, unawares to himself, adopted them as his own, defying all argument and opposition109. It was the same with her wishes; they met their fulfilment, from the extreme and delicate art with which she insinuated110 them into her husband’s mind, as his own. She sacrificed the show of authority for the power. At last, when Owen perceived some oppressive act in his father’s conduct toward his dependants111, or some unaccountable thwarting112 of his own wishes, he fancied he saw his stepmother’s secret influence thus displayed, however much she might regret the injustice113 of his father’s actions in her conversations with him when they were alone. His father was fast losing his temperate114 habits, and frequent intoxication soon took its usual effect upon the temper. Yet even here was the spell of his wife upon him. Before her he placed a restraint upon his passion, yet she was perfectly115 aware of his irritable116 disposition117, and directed it hither and thither118 with the same apparent ignorance of the tendency of her words.
Meanwhile Owen’s situation became peculiarly mortifying119 to a youth whose early remembrances afforded such a contrast to his present state. As a child, he had been elevated to the consequence of a man before his years gave any mental check to the selfishness which such conduct was likely to engender120; he could remember when his will was law to the servants and dependants, and his sympathy necessary to his father: now he was as a cipher in his father’s house; and the Squire, estranged121 in the first instance by a feeling of the injury he had done his son in not sooner acquainting him with his purposed marriage, seemed rather to avoid than to seek him as a companion, and too frequently showed the most utter indifference122 to the feelings and wishes which a young man of a high and independent spirit might be supposed to indulge.
Perhaps Owen was not fully aware of the force of all these circumstances; for an actor in a family drama is seldom unimpassioned enough to be perfectly observant. But he became moody123 and soured; brooding over his unloved existence, and craving124 with a human heart after sympathy.
This feeling took more full possession of his mind when he had left college, and returned home to lead an idle and purposeless life. As the heir, there was no worldly necessity for exertion: his father was too much of a Welsh squire to dream of the moral necessity, and he himself had not sufficient strength of mind to decide at once upon abandoning a place and mode of life which abounded125 in daily mortifications; yet to this course his judgment was slowly tending, when some circumstances occurred to detain him at Bodowen.
It was not to be expected that harmony would long be preserved, even in appearance, between an unguarded and soured young man, such as Owen, and his wary126 stepmother, when he had once left college, and come, not as a visitor, but as the heir to his father’s house. Some cause of difference occurred, where the woman subdued127 her hidden anger sufficiently128 to become convinced that Owen was not entirely129 the dupe she had believed him to be. Henceforward there was no peace between them. Not in vulgar altercations130 did this show itself; but in moody reserve on Owen’s part, and in undisguised and contemptuous pursuance of her own plans by his stepmother. Bodowen was no longer a place where, if Owen was not loved or attended to, he could at least find peace, and care for himself: he was thwarted at every step, and in every wish, by his father’s desire, apparently131, while the wife sat by with a smile of triumph on her beautiful lips.
So Owen went forth at the early day dawn, sometimes roaming about on the shore or the upland, shooting or fishing, as the season might be, but oftener “stretched in indolent repose132” on the short, sweet grass, indulging in gloomy and morbid133 reveries. He would fancy that this mortified state of existence was a dream, a horrible dream, from which he should awake and find himself again the sole object and darling of his father. And then he would start up and strive to shake off the incubus134. There was the molten sunset of his childish memory; the gorgeous crimson135 piles of glory in the west, fading away into the cold calm light of the rising moon, while here and there a cloud floated across the western heaven, like a seraph’s wing, in its flaming beauty; the earth was the same as in his childhood’s days, full of gentle evening sounds, and the harmonies of twilight—the breeze came sweeping136 low over the heather and blue-bells by his side, and the turf was sending up its evening incense137 of perfume. But life, and heart, and hope were changed for ever since those bygone days!
Or he would seat himself in a favourite niche138 of the rocks on Moel Gêst, hidden by a stunted growth of the whitty, or mountain-ash, from general observation, with a rich-tinted cushion of stone-crop for his feet, and a straight precipice139 of rock rising just above. Here would he sit for hours, gazing idly at the bay below with its back-ground of purple hills, and the little fishing-sail on its bosom140, showing white in the sunbeam, and gliding141 on in such harmony with the quiet beauty of the glassy sea; or he would pull out an old school-volume, his companion for years, and in morbid accordance with the dark legend that still lurked142 in the recesses143 of his mind—a shape of gloom in those innermost haunts awaiting its time to come forth in distinct outline—would he turn to the old Greek dramas which treat of a family foredoomed by an avenging144 Fate. The worn page opened of itself at the play of the Œdipus Tyrannus, and Owen dwelt with the craving disease upon the prophecy so nearly resembling that which concerned himself. With his consciousness of neglect, there was a sort of self-flattery in the consequence which the legend gave him. He almost wondered how they durst, with slights and insults, thus provoke the Avenger145.
The days drifted onward146. Often he would vehemently147 pursue some sylvan148 sport, till thought and feeling were lost in the violence of bodily exertion. Occasionally his evenings were spent at a small public-house, such as stood by the unfrequented wayside, where the welcome, hearty149, though bought, seemed so strongly to contrast with the gloomy negligence150 of home—unsympathising home.
One evening (Owen might be four or five-and-twenty), wearied with a day’s shooting on the Clenneny Moors151, he passed by the open door of “The Goat” at Penmorfa. The light and the cheeriness within tempted152 him, poor self-exhausted153 man! as it has done many a one more wretched in worldly circumstances, to step in, and take his evening meal where at least his presence was of some consequence. It was a busy day in that little hostel154. A flock of sheep, amounting to some hundreds, had arrived at Penmorfa, on their road to England, and thronged155 the space before the house. Inside was the shrewd, kind-hearted hostess, bustling156 to and fro, with merry greetings for every tired drover who was to pass the night in her house, while the sheep were penned in a field close by. Ever and anon, she kept attending to the second crowd of guests, who were celebrating a rural wedding in her house. It was busy work to Martha Thomas, yet her smile never flagged; and when Owen Griffiths had finished his evening meal she was there, ready with a hope that it had done him good, and was to his mind, and a word of intelligence that the wedding-folk were about to dance in the kitchen, and the harper was the famous Edward of Corwen.
Owen, partly from good-natured compliance157 with his hostess’s implied wish, and partly from curiosity, lounged to the passage which led to the kitchen—not the every-day, working, cooking kitchen, which was behind, but a good-sized room, where the mistress sat, when her work was done, and where the country people were commonly entertained at such merry-makings as the present. The lintels of the door formed a frame for the animated158 picture which Owen saw within, as he leaned against the wall in the dark passage. The red light of the fire, with every now and then a falling piece of turf sending forth a fresh blaze, shone full upon four young men who were dancing a measure something like a Scotch159 reel, keeping admirable time in their rapid movements to the capital tune160 the harper was playing. They had their hats on when Owen first took his stand, but as they grew more and more animated they flung them away, and presently their shoes were kicked off with like disregard to the spot where they might happen to alight. Shouts of applause followed any remarkable161 exertion of agility162, in which each seemed to try to excel his companions. At length, wearied and exhausted, they sat down, and the harper gradually changed to one of those wild, inspiring national airs for which he was so famous. The thronged audience sat earnest and breathless, and you might have heard a pin drop, except when some maiden163 passed hurriedly, with flaring164 candle and busy look, through to the real kitchen beyond. When he had finished his beautiful theme on “The March of the men of Harlech,” he changed the measure again to “Tri chant o’ bunnan” (Three hundred pounds), and immediately a most unmusical-looking man began chanting “Pennillion,” or a sort of recitative stanzas165, which were soon taken up by another, and this amusement lasted so long that Owen grew weary, and was thinking of retreating from his post by the door, when some little bustle166 was occasioned, on the opposite side of the room, by the entrance of a middle-aged167 man, and a young girl, apparently his daughter. The man advanced to the bench occupied by the seniors of the party, who welcomed him with the usual pretty Welsh greeting, “Pa sut mae dy galon?” (“How is thy heart?”) and drinking his health passed on to him the cup of excellent cwrw. The girl, evidently a village belle168, was as warmly greeted by the young men, while the girls eyed her rather askance with a half-jealous look, which Owen set down to the score of her extreme prettiness. Like most Welsh women, she was of middle size as to height, but beautifully made, with the most perfect yet delicate roundness in every limb. Her little mob-cap was carefully adjusted to a face which was excessively pretty, though it never could be called handsome. It also was round, with the slightest tendency to the oval shape, richly coloured, though somewhat olive in complexion169, with dimples in cheek and chin, and the most scarlet170 lips Owen had ever seen, that were too short to meet over the small pearly teeth. The nose was the most defective171 feature; but the eyes were splendid. They were so long, so lustrous172, yet at times so very soft under their thick fringe of eyelash! The nut-brown hair was carefully braided beneath the border of delicate lace: it was evident the little village beauty knew how to make the most of all her attractions, for the gay colours which were displayed in her neckerchief were in complete harmony with the complexion.
Owen was much attracted, while yet he was amused, by the evident coquetry the girl displayed, collecting around her a whole bevy173 of young fellows, for each of whom she seemed to have some gay speech, some attractive look or action. In a few minutes young Griffiths of Bodowen was at her side, brought thither by a variety of idle motives174, and as her undivided attention was given to the Welsh heir, her admirers, one by one, dropped off, to seat themselves by some less fascinating but more attentive175 fair one. The more Owen conversed176 with the girl, the more he was taken; she had more wit and talent than he had fancied possible; a self-abandon and thoughtfulness, to boot, that seemed full of charms; and then her voice was so clear and sweet, and her actions so full of grace, that Owen was fascinated before he was well aware, and kept looking into her bright, blushing face, till her uplifted flashing eye fell beneath his earnest gaze.
While it thus happened that they were silent—she from confusion at the unexpected warmth of his admiration, he from an unconsciousness of anything but the beautiful changes in her flexile countenance—the man whom Owen took for her father came up and addressed some observation to his daughter, from whence he glided177 into some commonplace though respectful remark to Owen, and at length engaging him in some slight, local conversation, he led the way to the account of a spot on the peninsula of Penthryn, where teal abounded, and concluded with begging Owen to allow him to show him the exact place, saying that whenever the young Squire felt so inclined, if he would honour him by a call at his house, he would take him across in his boat. While Owen listened, his attention was not so much absorbed as to be unaware that the little beauty at his side was refusing one or two who endeavoured to draw her from her place by invitations to dance. Flattered by his own construction of her refusals, he again directed all his attention to her, till she was called away by her father, who was leaving the scene of festivity. Before he left he reminded Owen of his promise, and added—
“Perhaps, sir, you do not know me. My name is Ellis Pritchard, and I live at Ty Glas, on this side of Moel Gêst; anyone can point it out to you.”
When the father and daughter had left, Owen slowly prepared for his ride home; but encountering the hostess, he could not resist asking a few questions relative to Ellis Pritchard and his pretty daughter. She answered shortly but respectfully, and then said, rather hesitatingly—
“Master Griffiths, you know the triad, ‘Tri pheth tebyg y naill i’r llall, ysgnbwr heb yd, mail deg heb ddiawd, a merch deg heb ei geirda’ (Three things are alike: a fine barn without corn, a fine cup without drink, a fine woman without her reputation).” She hastily quitted him, and Owen rode slowly to his unhappy home.
Ellis Pritchard, half farmer and half fisherman, was shrewd, and keen, and worldly; yet he was good-natured, and sufficiently generous to have become rather a popular man among his equals. He had been struck with the young Squire’s attention to his pretty daughter, and was not insensible to the advantages to be derived178 from it. Nest would not be the first peasant girl, by any means, who had been transplanted to a Welsh manor-house as its mistress; and, accordingly, her father had shrewdly given the admiring young man some pretext179 for further opportunities of seeing her.
As for Nest herself, she had somewhat of her father’s worldliness, and was fully alive to the superior station of her new admirer, and quite prepared to slight all her old sweethearts on his account. But then she had something more of feeling in her reckoning; she had not been insensible to the earnest yet comparatively refined homage180 which Owen paid her; she had noticed his expressive181 and occasionally handsome countenance with admiration, and was flattered by his so immediately singling her out from her companions. As to the hint which Martha Thomas had thrown out, it is enough to say that Nest was very giddy, and that she was motherless. She had high spirits and a great love of admiration, or, to use a softer term, she loved to please; men, women, and children, all, she delighted to gladden with her smile and voice. She coquetted, and flirted182, and went to the extreme lengths of Welsh courtship, till the seniors of the village shook their heads, and cautioned their daughters against her acquaintance. If not absolutely guilty, she had too frequently been on the verge184 of guilt183.
Even at the time, Martha Thomas’s hint made but little impression on Owen, for his senses were otherwise occupied; but in a few days the recollection thereof had wholly died away, and one warm glorious summer’s day, he bent185 his steps toward Ellis Pritchard’s with a beating heart; for, except some very slight flirtations at Oxford, Owen had never been touched; his thoughts, his fancy, had been otherwise engaged.
Ty Glas was built against one of the lower rocks of Moel Gêst, which, indeed, formed a side to the low, lengthy186 house. The materials of the cottage were the shingly187 stones which had fallen from above, plastered rudely together, with deep recesses for the small oblong windows. Altogether, the exterior188 was much ruder than Owen had expected; but inside there seemed no lack of comforts. The house was divided into two apartments, one large, roomy, and dark, into which Owen entered immediately; and before the blushing Nest came from the inner chamber189 (for she had seen the young Squire coming, and hastily gone to make some alteration190 in her dress), he had had time to look around him, and note the various little particulars of the room. Beneath the window (which commanded a magnificent view) was an oaken dresser, replete191 with drawers and cupboards, and brightly polished to a rich dark colour. In the farther part of the room Owen could at first distinguish little, entering as he did from the glaring sunlight, but he soon saw that there were two oaken beds, closed up after the manner of the Welsh: in fact, the domitories of Ellis Pritchard and the man who served under him, both on sea and on land. There was the large wheel used for spinning wool, left standing192 on the middle of the floor, as if in use only a few minutes before; and around the ample chimney hung flitches of bacon, dried kids’-flesh, and fish, that was in process of smoking for winter’s store.
Before Nest had shyly dared to enter, her father, who had been mending his nets down below, and seen Owen winding193 up to the house, came in and gave him a hearty yet respectful welcome; and then Nest, downcast and blushing, full of the consciousness which her father’s advice and conversation had not failed to inspire, ventured to join them. To Owen’s mind this reserve and shyness gave her new charms.
It was too bright, too hot, too anything to think of going to shoot teal till later in the day, and Owen was delighted to accept a hesitating invitation to share the noonday meal. Some ewe-milk cheese, very hard and dry, oat-cake, slips of the dried kids’-flesh broiled194, after having been previously195 soaked in water for a few minutes, delicious butter and fresh butter-milk, with a liquor called “diod griafol” (made from the berries of the Sorbus aucuparia, infused in water and then fermented), composed the frugal196 repast; but there was something so clean and neat, and withal such a true welcome, that Owen had seldom enjoyed a meal so much. Indeed, at that time of day the Welsh squires197 differed from the farmers more in the plenty and rough abundance of their manner of living than in the refinement198 of style of their table.
At the present day, down in Llyn, the Welsh gentry199 are not a wit behind their Saxon equals in the expensive elegances200 of life; but then (when there was but one pewter-service in all Northumberland) there was nothing in Ellis Pritchard’s mode of living that grated on the young Squire’s sense of refinement.
Little was said by that young pair of wooers during the meal; the father had all the conversation to himself, apparently heedless of the ardent201 looks and inattentive mien202 of his guest. As Owen became more serious in his feelings, he grew more timid in their expression, and at night, when they returned from their shooting-excursion, the caress83 he gave Nest was almost as bashfully offered as received.
This was but the first of a series of days devoted203 to Nest in reality, though at first he thought some little disguise of his object was necessary. The past, the future, was all forgotten in those happy days of love.
And every worldly plan, every womanly wile204 was put in practice by Ellis Pritchard and his daughter, to render his visits agreeable and alluring205. Indeed, the very circumstance of his being welcome was enough to attract the poor young man, to whom the feeling so produced was new and full of charms. He left a home where the certainty of being thwarted made him chary206 in expressing his wishes; where no tones of love ever fell on his ear, save those addressed to others; where his presence or absence was a matter of utter indifference; and when he entered Ty Glas, all, down to the little cur which, with clamorous207 barkings, claimed a part of his attention, seemed to rejoice. His account of his day’s employment found a willing listener in Ellis; and when he passed on to Nest, busy at her wheel or at her churn, the deepened colour, the conscious eye, and the gradual yielding of herself up to his lover-like caress, had worlds of charms. Ellis Pritchard was a tenant208 on the Bodowen estate, and therefore had reasons in plenty for wishing to keep the young Squire’s visits secret; and Owen, unwilling85 to disturb the sunny calm of these halcyon209 days by any storm at home, was ready to use all the artifice210 which Ellis suggested as to the mode of his calls at Ty Glas. Nor was he unaware of the probable, nay211, the hoped-for termination of these repeated days of happiness. He was quite conscious that the father wished for nothing better than the marriage of his daughter to the heir of Bodowen; and when Nest had hidden her face in his neck, which was encircled by her clasping arms, and murmured into his ear her acknowledgment of love, he felt only too desirous of finding some one to love him for ever. Though not highly principled, he would not have tried to obtain Nest on other terms save those of marriage: he did so pine after enduring love, and fancied he should have bound her heart for evermore to his, when they had taken the solemn oaths of matrimony.
There was no great difficulty attending a secret marriage at such a place and at such a time. One gusty212 autumn day, Ellis ferried them round Penthryn to Llandutrwyn, and there saw his little Nest become future Lady of Bodowen.
How often do we see giddy, coquetting, restless girls become sobered by marriage? A great object in life is decided213; one on which their thoughts have been running in all their vagaries214, and they seem to verify the beautiful fable215 of Undine. A new soul beams out in the gentleness and repose of their future lives. An indescribable softness and tenderness takes place of the wearying vanity of their former endeavours to attract admiration. Something of this sort took place in Nest Pritchard. If at first she had been anxious to attract the young Squire of Bodowen, long before her marriage this feeling had merged216 into a truer love than she had ever felt before; and now that he was her own, her husband, her whole soul was bent toward making him amends217, as far as in her lay, for the misery218 which, with a woman’s tact219, she saw that he had to endure at his home. Her greetings were abounding220 in delicately-expressed love; her study of his tastes unwearying, in the arrangement of her dress, her time, her very thoughts.
No wonder that he looked back on his wedding-day with a thankfulness which is seldom the result of unequal marriages. No wonder that his heart beat aloud as formerly221 when he wound up the little path to Ty Glas, and saw—keen though the winter’s wind might be—that Nest was standing out at the door to watch for his dimly-seen approach, while the candle flared222 in the little window as a beacon223 to guide him aright.
The angry words and unkind actions of home fell deadened on his heart; he thought of the love that was surely his, and of the new promise of love that a short time would bring forth, and he could almost have smiled at the impotent efforts to disturb his peace.
A few more months, and the young father was greeted by a feeble little cry, when he hastily entered Ty Glas, one morning early, in consequence of a summons conveyed mysteriously to Bodowen; and the pale mother, smiling, and feebly holding up her babe to its father’s kiss, seemed to him even more lovely than the bright gay Nest who had won his heart at the little inn of Penmorfa.
But the curse was at work! The fulfilment of the prophecy was nigh at hand!
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1
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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14
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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16
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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18
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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19
hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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20
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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21
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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23
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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27
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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28
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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29
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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30
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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40
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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41
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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42
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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43
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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44
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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45
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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46
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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48
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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49
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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50
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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51
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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52
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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53
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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54
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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55
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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56
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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57
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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58
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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59
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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60
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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61
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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63
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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64
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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65
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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66
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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67
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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68
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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69
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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70
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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71
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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72
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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73
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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74
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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75
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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76
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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77
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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78
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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80
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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81
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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82
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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83
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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84
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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85
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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86
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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87
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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88
requited
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| v.报答( requite的过去式和过去分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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89
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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91
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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92
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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93
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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94
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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95
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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96
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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97
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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98
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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99
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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100
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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101
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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102
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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103
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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104
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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105
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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106
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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107
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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108
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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109
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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110
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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111
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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112
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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113
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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114
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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115
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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116
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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117
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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118
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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119
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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120
engender
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| v.产生，引起 | |
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121
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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122
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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123
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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124
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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125
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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127
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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128
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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129
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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130
altercations
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| n.争辩，争吵( altercation的名词复数 ) | |
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131
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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132
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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133
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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134
incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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135
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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136
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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137
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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138
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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139
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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140
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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141
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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142
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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143
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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144
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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145
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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146
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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147
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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148
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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149
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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150
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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151
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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152
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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153
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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154
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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155
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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157
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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158
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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159
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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160
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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161
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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162
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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163
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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164
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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165
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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166
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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167
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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168
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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169
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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170
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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171
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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172
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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173
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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174
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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175
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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176
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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177
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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178
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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179
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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180
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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181
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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182
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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184
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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185
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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186
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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187
shingly
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| adj.小石子多的 | |
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188
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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189
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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190
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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191
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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192
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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193
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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194
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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195
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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196
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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197
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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198
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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199
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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200
elegances
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| n.高雅( elegance的名词复数 )；（举止、服饰、风格等的）优雅；精致物品；（思考等的）简洁 | |
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201
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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202
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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203
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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204
wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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205
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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206
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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207
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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208
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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209
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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210
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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211
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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212
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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213
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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214
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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215
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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216
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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217
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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218
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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219
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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220
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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221
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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222
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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223
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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