“How you could—” began one of my host’s daughters; and “You, Aunt Emily?” cried the other at the same moment.
Miss Le Petyt, gentle soul, withdrew her eyes from the fireplace and protested with a gay little smile. “Well, my dears, I am not quite the coward you take me for. And, as it happens, mine was the most harmless ghost in the world. In fact”— and here she looked at the fire again — “I was quite sorry to lose her.”
“It was a woman, then? Now I think,” said Miss Blanche, “that female ghosts are the horridest of all. They wear little shoes with high red heels, and go about tap, tap, wringing1 their hands.”
“This one wrung3 her hands, certainly. But I don’t know about the high red heels, for I never saw her feet. Perhaps she was like the Queen of Spain, and hadn’t any. And as for the hands, it all depends how you wring2 them. There’s an elderly shop-walker at Knightsbridge, for instance —”
“Don’t be prosy, dear, when you know that we’re just dying to hear the story.”
Miss Le Petyt turned to me with a small deprecating laugh. “It’s such a little one.”
“The story, or the ghost?”
“Both.”
And this was Miss Le Petyt’s story:—
“It happened when I lived down in Cornwall, at Tresillack on the south coast. Tresillack was the name of the house, which stood quite alone at the head of a coombe, within sound of the sea but without sight of it; for though the coombe led down to a wide open beach, it wound and twisted half a dozen times on its way, and its overlapping4 sides closed the view from the house, which was advertised as ‘secluded5.’ I was very poor in those days. Your father and all of us were poor then, as I trust, my dears, you will never be; but I was young enough to be romantic and wise enough to like independence, and this word ‘secluded’ took my fancy.
“The misfortune was that it had taken the fancy, or just suited the requirements, of several previous tenants7. You know, I dare say, the kind of person who rents a secluded house in the country? Well, yes, there are several kinds; but they seem to agree in being odious8. No one knows where they come from, though they soon remove all doubt about where they’re ‘going to,’ as the children say. ‘Shady’ is the word, is it not? Well, the previous tenants of Tresillack (from first to last a bewildering series) had been shady with a vengeance9.
“I knew nothing of this when I first made application to the landlord, a solid yeoman inhabiting a farm at the foot of the coombe, on a cliff overlooking the beach. To him I presented myself fearlessly as a spinster of decent family and small but assured income, intending a rural life of combined seemliness and economy. He met my advances politely enough, but with an air of suspicion which offended me. I began by disliking him for it: afterwards I set it down as an unpleasant feature in the local character. I was doubly mistaken. Farmer Hosking was slow-witted, but as honest a man as ever stood up against hard times; and a more open and hospitable10 race than the people on that coast I never wish to meet. It was the caution of a child who had burnt his fingers, not once but many times. Had I known what I afterwards learned of Farmer Hosking’s tribulations11 as landlord of a ‘secluded country residence,’ I should have approached him with the bashfulness proper to my suit and faltered12 as I undertook to prove the bright exception in a long line of painful experiences. He had bought the Tresillack estate twenty years before — on mortgage, I fancy — because the land adjoined his own and would pay him for tillage. But the house was a nuisance, an incubus13; and had been so from the beginning.
“‘Well, miss,’ he said, ‘you’re welcome to look over it; a pretty enough place, inside and out. There’s no trouble about keys, because I’ve put in a housekeeper14, a widow-woman, and she’ll show you round. With your leave I’ll step up the coombe so far with you, and put you in your way.’ As I thanked him he paused and rubbed his chin. ‘There’s one thing I must tell you, though. Whoever takes the house must take Mrs. Carkeek along with it.’
“‘Mrs. Carkeek?’ I echoed dolefully. ‘Is that the housekeeper?’
“‘Yes: she was wife to my late hind15. I’m sorry, miss,’ he added, my face telling him no doubt what sort of woman I expected Mrs. Carkeek to be; ‘but I had to make it a rule after — after some things that happened. And I dare say you won’t find her so bad. Mary Carkeek’s a sensible comfortable woman, and knows the place. She was in service there to Squire16 Kendall when he sold up and went: her first place it was.’
“‘I may as well see the house, anyhow,’ said I dejectedly. So we started to walk up the coombe. The path, which ran beside a little chattering17 stream, was narrow for the most part, and Farmer Hosking, with an apology, strode on ahead to beat aside the brambles. But whenever its width allowed us to walk side by side I caught him from time to time stealing a shy inquisitive18 glance under his rough eyebrows19. Courteously20 though he bore himself, it was clear that he could not sum me up to his satisfaction or bring me square with his notion of a tenant6 for his ‘secluded country residence.’
“I don’t know what foolish fancy prompted it, but about halfway21 up the coombe I stopped short and asked:
“‘There are no ghosts, I suppose?’
“It struck me, a moment after I had uttered it, as a supremely22 silly question; but he took it quite seriously. ‘No; I never heard tell of any ghosts.’ He laid a queer sort of stress on the word. ‘There’s always been trouble with servants, and maids’ tongues will be runnin’. But Mary Carkeek lives up there alone, and she seems comfortable enough.’
“We walked on. By-and-by he pointed23 with his stick. ‘It don’t look like a place for ghosts, now, do it?’
“Certainly it did not. Above an untrimmed orchard24 rose a terrace of turf scattered25 with thorn-bushes, and above this a terrace of stone, upon which stood the prettiest cottage I had ever seen. It was long and low and thatched; a deep verandah ran from end to end. Clematis, Banksia roses and honeysuckle climbed the posts of this verandah, and big blooms of the Marechal Niel were clustered along its roof, beneath the lattices of the bedroom windows. The house was small enough to be called a cottage, and rare enough in features and in situation to confer distinction on any tenant. It suggested what in those days we should have called ‘elegant’ living. And I could have clapped my hands for joy.
“My spirits mounted still higher when Mrs. Carkeek opened the door to us. I had looked for a Mrs. Gummidge, and I found a healthy middle-aged26 woman with a thoughtful but contented27 face, and a smile which, without a trace of obsequiousness28, quite bore out the farmer’s description of her. She was a comfortable woman; and while we walked through the rooms together (for Mr. Hosking waited outside) I ‘took to’ Mrs. Carkeek. Her speech was direct and practical; the rooms, in spite of their faded furniture, were bright and exquisitely29 clean; and somehow the very atmosphere of the house gave me a sense of well-being30, of feeling at home and cared for; yes, of being loved. Don’t laugh, my dears; for when I’ve done you may not think this fancy altogether foolish.
“I stepped out into the verandah, and Farmer Hosking pocketed the pruning-knife which he had been using on a bush of jasmine.
“‘This is better than anything I had dreamed of,’ said I.
“‘Well, miss, that’s not a wise way of beginning a bargain, if you’ll excuse me.’
“He took no advantage, however, of my admission; and we struck the bargain as we returned down the coombe to his farm, where the hired chaise waited to convey me back to the market town. I had meant to engage a maid of my own, but now it occurred to me that I might do very well with Mrs. Carkeek. This, too, was settled in the course of the next day or two, and within the week I had moved into my new home.
“I can hardly describe to you the happiness of my first month at Tresillack; because (as I now believe) if I take the reasons which I had for being happy, one by one, there remains31 over something which I cannot account for. I was moderately young, entirely32 healthy; I felt myself independent and adventurous33; the season was high summer, the weather glorious, the garden in all the pomp of June, yet sufficiently34 unkempt to keep me busy, give me a sharp appetite for meals, and send me to bed in that drowsy35 stupor36 which comes of the odours of earth. I spent the most of my time out of doors, winding37 up the day’s work as a rule with a walk down the cool valley, along the beach and back.
“I soon found that all housework could be safely left to Mrs. Carkeek. She did not talk much; indeed her only fault (a rare one in house-keepers) was that she talked too little, and even when I addressed her seemed at times unable to give me her attention. It was as though her mind strayed off to some small job she had forgotten, and her eyes wore a listening look, as though she waited for the neglected task to speak and remind her. But as a matter of fact she forgot nothing. Indeed, my dears, I was never so well attended to in my life.
“Well, that is what I’m coming to. That, so to say, is just it. The woman not only had the rooms swept and dusted, and my meals prepared to the moment. In a hundred odd little ways this orderliness, these preparations, seemed to read my desires. Did I wish the roses renewed in a bowl upon the dining-table, sure enough at the next meal they would be replaced by fresh ones. Mrs. Carkeek (I told myself) must have surprised and interpreted a glance of mine. And yet I could not remember having glanced at the bowl in her presence. And how on earth had she guessed the very roses, the very shapes and colours I had lightly wished for? This is only an instance, you understand. Every day, and from morning to night, I happened on others, each slight enough, but all together bearing witness to a ministering intelligence as subtle as it was untiring.
“I am a light sleeper38, as you know, with an uncomfortable knack39 of waking with the sun and roaming early. No matter how early I rose at Tresillack, Mrs. Carkeek seemed to have prevented me. Finally I had to conclude that she arose and dusted and tidied as soon as she judged me safely a-bed. For once, finding the drawing-room (where I had been sitting late) ‘redded up’ at four in the morning, and no trace of a plate of raspberries which I had carried thither40 after dinner and left overnight, I determined41 to test her, and walked through to the kitchen, calling her by name. I found the kitchen as clean as a pin, and the fire laid, but no trace of Mrs. Carkeek. I walked upstairs and knocked at her door. At the second knock a sleepy voice cried out, and presently the good woman stood before me in her nightgown, looking (I thought) very badly scared.
“‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s not a burglar. But I’ve found out what I wanted, that you do your morning’s work over night. But you mustn’t wait for me when I choose to sit up. And now go back to your bed like a good soul, whilst I take a run down to the beach.’
“She stood blinking in the dawn. Her face was still white.
“‘Oh, miss,’ she gasped42, ‘I made sure you must have seen something!’
“‘And so I have,’ I answered, ‘but it was neither burglars nor ghosts.’
“‘Thank God!’ I heard her say as she turned her back to me in her grey bedroom — which faced the north. And I took this for a carelessly pious43 expression and ran downstairs, thinking no more of it.
“A few days later I began to understand.
“The plan of Tresillack house (I must explain) was simplicity44 itself. To the left of the hall as you entered was the dining-room; to the right the drawing-room, with a boudoir beyond. The foot of the stairs faced the front door, and beside it, passing a glazed45 inner door, you found two others right and left, the left opening on the kitchen, the right on a passage which ran by a store-cupboard under the bend of the stairs to a neat pantry with the usual shelves and linen-press, and under the window (which faced north) a porcelain46 basin and brass47 tap. On the first morning of my tenancy I had visited this pantry and turned the tap; but no water ran. I supposed this to be accidental. Mrs. Carkeek had to wash up glass ware48 and crockery, and no doubt Mrs. Carkeek would complain of any failure in the water supply.
“But the day after my surprise visit (as I called it) I had picked a basketful of roses, and carried them into the pantry as a handy place to arrange them in. I chose a china bowl and went to fill it at the tap. Again the water would not run.
“I called Mrs. Carkeek. ‘What is wrong with this tap?’ I asked. ‘The rest of the house is well enough supplied.’
“‘I don’t know, miss. I never use it.’
“‘But there must be a reason; and you must find it a great nuisance washing up the plate and glasses in the kitchen. Come around to the back with me, and we’ll have a look at the cisterns50.’
“‘The cisterns’ll be all right, miss. I assure you I don’t find it a trouble.’
“But I was not to be put off. The back of the house stood but ten feet from a wall which was really but a stone face built against the cliff cut away by the architect. Above the cliff rose the kitchen garden, and from its lower path we looked over the wall’s parapet upon the cisterns. There were two — a very large one, supplying the kitchen and the bathroom above the kitchen; and a small one, obviously fed by the other, and as obviously leading, by a pipe which I could trace, to the pantry. Now the big cistern49 stood almost full, and yet the small one, though on a lower level, was empty.
“‘It’s as plain as daylight,’ said I. ‘The pipe between the two is choked.’ And I clambered on to the parapet.
“‘I wouldn’t, miss. The pantry tap is only cold water, and no use to me. From the kitchen boiler51 I gets it hot, you see.’
“‘But I want the pantry water for my flowers.’ I bent52 over and groped. ‘I thought as much!’ said I, as I wrenched53 out a thick plug of cork54 and immediately the water began to flow. I turned triumphantly55 on Mrs. Carkeek, who had grown suddenly red in the face. Her eyes were fixed56 on the cork in my hand. To keep it more firmly wedged in its place somebody had wrapped it round with a rag of calico print; and, discoloured though the rag was, I seemed to recall the pattern (a lilac sprig). Then, as our eyes met, it occurred to me that only two mornings before Mrs. Carkeek had worn a print gown of that same sprigged pattern.
“I had the presence of mind to hide this very small discovery, sliding over it some quite trivial remark; and presently Mrs. Carkeek regained57 her composure. But I own I felt disappointed in her. It seemed such a paltry58 thing to be disingenuous59 over. She had deliberately60 acted a fib before me; and why? Merely because she preferred the kitchen to the pantry tap. It was childish. ‘But servants are all the same,’ I told myself. ‘I must take Mrs. Carkeek as she is; and, after all, she is a treasure.’
“On the second night after this, and between eleven and twelve o’clock, I was lying in bed and reading myself sleepy over a novel of Lord Lytton’s, when a small sound disturbed me. I listened. The sound was clearly that of water trickling61; and I set it down to rain. A shower (I told myself) had filled the water-pipes which drained the roof. Somehow I could not fix the sound. There was a water pipe against the wall just outside my window. I rose and drew up the blind.
“To my astonishment62 no rain was falling; no rain had fallen. I felt the slate63 window-sill; some dew had gathered there — no more. There was no wind, no cloud: only a still moon high over the eastern slope of the coombe, the distant plash of waves, and the fragrance64 of many roses. I went back to bed and listened again. Yes, the trickling sound continued, quite distinct in the silence of the house, not to be confused for a moment with the dull murmur65 of the beach. After a while it began to grate on my nerves. I caught up my candle, flung my dressing-gown about me, and stole softly downstairs.
“Then it was simple. I traced the sound to the pantry. ‘Mrs. Carkeek has left the tap running,’ said I: and, sure enough, I found it so — a thin trickle66 steadily67 running to waste in the porcelain basin. I turned off the tap, went contentedly68 back to my bed, and slept.
“— for some hours. I opened my eyes in darkness, and at once knew what had awakened69 me. The tap was running again. Now it had shut easily in my hand, but not so easily that I could believe it had slipped open again of its own accord. ‘This is Mrs. Carkeek’s doing,’ said I; and am afraid I added ‘Bother Mrs. Carkeek!’
“Well, there was no help for it: so I struck a light, looked at my watch, saw that the hour was just three o’clock, and descended70 the stairs again. At the pantry door I paused. I was not afraid — not one little bit. In fact the notion that anything might be wrong had never crossed my mind. But I remember thinking, with my hand on the door, that if Mrs. Carkeek were in the pantry I might happen to give her a severe fright.
“I pushed the door open briskly. Mrs. Carkeek was not there. But something was there, by the porcelain basin — something which might have sent me scurrying71 upstairs two steps at a time, but which as a matter of fact held me to the spot. My heart seemed to stand still — so still! And in the stillness I remember setting down the brass candlestick on a tall nest of drawers beside me.
“Over the porcelain basin and beneath the water trickling from the tap I saw two hands.
“That was all — two small hands, a child’s hands. I cannot tell you how they ended.
“No: they were not cut off. I saw them quite distinctly: just a pair of small hands and the wrists, and after that — nothing. They were moving briskly — washing themselves clean. I saw the water trickle and splash over them — not through them — but just as it would on real hands. They were the hands of a little girl, too. Oh, yes, I was sure of that at once. Boys and girls wash their hands differently. I can’t just tell you what the difference is, but it’s unmistakable.
“I saw all this before my candle slipped and fell with a crash. I had set it down without looking — for my eyes were fixed on the basin — and had balanced it on the edge of the nest of drawers. After the crash, in the darkness there, with the water running, I suffered some bad moments. Oddly enough, the thought uppermost with me was that I must shut off that tap before escaping. I had to. And after a while I picked up all my courage, so to say, between my teeth, and with a little sob72 thrust out my hand and did it. Then I fled.
“The dawn was close upon me: and as soon as the sky reddened I took my bath, dressed and went downstairs. And there at the pantry door I found Mrs. Carkeek, also dressed, with my candlestick in her hand.
“‘Ah!’ said I, ‘you picked it up.’
“Our eyes met. Clearly Mrs. Carkeek wished me to begin, and I determined at once to have it out with her.
“‘And you knew all about it. That’s what accounts for your plugging up the cistern.’
“‘You saw? . . .’ she began.
“‘Yes, yes. And you must tell me all about it — never mind how bad. Is — is it — murder?’
“‘Law bless you, miss, whatever put such horrors in your head?’
“‘She was washing her hands.’
“‘Ah, so she does, poor dear! But — murder! And dear little Miss Margaret, that wouldn’t go to hurt a fly!’
“‘Miss Margaret?’
“‘Eh, she died at seven year. Squire Kendall’s only daughter; and that’s over twenty year ago. I was her nurse, miss, and I know — diphtheria it was; she took it down in the village.’
“‘But how do you know it is Margaret?’
“‘Those hands — why, how could I mistake, that used to be her nurse?’
“‘But why does she wash them?’
“‘Well, miss, being always a dainty child — and the house-work, you see —’
“I took a long breath. ‘Do you mean to tell me that all this tidying and dusting —’ I broke off. ‘Is it she who has been taking this care of me?’
“Mrs. Carkeek met my look steadily.
“‘Who else, miss?’
“‘Poor little soul!’
“‘Well now’— Mrs. Carkeek rubbed my candlestick with the edge of her apron73 —‘I’m so glad you take it like this. For there isn’t really nothing to be afraid of — is there?’ She eyed me wistfully. ‘It’s my belief she loves you, miss. But only to think what a time she must have had with the others!’
“‘The others?’ I echoed.
“‘The other tenants, miss: the ones afore you.’
“‘Were they bad?’
“‘They was awful. Didn’t Farmer Hosking tell you? They carried on fearful — one after another, and each one worse than the last.”
“‘What was the matter with them? Drink?’
“‘Drink, miss, with some of ’em. There was the Major — he used to go mad with it, and run about the coombe in his nightshirt. Oh, scandalous! And his wife drank too — that is, if she ever was his wife. Just think of that tender child washing Up after their nasty doings!’
“I shivered.
“‘But that wasn’t the worst, miss — not by a long way. There was a pair here — from the colonies, or so they gave out — with two children, a boy and gel, the eldest74 scarce six. Poor mites75!’
“‘Why, what happened?’
“‘They beat those children, miss — your blood would boil! —and starved, and tortured ’em, it’s my belief. You could hear their screams, I’ve been told, away back in the high-road, and that’s the best part of half a mile. Sometimes they was locked up without food for days together. But it’s my belief that little Miss Margaret managed to feed them somehow. Oh, I can see her, creeping to the door and comforting!’
“‘But perhaps she never showed herself when these awful people were here, but took to flight until they left.’
“‘You didn’t never know her, miss. The brave she was! She’d have stood up to lions. She’ve been here all the while: and only to think what her innocent eyes and ears must have took in! There was another couple —’ Mrs. Carkeek sunk her voice.
“‘Oh, hush76!’ said I, ‘if I’m to have any peace of mind in this house!’
“‘But you won’t go, miss? She loves you, I know she do. And think what you might be leaving her to — what sort of tenant might come next. For she can’t go. She’ve been here ever since her father sold the place. He died soon after. You musn’t go!’
“Now I had resolved to go, but all of a sudden I felt how mean this resolution was.
“‘After all,’ said I, ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
“‘That’s it, miss; nothing at all. I don’t even believe it’s so very uncommon77. Why, I’ve heard my mother tell of farmhouses78 where the rooms were swept every night as regular as clockwork, and the floors sanded, and the pots and pans scoured79, and all while the maids slept. They put it down to the piskies; but we know better, miss, and now we’ve got the secret between us we can lie easy in our beds, and if we hear anything, say “God bless the child!” and go to sleep.’
“‘Mrs. Carkeek,’ said I, ‘there’s only one condition I have to make.’
“‘What’s that?’
“‘Why, that you let me kiss you.’
“‘Oh, you dear!’ said Mrs. Carkeek as we embraced: and this was as close to familiarity as she allowed herself to go in the whole course of my acquaintance with her.
“I spent three years at Tresillack, and all that while Mrs. Carkeek lived with me and shared the secret. Few women, I dare to say, were ever so completely wrapped around with love as we were during those three years. It ran through my waking life like a song: it smoothed my pillow, touched and made my table comely80, in summer lifted the heads of the flowers as I passed, and in winter watched the fire with me and kept it bright.
“‘Why did I ever leave Tresillack?’ Because one day, at the end of five years, Farmer Hosking brought me word that he had sold the house — or was about to sell it; I forget which. There was no avoiding it, at any rate; the purchaser being a Colonel Kendall, a brother of the old Squire.’
“‘A married man?’ I asked.
“‘Yes, miss; with a family of eight. As pretty children as ever you see, and the mother a good lady. It’s the old home to Colonel Kendall.’
“‘I see. And that is why you feel bound to sell.’
“‘It’s a good price, too, that he offers. You mustn’t think but I’m sorry enough —’
“‘To turn me out? I thank you, Mr. Hosking; but you are doing the right thing.’
“Since Mrs. Carkeek was to stay, the arrangement lacked nothing of absolute perfection — except, perhaps, that it found no room for me.
“‘She— Margaret-will be happy,’ I said; ‘with her cousins, you know.’
“‘Oh yes, miss, she will be happy, sure enough,’ Mrs. Carkeek agreed.
“So when the time came I packed up my boxes, and tried to be cheerful. But on the last morning, when they stood corded in the hall, I sent Mrs. Carkeek upstairs upon some poor excuse, and stepped alone into the pantry.
“‘Margaret!’ I whispered.
“There was no answer at all. I had scarcely dared to hope for one. Yet I tried again, and, shutting my eyes this time, stretched out both hands and whispered:
“‘Margaret!’
“And I will swear to my dying day that two little hands stole and rested — for a moment only — in mine.”
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1
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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supremely
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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obsequiousness
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| 媚骨 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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cisterns
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| n.蓄水池，储水箱( cistern的名词复数 )；地下储水池 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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disingenuous
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| adj.不诚恳的，虚伪的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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