Northanger Abbey — EN


The mor­row brought a very sober-look­ing morn­ing, the sun mak­ing only a few efforts to appear, and Cather­ine augured from it every­thing most favourable to her wish­es. A bright morn­ing so ear­ly in the year, she allowed, would gen­er­al­ly turn to rain, but a cloudy one fore­told improve­ment as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for con­fir­ma­tion of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not hav­ing his own skies and barom­e­ter about him, declined giv­ing any absolute promise of sun­shine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen’s opin­ion was more pos­i­tive. “She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out.”

At about eleven o’clock, how­ev­er, a few specks of small rain upon the win­dows caught Catherine’s watch­ful eye, and “Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet,” broke from her in a most despond­ing tone.

“I thought how it would be,” said Mrs. Allen.

“No walk for me today,” sighed Cather­ine; “but per­haps it may come to noth­ing, or it may hold up before twelve.”

“Per­haps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.”

“Oh! That will not sig­ni­fy; I nev­er mind dirt.”

“No,” replied her friend very placid­ly, “I know you nev­er mind dirt.”

After a short pause, “It comes on faster and faster!” said Cather­ine, as she stood watch­ing at a window.

“So it does indeed. If it keeps rain­ing, the streets will be very wet.”

“There are four umbrel­las up already. How I hate the sight of an umbrella!”

“They are dis­agree­able things to car­ry. I would much rather take a chair at any time.”

“It was such a nice-look­ing morn­ing! I felt so con­vinced it would be dry!”

“Any­body would have thought so indeed. There will be very few peo­ple in the pump-room, if it rains all the morn­ing. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his great­coat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do any­thing in the world than walk out in a great­coat; I won­der he should dis­like it, it must be so comfortable.”

The rain continued—fast, though not heavy. Cather­ine went every five min­utes to the clock, threat­en­ing on each return that, if it still kept on rain­ing anoth­er five min­utes, she would give up the mat­ter as hope­less. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. “You will not be able to go, my dear.”

“I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quar­ter after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a lit­tle lighter. There, it is twen­ty min­utes after twelve, and now I shall give it up entire­ly. Oh! That we had such weath­er here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tus­cany and the south of France!—the night that poor St. Aubin died!—such beau­ti­ful weather!”

At half past twelve, when Catherine’s anx­ious atten­tion to the weath­er was over and she could no longer claim any mer­it from its amend­ment, the sky began vol­un­tar­i­ly to clear. A gleam of sun­shine took her quite by sur­prise; she looked round; the clouds were part­ing, and she instant­ly returned to the win­dow to watch over and encour­age the hap­py appear­ance. Ten min­utes more made it cer­tain that a bright after­noon would suc­ceed, and jus­ti­fied the opin­ion of Mrs. Allen, who had “always thought it would clear up.” But whether Cather­ine might still expect her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to ven­ture, must yet be a question.

It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accom­pa­ny her hus­band to the pump-room; he accord­ing­ly set off by him­self, and Cather­ine had bare­ly watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach of the same two open car­riages, con­tain­ing the same three peo­ple that had sur­prised her so much a few morn­ings back.

“Isabel­la, my broth­er, and Mr. Thor­pe, I declare! They are com­ing for me perhaps—but I shall not go—I can­not go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call.” Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thor­pe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet soon­er, for on the stairs he was call­ing out to Miss Mor­land to be quick. “Make haste! Make haste!” as he threw open the door. “Put on your hat this moment—there is no time to be lost—we are going to Bris­tol. How d’ye do, Mrs. Allen?”

“To Bris­tol! Is not that a great way off? But, how­ev­er, I can­not go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment.” This was of course vehe­ment­ly talked down as no rea­son at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to sec­ond him, and the two oth­ers walked in, to give their assis­tance. “My sweet­est Cather­ine, is not this delight­ful? We shall have a most heav­en­ly dri­ve. You are to thank your broth­er and me for the scheme; it dart­ed into our heads at break­fast-time, I ver­i­ly believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not sig­ni­fy, the nights are moon­light, and we shall do delight­ful­ly. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a lit­tle coun­try air and qui­et! So much bet­ter than going to the Low­er Rooms. We shall dri­ve direct­ly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as din­ner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingswe­st­on.”

“I doubt our being able to do so much,” said Morland.

“You croak­ing fel­low!” cried Thor­pe. “We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingswe­st­on! Aye, and Blaize Cas­tle too, and any­thing else we can hear of; but here is your sis­ter says she will not go.”

Blaize Cas­tle!” cried Cather­ine. “What is that?”

“The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to see.”

“What, is it real­ly a cas­tle, an old castle?”

“The old­est in the kingdom.”

“But is it like what one reads of?”

“Exactly—the very same.”

“But now really—are there tow­ers and long galleries?”

“By dozens.”

“Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I can­not go.

“Not go! My beloved crea­ture, what do you mean’?”

“I can­not go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fear­ful of Isabella’s smile—“I expect Miss Tilney and her broth­er to call on me to take a coun­try walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”

“Not they indeed,” cried Thor­pe; “for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them—does he not dri­ve a phaeton with bright chest­nuts?”

“I do not know indeed.”

“Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talk­ing of the man you danced with last night, are not you?”


“Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lans­down Road, dri­ving a smart-look­ing girl.”

“Did you indeed?”

“Did upon my soul; knew him again direct­ly, and he seemed to have got some very pret­ty cat­tle too.”

“It is very odd! But I sup­pose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk.”

“And well they might, for I nev­er saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole win­ter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”

Isabel­la cor­rob­o­rat­ed it: “My dear­est Cather­ine, you can­not form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you can­not refuse going now.”

“I should like to see the cas­tle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every stair­case, and into every suite of rooms?”

“Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”

“But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dry­er, and call by and by?”

“Make your­self easy, there is no dan­ger of that, for I heard Tilney hal­loo­ing to a man who was just pass­ing by on horse­back, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks.”

“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?”

“Just as you please, my dear.”

“Mrs. Allen, you must per­suade her to go,” was the gen­er­al cry. Mrs. Allen was not inat­ten­tive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “sup­pose you go.” And in two min­utes they were off.

Catherine’s feel­ings, as she got into the car­riage, were in a very unset­tled state; divid­ed between regret for the loss of one great plea­sure, and the hope of soon enjoy­ing anoth­er, almost its equal in degree, how­ev­er unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had act­ed quite well by her, in so read­i­ly giv­ing up their engage­ment, with­out send­ing her any mes­sage of excuse. It was now but an hour lat­er than the time fixed on for the begin­ning of their walk; and, in spite of what she had heard of the prodi­gious accu­mu­la­tion of dirt in the course of that hour, she could not from her own obser­va­tion help think­ing that they might have gone with very lit­tle incon­ve­nience. To feel her­self slight­ed by them was very painful. On the oth­er hand, the delight of explor­ing an edi­fice like Udolpho, as her fan­cy rep­re­sent­ed Blaize Cas­tle to be, was such a coun­ter­poise of good as might con­sole her for almost anything.

They passed briskly down Pul­teney Street, and through Lau­ra Place, with­out the exchange of many words. Thor­pe talked to his horse, and she med­i­tat­ed, by turns, on bro­ken promis­es and bro­ken arch­es, phaetons and false hang­ings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle Build­ings, how­ev­er, she was roused by this address from her com­pan­ion, “Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”

“Who? Where?”

“On the right-hand pave­ment—she must be almost out of sight now.” Cather­ine looked round and saw Miss Tilney lean­ing on her brother’s arm, walk­ing slow­ly down the street. She saw them both look­ing back at her. “Stop, stop, Mr. Thor­pe,” she impa­tient­ly cried; “it is Miss Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and go to them.” But to what pur­pose did she speak? Thor­pe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the cor­ner of Lau­ra Place, and in anoth­er moment she was her­self whisked into the mar­ket­place. Still, how­ev­er, and dur­ing the length of anoth­er street, she entreat­ed him to stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thor­pe. I can­not go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney.” But Mr. Thor­pe only laughed, smacked his whip, encour­aged his horse, made odd nois­es, and drove on; and Cather­ine, angry and vexed as she was, hav­ing no pow­er of get­ting away, was oblig­ed to give up the point and sub­mit. Her reproach­es, how­ev­er, were not spared. “How could you deceive me so, Mr. Thor­pe? How could you say that you saw them dri­ving up the Lans­down Road? I would not have had it hap­pen so for the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, with­out say­ing a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no plea­sure at Clifton, nor in any­thing else. I had rather, ten thou­sand times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say you saw them dri­ving out in a phaeton?” Thor­pe defend­ed him­self very stout­ly, declared he had nev­er seen two men so much alike in his life, and would hard­ly give up the point of its hav­ing been Tilney himself.

Their dri­ve, even when this sub­ject was over, was not like­ly to be very agree­able. Catherine’s com­plai­sance was no longer what it had been in their for­mer air­ing. She lis­tened reluc­tant­ly, and her replies were short. Blaize Cas­tle remained her only com­fort; towards that, she still looked at inter­vals with plea­sure; though rather than be dis­ap­point­ed of the promised walk, and espe­cial­ly rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would will­ing­ly have giv­en up all the hap­pi­ness which its walls could supply—the hap­pi­ness of a progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibit­ing the remains of mag­nif­i­cent fur­ni­ture, though now for many years deserted—the hap­pi­ness of being stopped in their way along nar­row, wind­ing vaults, by a low, grat­ed door; or even of hav­ing their lamp, their only lamp, extin­guished by a sud­den gust of wind, and of being left in total dark­ness. In the mean­while, they pro­ceed­ed on their jour­ney with­out any mis­chance, and were with­in view of the town of Keyn­sham, when a hal­loo from Mor­land, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the mat­ter. The oth­ers then came close enough for con­ver­sa­tion, and Mor­land said, “We had bet­ter go back, Thor­pe; it is too late to go on today; your sis­ter thinks so as well as I. We have been exact­ly an hour com­ing from Pul­teney Street, very lit­tle more than sev­en miles; and, I sup­pose, we have at least eight more to go. It will nev­er do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much bet­ter put it off till anoth­er day, and turn round.”

“It is all one to me,” replied Thor­pe rather angri­ly; and instant­ly turn­ing his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.

“If your broth­er had not got such a d— beast to dri­ve,” said he soon after­wards, “we might have done it very well. My horse would have trot­ted to Clifton with­in the hour, if left to him­self, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed bro­ken-wind­ed jade’s pace. Mor­land is a fool for not keep­ing a horse and gig of his own.”

“No, he is not,” said Cather­ine warm­ly, “for I am sure he could not afford it.”

“And why can­not he afford it?”

“Because he has not mon­ey enough.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Nobody’s, that I know of.” Thor­pe then said some­thing in the loud, inco­her­ent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d—^121 thing to be miser­ly; and that if peo­ple who rolled in mon­ey could not afford things, he did not know who could, which Cather­ine did not even endeav­our to under­stand. Dis­ap­point­ed of what was to have been the con­so­la­tion for her first dis­ap­point­ment, she was less and less dis­posed either to be agree­able her­self or to find her com­pan­ion so; and they returned to Pul­teney Street with­out her speak­ing twen­ty words.

As she entered the house, the foot­man told her that a gen­tle­man and lady had called and inquired for her a few min­utes after her set­ting off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thor­pe, the lady had asked whether any mes­sage had been left for her; and on his say­ing no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pon­der­ing over these heart-rend­ing tid­ings, Cather­ine walked slow­ly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hear­ing the rea­son of their speedy return, said, “I am glad your broth­er had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.”

They all spent the evening togeth­er at Thorpe’s. Cather­ine was dis­turbed and out of spir­its; but Isabel­la seemed to find a pool of com­merce, in the fate of which she shared, by pri­vate part­ner­ship with Mor­land, a very good equiv­a­lent for the qui­et and coun­try air of an inn at Clifton. Her sat­is­fac­tion, too, in not being at the Low­er Rooms was spo­ken more than once. “How I pity the poor crea­tures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I won­der whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun danc­ing yet. I would not be there for all the world. It is so delight­ful to have an evening now and then to one­self. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity every­body that is. But I dare say, Mr. Mor­land, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you do. Well, pray do not let any­body here be a restraint on you. I dare say we could do very well with­out you; but you men think your­selves of such con­se­quence.”

Cather­ine could almost have accused Isabel­la of being want­i­ng in ten­der­ness towards her­self and her sor­rows, so very lit­tle did they appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inad­e­quate was the com­fort she offered. “Do not be so dull, my dear­est crea­ture,” she whis­pered. “You will quite break my heart. It was amaz­ing­ly shock­ing, to be sure; but the Tilneys were entire­ly to blame. Why were not they more punc­tu­al? It was dirty, indeed, but what did that sig­ni­fy? I am sure John and I should not have mind­ed it. I nev­er mind going through any­thing, where a friend is con­cerned; that is my dis­po­si­tion, and John is just the same; he has amaz­ing strong feel­ings. Good heav­ens! What a delight­ful hand you have got! Kings, I vow! I nev­er was so hap­py in my life! I would fifty times rather you should have them than myself.”

And now I may dis­miss my hero­ine to the sleep­less couch, which is the true heroine’s por­tion; to a pil­low strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think her­self, if she get anoth­er good night’s rest in the course of the next three months.

mor­row ˈmɒrəʊ n The fol­low­ing day.

sober ˈsəʊbə adj Lack­ing bright­ness or colour: dull

augur ˈɔːgə v To pre­dict, espe­cial­ly from signs: proph­esy, foretell

fore­tell fortell pp, pt fore­told fortell v Make a pre­dic­tion about; tell in advance: fore­cast, predict

barom­e­ter bəˈrɒmɪtə n Some­thing that reg­is­ters or responds to fluc­tu­a­tions: indi­ca­tor

in the world ⇒ An inten­si­fi­er used to empha­size sur­prise, shock, anger, dis­gust, etc.

to go off ⇒ Leave; depart.

speck spɛk n A tiny spot, espe­cial­ly of dirt etc.: drop, par­ti­cle

watch­ful ˈwɒʧfʊl adj Engaged in or accus­tomed to close obser­va­tion: vig­i­lant, open-eyed, wake­ful, alert, awake

despond dɪsˈpɒnd v Lose con­fi­dence or hope: despair, give up

to come to noth­ing ⇒ To fail.

to hold up ⇒ Stop, arrest the progress of for a short time

sig­ni­fy ˈsɪgnɪ­faɪ v To mat­ter; to be of impor­tance: count, mat­ter, weigh

placid­ly ˈplæsɪdli adv In a calm or peace­ful and not excit­ed man­ner: tran­quil­ly

to come on ⇒ Advance in growth or development.

pump-room ˈpʌm­pruːm n A room at a spa where med­i­c­i­nal water is dispensed.

to put on ⇒ To dress.

great­coat ˈgreɪtkəʊt n A heavy coat worn over clothes in win­ter: overcoat,coat

in the world ⇒ An inten­si­fi­er used to empha­size sur­prise, shock, anger, dis­gust, etc.

to give up ⇒ To yield or relin­quish something.

to clear up ⇒ To become fine (of the weath­er, etc.).

Udolpho ⇒ The quin­tes­sen­tial Goth­ic romance The Mys­ter­ies of Udolpho by Ann Ward Rad­cliffe, replete with inci­dents of phys­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal ter­ror, like remote crum­bling cas­tles, seem­ing­ly super­nat­ur­al events, a brood­ing, schem­ing vil­lain and a per­se­cut­ed heroine.

at least ⇒ If noth­ing else. Not less than.

Tus­cany ˈtʌskəni ⇒ A region in cen­tral Italy which region­al cap­i­tal is Florence.

St. Aubin ⇒ A French abbot and bishop.

amend­ment əˈmɛnd­mənt n The act of chang­ing for the bet­ter: improve­ment

gleam gliːm n Shine bright­ly, like a star or a light: flash glim­mer

jus­ti­fy ˈhɛd­drɛs v Strength­en or make more firm: reassert, con­firm

ven­ture ˈvɛnʧə v Go so far as to: pre­sume, dare

to set off ⇒ To start on a jour­ney: depart

car­riage ˈkærɪʤ n Char­ac­ter­is­tic way of bear­ing one’s body: bear­ing, posture

to call out ⇒ Shout.

to put on ⇒ To dress.

Bris­tol ˈbrɪstəl ⇒ The most pop­u­lous city in South West England.

How d’ye do = How do you do.

a great way off ⇒ Far away

vehe­ment ˈviːɪmənt adj Strong, filled with strong or eager feeling.

at all ⇒ In any way; for any rea­son; to any extent; whatever.

to call on/upon ⇒ To make a demand or a series of demands on.

sec­ond ˈsɛkənd v To give aid or back­ing to: assist, sup­port

it dart­ed into our heads ⇒ It came to our minds, occurred to us.

ver­i­ly ˈvɛrɪli adv Absolute­ly, com­plete­ly, really.

detestable dɪˈtɛstəbl adj Inspir­ing or deserv­ing abhor­rence or scorn: abhor­rent, repug­nant, repul­sive, obscene 

ecsta­sy ˈɛk­stəsi n Intense joy or delight.

coun­try ˈkʌn­tri n An area out­side of cities and towns: coun­try­side

Low­er Rooms ⇒ Also known as the Harrison’s Rooms are Bath’s first assem­bly house erect­ed dur­ing 1708 by an unnamed builder for Thomas Har­ri­son. They burnt down in about 1820.

Clifton ⇒ A dis­trict of the City of Bristol.

as soon as ⇒ Imme­di­ate­ly, right after.

to go on ⇒ To continue.

Kingswe­st­on ⇒ A south west region of the city of Bristol.

croak krəʊk v To mut­ter dis­con­tent­ed­ly: grum­ble

aye int Yes.

Blaise Cas­tle ⇒ A fol­ly built in 1766 near Hen­bury in Bris­tol, England.

half a dozen ⇒ Six; dozen ˈdʌzn n A set of 12.

to call on/upon ⇒ To ask, invite a per­son to help etc.

as it is ⇒ In the present situation.

for fɔː conj Because; since.

Broad Street ⇒ Along with High Street, Wine Street and Corn Street, is one of the four orig­i­nal streets that have made up the city of Bris­tol since Sax­on times. Pri­or to the build­ing of The Exchange mer­chants would set up their stalls on Broad Street. An old city gate stands at the bot­tom of the street, where it joins Quay Street.

phaeton ˈfeɪtn n Large open car seat­ing four with fold­ing top.

chest­nut ˈʧɛs­nʌt n A horse of a yel­low-brown or gold­en-brown colour.

Lans­down ⇒ Lans­down is a sub­urb of Bath, that extends north­wards from the city cen­tre up a hill of the same name. Its most dis­tinc­tive archi­tec­tur­al fea­ture is Lans­down Crescent.

upon my soul ⇒ To be telling the truth.

cat­tle ˈkætl n Grass eat­ing ani­mals, such as cows, bulls and oxen raised raised for meat and dairy products.

cor­rob­o­rate kəˈrɒbəreɪt v To estab­lish as true or gen­uine: con­firm, verify

by and by ⇒ After a while; soon.

hal­loo həˈluː v To speak or say very loud­ly: shout, yell

Wick Rocks ⇒ A pic­turesque lit­tle val­ley near Wick

to got into ⇒ To access or enter some place or thing

in spite of ⇒ With­out wor­ry­ing about; although.

prodi­gious prəˈdɪʤəs adj Far beyond what is usu­al and so remark­able as to elic­it dis­be­lief: won­der­ful, incred­i­ble, amaz­ing, fan­tas­tic, mar­vel­lous, astonishing

in the course of ⇒ During.

slight slaɪt v To treat some­one with indif­fer­ence or as of lit­tle impor­tance: snub, ignore, neglect

edi­fice ɛˈdɪfɪs n An elab­o­rate con­cep­tu­al structure.

fan­cy ˈfæn­si n A capri­cious lik­ing or incli­na­tion; amorous attach­ment, love.

coun­ter­poise ˈkaʊn­təpɔɪz n A force or influ­ence that bal­ances or equal­ly coun­ter­acts anoth­er: bal­ance, equi­lib­ri­um, counteract

con­sole kənˈsəʊl v To allay the sor­row or grief of: com­fort, soothe, solace

brisk brɪsk adj Keen or sharp in speech or man­ner; stim­u­lat­ing and invig­o­rat­ing: ener­getic, active, vig­or­ous, live­ly, nimble

Pul­teney Street ⇒ A wide road in the City of Bath, Eng­land which leads direct­ly to the Hol­burne Muse­um of Art that was orig­i­nal­ly the Syd­ney Hotel where tea rooms, card rooms, a con­cert room and a ball­room were installed for the amuse­ment of Bath’s many visitors.

Lau­ra Place ⇒ Four blocks of hous­es around an irreg­u­lar quad­ran­gle at the end of Pul­teney Bridge in Bath It was built by Thomas Bald­win and John Eveleigh between 1788 and 1794.

by turns ⇒ In an alter­nat­ing cycle; in suc­ces­sive or rotat­ing turns.

hang­ing ˈhæŋɪŋ n A dec­o­ra­tive tex­tile such as a tapes­try or drap­ery hung on a wall.

trap­door ˈtræpˈdɔː n A hinged or slid­ing door in a floor, roof, or ceiling.

Argyle-Build­ings ⇒ Adjoin­ing to Pul­teney Bridge, in which is sit­u­at­ed Gibbon’s Pub­lic Library, and als the Inde­pen­dent Meet­ing House, (Mr. Jay’s) which is a lofty hand­some build­ing; and its inte­ri­or is very neat and pleasing.

rouse raʊz v Cause to become awake or con­scious: awak­en, wake, wake up, arouse

address əˈdrɛs n (Archa­ic) Man­ner or style of speak­ing or conversation.

pave­ment ˈpeɪvmənt n Any area or sur­face cov­ered with flat stones or bricks: paved path

to be out of sight of some­thing ⇒ To go too far away to be seen.

lash læʃ v To strike with or as if with a whip.

brisk brɪsk adj Keen or sharp in speech or man­ner; stim­u­lat­ing and invig­o­rat­ing: ener­getic, active, vig­or­ous, live­ly, nimble

trot trɒt n The gait of a horse, between a walk and a can­ter, in which diag­o­nal pairs of legs move for­ward together.

in a moment ⇒ Straight away.

whisk whisk v Move some­where quick­ly and nim­bly: move, trav­el, go

entreat ɪnˈtriːt n Ask for or request earnest­ly: beseech, con­jure, press, plead

pray preɪ interj (Archa­ic) I beg you; please:

smack smæk v To strike sharply and with a loud noise: thwack, whack, hit

whip wɪp n An instru­ment, either a flex­i­ble rod or a flex­i­ble lash attached to a han­dle, used for dri­ving animals.

vexed vɛkst adj Trou­bled per­sis­tent­ly espe­cial­ly with pet­ty annoy­ances: annoyed, harassed, har­ried, pestered, troubled

reproach rɪˈprəʊʧ n A mild rebuke or crit­i­cism: reproof, rep­ri­mand, rebuke, blame

deceive dɪˈsiːv n Cause some­one to believe an untruth: mis­lead, play false

rude ruːd n Lack­ing civil­i­ty or good manners.

stout­ly ˈstaʊtli adv In a res­olute manner.

com­plai­sance kəmˈ­pleɪzəns n Readi­ness and will­ing­ness to do what pleas­es oth­ers: ami­a­bil­i­ty

air­ing ruːd n A short walk or ride in the open air: excur­sion, jaunt, expe­di­tion, out­ing, plea­sure trip

reluc­tant rɪˈlʌk­tənt adj Not inclined or will­ing to do or under­take: unwill­ing, loath, indisposed

to think ill of some­body ⇒ To dis­ap­prove of some­body, think low of somebody

suite of rooms ⇒ Apart­ment; lofty ˈlɒfti adj Of impos­ing height; espe­cial­ly stand­ing out above oth­ers: high, ele­vat­ed, emi­nent, soar­ing, tow­er­ing, prominent

vault vɔːlt n An arched struc­ture form­ing the sup­port­ing struc­ture of a roof.

grat­ed ˈgreɪtɪd adj Hav­ing or made of a frame­work of par­al­lel or lat­ticed bars for block­ing an opening.

extin­guish ɪksˈtɪŋg­wɪʃ v To cause to stop burn­ing or giv­ing light: put out, douse, quench, snuff

gust gʌst n A strong, abrupt rush of wind; an out­burst of emotion.

mis­chance mɪsˈʧɑːns n An unex­pect­ed and usu­al­ly unde­sir­able event: acci­dent, misfortune

Keyn­sham ˈkeɪnʃəm n A town and civ­il parish locat­ed between Bris­tol and Bath

to pull up ⇒ To bring or come to a halt.

we had bet­ter ⇒ We should.

as well as some­one ⇒ To the same high degree as someone .

to set out ⇒ To start a journey.

a great deal ⇒ A large amount.

to put some­thing off ⇒ Post­pone, delay.

to turn round ⇒ To turn in the oppo­site direction.

it is all one to me ⇒ It is all the same to me.

D— ⇒ Damn it. Leicestershire

trot trɒt v Run at a mod­er­ate­ly swift pace: run, jog

cursed kɜːst adj So annoy­ing or detestable as to deserve con­dem­na­tion: blast­ed, damn, darn

bro­ken-wind­ed ˈbrəʊkən-ˈwɪndɪd adj Relat­ed to a res­pi­ra­to­ry dis­ease of hors­es that is char­ac­ter­ized by a chron­ic cough, laboured breath­ing, and nasal dis­charge, and is induced by expo­sure to aller­gens such as hay dust.

jade ʤeɪd n An old or over-worked horse.

gig gɪg n Small, light, two-wheeled car­riage, pulled by one horse.

inco­her­ent ˌɪnkəʊˈhɪərənt adj With­out log­i­cal or mean­ing­ful con­nec­tion: con­fused, disordered

have recourse to some­thing ⇒ To have access to some­thing, espe­cial­ly in times of trou­ble or difficulty.

miser­ly ˈmaɪzəli adv Ungen­er­ous­ly or pet­ti­ly reluc­tant to spend mon­ey: mean, ungen­er­ous

endeav­our ɪnˈdɛvə v To attempt: essay, try, assay, seek

con­so­la­tion ˌkɒn­səˈleɪʃən n Some­thing that gives com­fort or sympathy.

dis­posed dɪsˈpəʊzd v Hav­ing an incli­na­tion as spec­i­fied towards some­thing: tend­ing, mind­ed, giv­en, inclined apt

foot­man ˈfʊt­mən n A man employed as a ser­vant in a large estab­lish­ment to run errands.

to feel for ⇒ Grope, reach for with one’s hands

pon­der ˈpɒndə n Reflect deeply on a subject.

heart-rend­ing ˈhɑːtˌrɛndɪŋ adj Caus­ing anguish or deep dis­tress; arous­ing deep sympathy.

tid­ing ˈtaɪdɪŋ n pl A piece of infor­ma­tion or news.

at the head of ⇒ At the top or upper end.

out of spir­its ⇒ Not in a good mood.

pool puːl n The stakes in cer­tain games.

com­merce ⇒ A trad­ing game in which each play­er in suc­ces­sion may exchange one of his 3 cards for anoth­er card until some­one refus­es and then the best hand wins.

ball bɔːl n A for­mal gath­er­ing for social dancing.

for all the world ⇒ For anything.

now and than ⇒ From time to time; occasionally.

to one­self ⇒ Alone, with­out others.

long lɒŋ v To desire strong­ly or per­sis­tent­ly: han­ker, yearn, pant

restraint rɪsˈtreɪnt v Dis­ci­pline in per­son­al and social activities.

of con­se­quence ⇒ Of impor­tance, important.

to dwell on one’s mind ⇒ Come to one’s mind, occur.

dull dʌl adj So lack­ing in inter­est as to cause men­tal weari­ness: bor­ing, unamusing

to break one’s heart ⇒ To dis­ap­point or dispir­it severely.

blame bleɪm v Feel or declare that some­one is respon­si­ble for a fault or wrong: hold respon­si­ble, hold accountable

punc­tu­al bɔːl n Act­ing or arriv­ing or per­formed exact­ly at the time appoint­ed: prompt, time­ly

Good heav­ens! ⇒ A mild oath of sur­prise, amaze­ment, annoy­ance, frus­tra­tion, or anger.

hand hænd n The num­ber of cards dealt each player.

king kɪŋ n A play­ing card bear­ing the fig­ure of a king, rank­ing above a queen.

vow vaʊ v To declare or assert solemnly.

strew struː pt strewed struːd pp strewn struːn or strewed struːd v To cov­er with things scat­tered or sprin­kled: spread, dis­trib­ute, scat­ter, dis­perse, litter

thorn θɔːn n A sharp pro­tu­ber­ances on a plant or an ani­mal: prick­le, spike, barb, spine, spicule