It was but natural, therefore, that she and her husband should listen to Helen's effort to awaken7 memories of the past with profound anxiety. How far would she go? If Nichol were able to respond with no more appreciative8 intelligence than he had thus far manifested, would a sentiment of pity and obligation carry her to the point of accepting him as he was, of devoting herself to one who, in spite of all their commiseration9 and endeavors to tolerate, might become a sort of horror in their household! It was with immense relief that they heard her falter10 in her story, for they quickly divined that there was nothing in him which responded to her effort. When they heard her rise and moan, "If he had only come back to me mutilated in body, helpless! but this change—" they believed that she was meeting the disappointment as they could wish.
Mr. and Mrs. Nichol heard the words also, and while in a measure compelled to recognize their force, they conveyed a meaning hard to accept. The appeal upon which so much hope had been built had failed. In bitterness of soul, the conviction grew stronger that their once brave, keen-minded son would never be much better than an idiot.
Then Helen appeared among them as pale, trembling, and overwhelmed as if she had seen a spectre. In strong reaction from her effort and blighted12 hope she was almost in a fainting condition. Her mother's arms received her and supported her to a lounge; Mrs. Nichol gave way to bitter weeping; Mr. Kemble wrung13 the father's hand in sympathy, and then at his wife's request went for restoratives. Dr. Barnes closed the sliding-doors and prudently14 reassured15 Nichol: "You have done your best, Captain, and that is all I asked of you. Remain here quietly and look at your picture for a little while, and then you shall have a good long rest."
"I did try, Doctor," protested Nichol, anxiously. "Gee17 wiz! I reckon a feller orter try ter please sech a purty gyurl. She tole me lots. Look yere, Doctor, why kyan't I be tole over en over till I reckerlect it all?"
"Well, we'll see, Captain. It's late now, and we must all have a rest.
Stay here till I come for you."
Nichol was so pleased with his photograph that he was well content in its contemplation. The physician now gave his attention to Helen, who was soon so far restored as to comprehend her utter failure. Her distress18 was great indeed, and for a few moments diverted the thoughts of even Mr. and Mrs. Nichol from their own sad share in the disappointment.
"Oh, oh!" sobbed19 Helen, "this is the bitterest sorrow the war has brought us yet."
"Well, now, friends," said Dr. Barnes, "it's time I had my say and gave my orders. You must remember that I have not shared very fully21 in your confidence that the captain could be restored by the appeals you have made; neither do I share in this abandonment to grief now. As the captain says, he is yet simply unable to respond. We must patiently wait and see what time and medical skill can do for him. There is no reason whatever for giving up hope. Mrs. Kemble, I would advise you to take Miss Helen to her room, and you, Mr. Nichol, to take your wife and son home. I will call in the morning, and then we can advise further."
His counsel was followed, the captain readily obeying when told to go with his parents. Then the physician stepped over to Martine's cottage and found, as he supposed, that the opiate and exhausted22 nature had brought merciful oblivion.
It was long before Helen slept, nor would she take anything to induce sleep. She soon became quiet, kissed her mother, and said she wished to be alone. Then she tried to look at the problem in all its aspects, and earnestly asked for divine guidance. The decision reached in the gray dawn brought repose23 of mind and body.
It was late in the afternoon when Martine awoke with a dull pain in his head and heart. As the consciousness of all that had happened returned, he remembered that there was good reason for both. His faithful old domestic soon prepared a dainty meal, which aided in giving tone to his exhausted system. Then he sat down by his fire to brace24 himself for the tidings he expected to hear. Helen's chair was empty. It would always be hers, but hope was gone that she would smile from it upon him during the long winter evenings. Already the room was darkening toward the early December twilight25, and he felt that his life was darkening in like manner. He was no longer eager to hear what had occurred. The mental and physical sluggishness26 which possessed27 him was better than sharp pain; he would learn all soon enough—the recognition, the beginning of a new life which inevitably28 would drift further and further from him. His best hope was to get through the time, to endure patiently and shape his life so as to permit as little of its shadow as possible to fall upon hers. But as he looked around the apartment and saw on every side the preparations for one who had been his, yet could be no longer, his fortitude30 gave way, and he buried his face in his hands.
So deep was his painful revery that he did not hear the entrance of Dr.
Barnes and Mr. Kemble. The latter laid a hand upon his shoulder and
said kindly32, "Hobart, my friend, it is just as I told you it would be.
Helen needs you and wishes to see you."
Martine started up, exclaiming, "He must have remembered her."
Mr. Kemble shook his head. "No, Hobart," said the doctor, "she was as much of a stranger to him as you were. There were, of course, grounds for your expectation and hers also, but we prosaic33 physiologists35 have some reason for our doubtings as well as you for your beliefs. It's going to be a question of time with Nichol. How are you yourself? Ah, I see," he added, with his finger on his patient's pulse. "With you it's going to be a question of tonics37."
"Yes, I admit that," Martine replied, "but perhaps of tonics other than those you have in mind. You said, sir [to Mr. Kemble], that Helen wished to see me?"
"Yes, when you feel well enough."
"I trust you will make yourselves at home," said Martine, hastily preparing to go out.
"But don't you wish to hear more about Nichol?" asked the doctor, laughing.
"Not at present. Good-by."
Yet he was perplexed38 how to meet the girl who should now have been his wife; and he trembled with strange embarrassment39 as he entered the familiar room in which he had parted from her almost on the eve of their wedding. She was neither perplexed nor embarrassed, for she had the calmness of a fixed40 purpose. She went swiftly to him, took his hand, led him to a chair, then sat down beside him. He looked at her wonderingly and listened sadly as she asked, "Hobart, will you be patient with me again?"
"Yes," he replied after a moment, yet he sighed deeply in foreboding.
Tears came into her eyes, yet her voice did not falter as she continued: "I said last night that you would understand me better than any one else; so I believe you will now. You will sustain and strengthen me in what I believe to be duty."
"Yes, Helen, up to the point of such endurance as I have. One can't go beyond that."
"No, Hobart, but you will not fail me, nor let me fail. I cannot marry Captain Nichol as he now is"—there was an irrepressible flash of joy in his dark eyes—"nor can I," she added slowly and sadly, "marry you." He was about to speak, but she checked him and resumed. "Listen patiently to me first. I have thought and thought long hours, and I think I am right. You, better than I, know Captain Nichol's condition—its sad contrast to his former noble self. The man we once knew is veiled, hidden, lost—how can we express it? But he exists, and at any time may find and reveal himself. No one, not even I, can revolt at what he is now as he will revolt at it all when his true consciousness returns. He has met with an immeasurable misfortune. He is infinitely41 worse off than if helpless—worse off than if he were dead, if this condition is to last; but it may not last. What would he think of me if I should desert him now and leave him nothing to remember but a condition of which he could only think with loathing42? I will hide nothing from you, Hobart, my brave, true friend—you who have taught me what patience means. If you had brought him back utterly43 helpless, yet his old self in mind, I could have loved him and married him, and you would have sustained me in that course. Now I don't know. My future, in this respect, is hidden like his. The shock I received last night, the revulsion of feeling which followed, leaves only one thing clear. I must try to do what is right by him; it will not be easy. I hope you will understand. While I have the deepest pity that a woman can feel, I shrink from him NOW, for the contrast between his former self and his present is so terrible. Oh, it is such a horrible mystery! All Dr. Barnes's explanations do not make it one bit less mysterious and dreadful. Albert took the risk of this; he has suffered this for his country. I must suffer for him; I must not desert him in his sad extremity45. I must not permit him to awake some day and learn from others what he now is, and that I, the woman he loved, of all others, left him to his degradation46. The consequences might be more fatal than the injury which so changed him. Such action on my part might destroy him morally. Now his old self is buried as truly as if he had died. I could never look him in the face again if I left him to take his chances in life with no help from me, still less if I did that which he could scarcely forgive. He could not understand all that has happened since we thought him dead. He would only remember that I deserted47 him in his present pitiable plight48. Do you understand me, Hobart?"
"I must, Helen."
"I know how hard it is for you. Can you think I forget this for a moment? Yet I send for you to help, to sustain me in a purpose which changes our future so greatly. Do you not remember what you said once about accepting the conditions of life as they are? We must do this again, and make the best of them."
"But if—suppose his memory does not come back. Is there to be no hope?"
"Hobart, you must put that thought from you as far as you can. Do you not see whither it might lead? You would not wish Captain Nichol to remain as he is?"
"Oh," he cried desperately49, "I'm put in a position that would tax any saint in the calendar."
"Yes, you are. The future is not in our hands. I can only appeal to you to help me do what I think is right NOW."
He thought a few moments, took his resolve, then gave her his hand silently. She understood him without a word.
The news of the officer's return and of his strange condition was soon generally known in the village; but his parents, aided by the physician, quickly repressed those inclined to call from mere50 curiosity. At first Jim Wetherby scouted51 the idea that his old captain would not know him, but later had to admit the fact with a wonder which no explanations satisfied. Nichol immediately took a fancy to the one-armed veteran, who was glad to talk by the hour about soldiers and hospitals.
Before any matured plan for treatment could be adopted Nichol became ill, and soon passed into the delirium52 of fever. "The trouble is now clear enough," Dr. Barnes explained. "The captain has lived in hospitals and breathed a tainted53 atmosphere so long that his system is poisoned. This radical54 change of air has developed the disease."
Indeed, the typhoid symptoms progressed so rapidly as to show that the robust55 look of health had been in appearance only. The injured, weakened brain was the organ which suffered most, and in spite of the physician's best efforts his patient speedily entered into a condition of stupor56, relieved only by low, unintelligible57 mutterings. Jim Wetherby became a tireless watcher, and greatly relieved the grief-stricken parents. Helen earnestly entreated58 that she might act the part of nurse also, but the doctor firmly forbade her useless exposure to contagion59. She drove daily to the house, yet Mrs. Nichol's sad face and words could scarcely dissipate the girl's impression that the whole strange episode was a dream.
At last it was feared that the end was near. One night Dr. Barnes, Mr. and Mrs. Nichol, and Jim Wetherby were watching in the hope of a gleam of intelligence. He was very low, scarcely more than breathing, and they dreaded61 lest there might be no sign before the glimmer62 of life faded out utterly.
Suddenly the captain seemed to awake, his glassy eyes kindled63, and a noble yet stern expression dignified64 his visage. In a thick voice he said, "For—" Then, as if all the remaining forces of life asserted themselves, he rose in his bed and exclaimed loudly, "Forward! Company A. Guide right. Ah!" He fell back, now dead in very truth.
"Oh!" cried Jim Wetherby, excitedly, "them was the last words I heard from him just before the shell burst, and he looks now just as he did then."
"Yes," said Dr. Barnes, sadly and gravely, "memory came back to him at the point where he lost it. He has died as we thought at first—a brave soldier leading a charge."
The stern, grand impress of battle remained upon the officer's countenance65. Friends and neighbors looked upon his ennobled visage with awe66, and preserved in honored remembrance the real man that temporarily had been obscured. Helen's eyes, when taking her farewell look, were not so blinded with tears but that she recognized his restored manhood. Death's touch had been more potent69 than love's appeal.
In the Wilderness70, upon a day fatal to him and so many thousands, Captain Nichol had prophesied71 of the happy days of peace. They came, and he was not forgotten.
One evening Dr. Barnes was sitting with Martine and Helen at their fireside. They had been talking about Nichol, and Helen remarked thoughtfully, "It was so very strange that he should have regained72 his memory in the way and at the time he did."
"No," replied the physician, "that part of his experience does not strike me as so very strange. In typhoid cases a lucid73 interval74 is apt to precede death. His brain, like his body, was depleted75, shrunken slightly by disease. This impoverishment76 probably removed the cerebral77 obstruction78, and the organ of memory renewed its action at the point where it had been arrested. My theory explains his last ejaculation, 'Ah!' It was his involuntary exclamation79 as he again heard the shell burst. The reproduction in his mind of this explosion killed him instantly after all. He was too enfeebled to bear the shock. If he had passed from delirium into quiet sleep—ah, well! he is dead, and that is all we can know with certainty."
"Well," said Martine, with a deep breath, "I am glad he had every chance that it was possible for us to give him."
"Yes, Hobart," added his wife, gently, "you did your whole duty, and I do not forget what it cost you."
QUEEN OF SPADES
"Mother," remarked Farmer Banning, discontentedly, "Susie is making a long visit."
"She is coming home next week," said his cheery wife. She had drawn81 her low chair close to the air-tight stove, for a late March snowstorm was raging without.
"It seems to me that I miss her more and more."
"Well, I'm not jealous."
"Oh, come, wife, you needn't be. The idea! But I'd be jealous if our little girl was sorter weaned away from us by this visit in town."
"Now, see here, father, you beat all the men I ever heard of in scolding about farmers borrowing, and here you are borrowing trouble."
"Well, I hope I won't have to pay soon. But I've been thinking that the old farmhouse82 may look small and appear lonely after her gay winter. When she is away, it's too big for me, and a suspicion lonely for us both. I've seen that you've missed her more than I have."
"I guess you're right. Well, she's coming home, as I said, and we must make home seem home to her. The child's growing up. Why, she'll be eighteen week after next. You must give her something nice on her birthday."
"I will," said the farmer, his rugged83, weather-beaten face softening84 with memories. "Is our little girl as old as that? Why, only the other day I was carrying her on my shoulder to the barn and tossing her into the haymow. Sure enough, the 10th of April will be her birthday. Well, she shall choose her own present."
On the afternoon of the 5th of April he went down the long bill to the station, and was almost like a lover in his eagerness to see his child. He had come long before the train's schedule time, but was rewarded at last. When Susie appeared, she gave him a kiss before every one, and a glad greeting which might have satisfied the most exacting86 of lovers. He watched her furtively89 as they rode at a smart trot90 up the hill. Farmer Banning kept no old nags91 for his driving, but strong, well-fed, spirited horses that sometimes drew a light vehicle almost by the reins92. "Yes," he thought, "she has grown a little citified. She's paler, and has a certain air or style that don't seem just natural to the hill. Well, thank the Lord! she doesn't seem sorry to go up the hill once more."
"There's the old place, Susie, waiting for you," he said. "It doesn't look so very bleak93, does it, after all the fine city houses you've seen?"
"Yes, father, it does. It never appeared so bleak before."
He looked at his home, and in the late gray afternoon, saw it in a measure with her eyes—the long brown, bare slopes, a few gaunt old trees about the house, and the top boughs94 of the apple-orchard behind a sheltering hill in the rear of the dwelling95.
"Father," resumed the girl, "we ought to call our place the Bleak House. I never so realized before how bare and desolate96 it looks, standing97 there right in the teeth of the north wind."
His countenance fell, but he had no time for comment. A moment later Susie was in her mother's arms. The farmer lifted the trunk to the horse-block and drove to the barn. "I guess it will be the old story," he muttered. "Home has become 'Bleak House.' I suppose it did look bleak to her eyes, especially at this season. Well, well, some day Susie will go to the city to stay, and then it will be Bleak House sure enough."
"Oh, father," cried his daughter when, after doing his evening work, he entered with the shadow of his thoughts still upon his face—"oh, father, mother says I can choose my birthday present!"
"Yes, Sue; I've passed my word."
"And so I have your bond. My present will make you open your eyes."
"And pocket-book too, I suppose. I'll trust you, however, not to break me. What is it to be?"
"I'll tell you the day before, and not till then."
After supper they drew around the stove. Mrs. Banning got out her knitting, as usual, and prepared for city gossip. The farmer rubbed his hands over the general aspect of comfort, and especially over the regained presence of his child's bright face. "Well, Sue," he remarked, "you'll own that this room IN the house doesn't look very bleak?"
"No, father, I'll own nothing of the kind. Your face and mother's are not bleak, but the room is."
"Well," said the farmer, rather disconsolately99, "I fear the old place has been spoiled for you. I was saying to mother before you came home—"
"There now, father, no matter about what you were saying. Let Susie tell us why the room is bleak."
The girl laughed softly, got up, and taking a billet of wood from the box, put it into the air-tight. "The stove has swallowed it just as old Trip did his supper. Shame! you greedy dog," she added, caressing100 a great Newfoundland that would not leave her a moment. "Why can't you learn to eat your meals like a gentleman?" Then to her father, "Suppose we could sit here and see the flames curling all over and around that stick. Even a camp in the woods is jolly when lighted up by a flickering102 blaze."
"Oh—h!" said the farmer; "you think an open fire would take away the bleakness103?"
"Certainly. The room would be changed instantly, and mother's face would look young and rosy104 again. The blue-black of this sheet-iron stove makes the room look blue-black."
"Open fires don't give near as much heat," said her father, meditatively105. "They take an awful lot of wood; and wood is getting scarce in these parts."
"I should say so! Why don't you farmers get together, appoint a committee to cut down every tree remaining, then make it a State-prison offence ever to set out another? Why, father, you cut nearly all the trees from your lot a few years ago and sold the wood. Now that the trees are growing again, you are talking of clearing up the land for pasture. Just think of the comfort we could get out of that wood-lot! What crop would pay better? All the upholsterers in the world cannot furnish a room as an open hardwood fire does; and all the produce of the farm could not buy anything else half so nice."
"Say, mother," said her father, after a moment, "I guess I'll get down that old Franklin from the garret to-morrow and see if it can't furnish this room."
The next morning he called rather testily106 to the hired man, who was starting up the lane with an axe107, "Hiram, I've got other work for you. Don't cut a stick in that wood-lot unless I tell you."
The evening of the 9th of April was cool but clear, and the farmer said, genially108, "Well, Sue, prospects111 good for fine weather on your birthday. Glad of it; for I suppose you will want me to go to town with you for your present, whatever it is to be."
"You'll own up a girl can keep a secret now, won't you?"
"He'll have to own more'n that," added his wife; "he must own that an ole woman hasn't lost any sleep from curiosity."
"How much will be left me to own to-morrow night?" said the farmer, dubiously112. "I suppose Sue wants a watch studded with diamonds, or a new house, or something else that she darsn't speak of till the last minute, even to her mother."
"Nothing of the kind. I want only all your time tomorrow, and all
Hiram's time, after you have fed the stock."
"All our time!
"Yes, the entire day, in which you both are to do just what I wish. You are not going gallivanting to the city, but will have to work hard."
"Well, I'm beat! I don't know what you want any more than I did at first."
"Yes, you do—your time and Hiram's."
"Give it up. It's hardly the season for a picnic. We might go fishing—"
"We must go to bed, so as to be up early, all hands."
"Oh, hold on, Sue; I do like this wood-fire. If it wouldn't make you vain, I'd tell you how—"
"Pretty, father. Say it out."
"Oh, you know it, do you? Well, how pretty you look in the firelight. Even mother, there, looks ten years younger. Keep your low seat, child, and let me look at you. So you're eighteen? My! my! how the years roll around! It WILL be Bleak House for mother and me, in spite of the wood-fire, when you leave us."
"It won't be Bleak House much longer," she replied with a significant little nod.
The next morning at an early hour the farmer said, "All ready, Sue. Our time is yours till night; so queen it over us." And black Hiram grinned acquiescence113, thinking he was to have an easy time.
"Queen it, did you say?" cried Sue, in great spirits. "Well, then, I shall be queen of spades. Get 'em, and come with me. Bring a pickaxe, too." She led the way to a point not far from the dwelling, and resumed: "A hole here, father, a hole there, Hiram, big enough for a small hemlock114, and holes all along the northeast side of the house. Then lots more holes, all over the lawn, for oaks, maples116, dogwood, and all sorts to pretty trees, especially evergreens117.'
"Oh, ho!" cried the farmer; "now I see the hole where the woodchuck went in."
"But you don't see the hole where he's coming out. When that is dug, even the road will be lined with trees. Foolish old father! you thought I'd be carried away with city gewgaws, fine furniture, dresses, and all that sort of thing. You thought I'd be pining for what you couldn't afford, what wouldn't do you a particle of good, nor me either, in the long run. I'm going to make you set out trees enough to double the value of your place and take all the bleakness and bareness from this hillside. To-day is only the beginning. I did get some new notions in the city which made me discontented with my home, but they were not the notions you were worrying about. In the suburbs I saw that the most costly118 houses were made doubly attractive by trees and shrubbery, and I knew that trees would grow for us as well as for millionaires—My conscience! if there isn't—" and the girl frowned and bit her lips.
"Is that one of the city beaux you were telling us about?" asked her father, sotto voce.
"Yes; but I don't want any beaux around to-day. I didn't think he'd be so persistent119." Then, conscious that she was not dressed for company, but for work upon which she had set her heart, she advanced and gave Mr. Minturn a rather cool greeting.
But the persistent beau was equal to the occasion. He had endured Sue's absence as long as he could, then had resolved on a long day's siege, with a grand storming-onset late in the afternoon.
"Please, Miss Banning," he began, "don't look askance at me for coming at this unearthly hour. I claim the sacred rites120 of hospitality. I'm an invalid121. The doctor said I needed country air, or would have prescribed it if given a chance. You said I might come to see you some day, and by playing Paul Pry122 I found out, you remember, that this was your birthday, and—"
"And this is my father, Mr. Minturn."
Mr. Minturn shook the farmer's hand with a cordiality calculated to awaken suspicions of his designs in a pump, had its handle been thus grasped. "Mr. Banning will forgive me for appearing with the lark123," he continued volubly, determining to break the ice. "One can't get the full benefit of a day in the country if he starts in the afternoon."
The farmer was polite, but nothing more. If there was one thing beyond all others with which he could dispense124, it was a beau for Sue.
Sue gave her father a significant, disappointed glance, which meant, "I won't get my present to day"; but he turned and said to Hiram, "Dig the hole right there, two feet across, eighteen inches deep." Then he started for the house. While not ready for suitors, his impulse to bestow125 hospitality was prompt.
The alert Mr. Minturn had observed the girl's glance, and knew that the farmer had gone to prepare his wife for a guest. He determined127 not to remain unless assured of a welcome. "Come, Miss Banning," he said, "we are at least friends, and should be frank. How much misunderstanding and trouble would often be saved if people would just speak their thought! This is your birthday—YOUR DAY. It should not be marred128 by any one. It would distress me keenly if I were the one to spoil it. Why not believe me literally129 and have your way absolutely about this day? I could come another time. Now show that a country girl, at least, can speak her mind."
With an embarrassed little laugh she answered, "I'm half inclined to take you at your word; but it would look so inhospitable."
"Bah for looks! The truth, please. By the way, though, you never looked better than in that trim blue walking-suit."
"Old outgrown131 working-suit, you mean. How sincere you are!"
"Indeed I am. Well, I'm de trop; that much is plain. You will let me come another day, won't you?"
"Yes, and I'll be frank too and tell you about THIS day. Father's a busy man, and his spring work is beginning, but as my birthday-present he has given me all his time and all Hiram's yonder. Well, I learned in the city how trees improved a home; and I had planned to spend this long day in setting out trees—planned it ever since my return. So you see—"
"Of course I see and approve," cried Minturn. "I know now why I had such a wild impulse to come out here to-day. Why, certainly. Just fancy me a city tramp looking for work, and not praying I won't find it, either. I'll work for my board. I know how to set out trees. I can prove it, for I planted those thrifty132 fellows growing about our house in town. Think how much more you'll accomplish, with another man to help—one that you can order around to your heart's content."
"The idea of my putting you to work!"
"A capital idea! and if a man doesn't work when a woman puts him at it he isn't worth the powder—I won't waste time even in original remarks. I'll promise you there will be double the number of trees out by night. Let me take your father's spade and show you how I can dig. Is this the place? If I don't catch up with Hiram, you may send the tramp back to the city." And before she could remonstrate133, his coat was off and he at work.
Laughing, yet half in doubt, she watched him. The way he made the earth fly was surprising. "Oh, come," she said after a few moments, "you have shown your goodwill134. A steam-engine could not keep it up at that rate."
"Perhaps not; but I can. Before you engage me, I wish you to know that
I am equal to old Adam, and can dig."
"Engage you!" she thought with a little flutter of dismay. "I could manage him with the help of town conventionalities; but how will it be here? I suppose I can keep father and Hiram within earshot, and if he is so bent135 on—well, call it a lark, since he has referred to that previous bird, perhaps I might as well have a lark too, seeing it's my birthday." Then she spoke136. "Mr. Minturn!"
"I'm busy."
"But really—"
"And truly tell me, am I catching137 up with Hiram?"
"You'll get down so deep that you'll drop through if you're not careful."
"There's nothing like having a man who is steady working for you. Now, most fellows would stop and giggle138 at such little amusing remarks."
"You are soiling your trousers."
"Yes, you're right. They ARE mine. There; isn't that a regulation hole?
'Two feet across and eighteen deep.'"
"Yah! yah!" cackled Hiram; "eighteen foot deep! Dat ud be a well."
"Of course it would, and truth would lie at its bottom. Can I stay,
Miss Banning?"
"Did you ever see the like?" cried the farmer, who had appeared, unnoticed.
"Look here, father," said the now merry girl, "perhaps I was mistaken.
This—"
"Tramp—" interjected Minturn.
"Says he's looking for work and knows how to set out trees."
"And will work all day for a dinner," the tramp promptly139 added.
"If he can dig holes at that rate, Sue," said her father, catching their spirit, "he's worth a dinner. But you're boss to-day; I'm only one of the hands."
"I'm only another," said Minturn, touching140 his hat.
"Boss, am I? I'll soon find out. Mr. Minturn, come with me and don a pair of overalls141. You shan't put me to shame, wearing that spick-and-span suit, neither shall you spoil it. Oh, you're in for it now! You might have escaped, and come another day, when I could have received you in state and driven you out behind father's frisky142 bays. When you return to town with blistered143 hands and aching bones, you will at least know better another time."
"I don't know any better this time, and just yearn144 for those overalls."
"To the house, then, and see mother before you become a wreck145."
Farmer Banning looked after him and shook his head. Hiram spoke his employer's thought, "Dar ar gem'lin act like he gwine ter set hisself out on dis farm."
Sue had often said, "I can never be remarkable146 for anything; but I won't be commonplace." So she did not leave her guest in the parlor while she rushed off for a whispered conference with her mother. The well-bred simplicity147 of her manner, which often stopped just short of brusqueness, was never more apparent than now. "Mother!" she called from the parlor door.
The old lady gave a few final directions to her maid-of-all-work, and then appeared.
"Mother, this is Mr. Minturn, one of my city friends, of whom I have spoken to you. He is bent on helping149 me set out trees."
"Yes, Mrs. Banning, so bent that your daughter found that she would have to employ her dog to get me off the place."
Now, it had so happened that in discussing with her mother the young men whom she had met, Sue had said little about Mr. Minturn; but that little was significant to the experienced matron. Words had slipped out now and then which suggested that the girl did more thinking than talking concerning him; and she always referred to him in some light which she chose to regard as ridiculous, but which had not seemed in the least absurd to the attentive150 listener. When her husband, therefore, said that Mr. Minturn had appeared on the scene, she felt that an era of portentous151 events had begun. The trees to be set out would change the old place greatly, but a primeval forest shading the door would be as nothing compared with the vicissitude153 which a favored "beau" might produce. But mothers are more unselfish than fathers, and are their daughters' natural allies unless the suitor is objectionable. Mrs. Banning was inclined to be hospitable130 on general principles, meantime eager on her own account to see something of this man, about whom she had presentiments154. So she said affably, "My daughter can keep her eye on the work which she is so interested in, and yet give you most of her time.—Susan, I will entertain Mr. Minturn while you change your dress."
She glanced at her guest dubiously, receiving for the moment the impression that the course indicated by her mother was the correct one. The resolute156 admirer knew well what a fiasco the day would be should the conventionalities prevail, and so said promptly: "Mrs. Banning, I appreciate your kind intentions, and I hope some day you may have the chance to carry them out. To-day, as your husband understands, I am a tramp from the city looking for work. I have found it, and have been engaged.—Miss Banning, I shall hold you inflexibly157 to our agreement—a pair of overalls and dinner."
Sue said a few words of explanation. Her mother laughed, but urged, "Do go and change your dress."
"I protest!" cried Mr. Minturn. "The walking-suit and overalls go together."
"Walking-suit, indeed!" repeated Sue, disdainfully. "But I shall not change it. I will not soften85 one feature of the scrape you have persisted in getting yourself into."
"Please don't."
"Mr. Minturn," said the matron, with smiling positiveness, "Susie is boss only out of doors; I am, in the house. There is a fresh-made cup of coffee and some eggs on toast in the dining-room. Having taken such an early start, you ought to have a lunch before being put to work."
"Yes," added Sue, "and the out-door boss says you can't go to work until at least the coffee is sipped158."
"She's shrewd, isn't she, Mrs. Banning? She knows she will get twice as much work out of me on the strength of that coffee. Please get the overalls. I will not sip60, but swallow the coffee, unless it's scalding, so that no time may be lost. Miss Banning must see all she had set her heart upon accomplished159 to-day, and a great deal more."
The matron departed on her quest, and as she pulled out the overalls, nodded her head significantly. "Things will be serious sure enough if he accomplishes all he has set his heart on," she muttered. "Well, he doesn't seem afraid to give us a chance to see him. He certainly will look ridiculous in these overalls, but not much more so than Sue in that old dress. I do wish she would change it."
The girl had considered this point, but with characteristic decision had thought: "No; he shall see us all on the plainest side of our life. He always seemed a good deal of an exquisite160 in town, and he lives in a handsome house. If to-day's experience at the old farm disgusts him, so be it. My dress is clean and tidy, if it is outgrown and darned; and mother is always neat, no matter what she wears. I'm going through the day just as I planned; and if he's too fine for us, now is the time to find it out. He may have come just for a lark, and will laugh with his folks to-night over the guy of a girl I appear; but I won't yield even to the putting of a ribbon in my hair."
Mrs. Banning never permitted the serving of cold slops for coffee, and Mr. Minturn had to sip the generous and fragrant162 beverage163 slowly. Meanwhile, his thoughts were busy. "Bah! for the old saying, 'Take the goods the gods send,'" he mused164. "Go after your goods and take your pick. I knew my head was level in coming out. All is just as genuine as I supposed it would be—simple, honest, homely165. The girl isn't homely, though, but she's just as genuine as all the rest, in that old dress which fits her like a glove. No shams166 and disguises on this field-day of my life. And her mother! A glance at her comfortable amplitude168 banished169 my one fear. There's not a sharp angle about her. I was satisfied about Miss Sue, but the term 'mother-in-law' suggests vague terrors to any man until reassured.—Ah, Miss Banning," he said, "this coffee would warm the heart of an anchorite. No wonder you are inspired to fine things after drinking such nectar."
"Yes, mother is famous for her coffee. I know that's fine, and you can praise it; but I'll not permit any ironical170 remarks concerning myself."
"I wouldn't, if I were you, especially when you are mistress of the situation. Still, I can't help having my opinion of you. Why in the world didn't you choose as your present something stylish171 from the city?"
"Something, I suppose you mean, in harmony with my very stylish surroundings and present appearance."
"I didn't mean anything of the kind, and fancy you know it. Ah! here are the overalls. Now deeds, not words. I'll leave my coat, watch, cuffs172, and all impedimenta with you, Mrs. Banning. Am I not a spectacle to men and gods?" he added, drawing up the garment, which ceased to be nether173 in that it reached almost to his shoulders.
"Indeed you are," cried Sue, holding her side from laughing. Mrs. Banning also vainly tried to repress her hilarity174 over the absurd guy into which the nattily-dressed city man had transformed himself.
"Come," he cried, "no frivolity175! You shall at least say I kept my word about the trees to-day." And they started at once for the scene of action, Minturn obtaining on the way a shovel176 from the tool-room.
"To think she's eighteen years old and got a beau!" muttered the farmer, as he and Hiram started two new holes. They were dug and others begun, yet the young people had not returned. "That's the way with young men nowadays—'big cry, little wool.' I thought I was going to have Sue around with me all day. Might as well get used to it, I suppose. Eighteen! Her mother's wasn't much older when—yes, hang it, there's always a WHEN with these likely girls. I'd just like to start in again on that day when I tossed her into the haymow."
"What are you talking to yourself about, father?"
"Oh! I thought I had seen the last of you to-day."
"Perhaps you will wish you had before night."
"Well, now, Sue! the idea of letting Mr. Minturn rig himself out like that! There's no use of scaring the crows so long before corn-planting." And the farmer's guffaw177 was quickly joined by Hiram's broad "Yah! yah!"
She frowned a little as she said, "He doesn't look any worse than I do."
"Come, Mr. Banning, Solomon in all his glory could not so take your daughter's eye to-day as a goodly number of trees standing where she wants them. I suggest that you loosen the soil with the pickaxe, then I can throw it out rapidly. Try it."
The farmer did so, not only for Minturn, but for Hiram also. The lightest part of the work thus fell to him. "We'll change about," he said, "when you get tired."
But Minturn did not get weary apparently178, and under this new division of the toil179 the number of holes grew apace.
"Sakes alive, Mr. Minturn!" ejaculated Mr. Banning, "one would think you had been brought up on a farm."
"Or at ditch-digging," added the young man. "No; my profession is to get people into hot water and then make them pay roundly to get out. I'm a lawyer. Times have changed in cities. It's there you'll find young men with muscle, if anywhere. Put your hand here, sir, and you'll know whether Miss Banning made a bad bargain in hiring me for the day."
"Why!" exclaimed the astonished farmer, "you have the muscle of a blacksmith."
"Yes, sir; I could learn that trade in about a month."
"You don't grow muscle like that in a law-office?"
"No, indeed; nothing but bills grow there. A good fashion, if not abused, has come in vogue180, and young men develop their bodies as well as brains. I belong to an athletic181 club in town, and could take to pugilism should everything else fail."
"Is there any prospect110 of your coming to that?" Sue asked mischievously182.
"If we were out walking, and two or three rough fellows gave you impudence—" He nodded significantly.
"What could you do against two or three? They'd close on you."
"A fellow taught to use his hands doesn't let men close on him."
"Yah, yah! reckon not," chuckled184 Hiram. One of the farm household had evidently been won.
"It seems to me," remarked smiling Sue, "that I saw several young men in town who appeared scarcely equal to carrying their canes186."
"Dudes?"
"That's what they are called, I believe."
"They are not men. They are neither fish, flesh, nor fowl187, but the beginning of the great downward curve of evolution. Men came up from monkeys, it's said, you know, but science is in despair over the final down-comes of dudes. They may evolute into grasshoppers188."
The farmer was shaken with mirth, and Sue could not help seeing that he was having a good time. She, however, felt that no tranquilly189 exciting day was before her, as she had anticipated. What wouldn't that muscular fellow attempt before night? He possessed a sort of vim190 and cheerful audacity191 which made her tremble, "He is too confident," she thought, "and needs a lesson. All this digging is like that of soldiers who soon mean to drop their shovels192. I don't propose to be carried by storm just when he gets ready. He can have his lark, and that's all to-day. I want a good deal of time to think before I surrender to him or any one else."
During the remainder of the forenoon these musings prevented the slightest trace of sentimentality from appearing in her face or words. She had to admit mentally that Minturn gave her no occasion for defensive194 tactics. He attended as strictly195 to business as did Hiram, and she was allowed to come and go at will. At first she merely ventured to the house, to "help mother," as she said. Then, with growing confidence, she went here and there to select sites for trees; but Minturn dug on no longer "like a steam-engine," yet in an easy, steady, effective way that was a continual surprise to the farmer.
"Well, Sue," said her father at last, "you and mother ought to have an extra dinner; for Mr. Minturn certainly has earned one."
"I promised him only a dinner," she replied; "nothing was said about its being extra."
"Quantity is all I'm thinking of," said Minturn. "I have the sauce which will make it a feast."
"Beckon196 it's gwine on twelve," said Hiram, cocking his eye at the sun.
"Hadn't I better feed de critters?"
"Ah, old man! own up, now; you've got a backache," said Minturn.
"Dere is kin31' ob a crik comin'—"
"drop work, all hands," cried Sue. "Mr. Minturn has a 'crik' also, but he's too proud to own it. How you'll groan197 for this to-morrow, sir!"
"If you take that view of the case, I may be under the necessity of giving proof positive to the contrary by coming out to-morrow."
"You're not half through yet. The hardest part is to come."
"Oh, I know that," he replied; and he gave her such a humorously appealing glance that she turned quickly toward the house to hide a conscious flush.
The farmer showed him to the spare-room, in which he found his belongings198. Left to make his toilet, he muttered, "Ah, better and better! This is not the regulation refrigerator into which guests are put at farmhouses199. All needed for solid comfort is here, even to a slight fire in the air-tight. Now, isn't that rosy old lady a jewel of a mother-in-law? She knows that a warm man shouldn't get chilled just as well as if she had studied athletics200. Miss Sue, however, is a little chilly201. She's on the fence yet. Jupiter! I AM tired. Oh, well, I don't believe I'll have seven years of this kind of thing. You were right, though, old man, if your Rachel was like mine. What's that rustle202 in the other room? She's dressing203 for dinner. So must I; and I'm ready for it. If she has romantic ideas about love and lost appetites, I'm a goner."
When he descended204 to the parlor, his old stylish self again, Sue was there, robed in a gown which he had admired before, revealing the fact to her by approving glances. But now he said, "You don't look half so well as you did before."
"I can't say that of you," she replied.
"A man's looks are of no consequence."
"Few men think so."
"Oh, they try to please such critical eyes as I now am meeting."
"And throw dust in them too sometimes."
"Yes; gold dust, often. I haven't much of that."
"It would be a pity to throw it away if you had."
"No matter how much was thrown, I don't think it would blind you, Miss
Banning."
The dining-room door across the hall opened, and the host and hostess appeared. "Why, father and mother, how fine you look!"
"It would be strange indeed if we did not honor this day," said Mrs. Banning. "I hope you have not so tired yourself, sir, that you cannot enjoy your dinner. I could scarcely believe my eyes as I watched you from the window."
"I am afraid I shall astonish you still more at the table. I am simply ravenous205."
"This is your chance," cried Sue. "You are now to be paid in the coin you asked for."
Sue did remark to herself by the time they reached dessert and coffee, "I need have no scruples206 in refusing a man with such an appetite; he won't pine. He is a lawyer, sure enough. He is just winning father and mother hand over hand."
Indeed, the bosom207 of good Mrs. Banning must have been environed with steel not to have had throbs208 of goodwill toward one who showed such hearty209 appreciation210 of her capital dinner. But Sue became only the more resolved that she was not going to yield so readily to this muscular suitor who was digging and eating his way straight into the hearts of her ancestors, and she proposed to be unusually elusive211 and alert during the afternoon. She was a little surprised when he resumed his old tactics.
After drinking a second cup of coffee, he rose, and said, "As an honest man, I have still a great deal to do after such a dinner."
"Well, it has just done me good to see you," said Mrs. Banning, smiling genially over her old-fashioned coffee-pot. "I feel highly complimented."
"I doubt whether I shall be equal to another such compliment before the next birthday. I hope, Miss Susie, you have observed my efforts to do honor to the occasion?"
"Oh," cried the girl, "I naturally supposed you were trying to get even in your bargain."
"I hope to be about sundown. I'll get into those overalls at once, and
I trust you will put on your walking-suit."
"Yes, it will be a walking-suit for a short time. We must walk to the wood-lot for the trees, unless you prefer to ride.—Father, please tell Hiram to get the two-horse wagon212 ready."
When the old people were left alone, the farmer said, "Well, mother, Sue HAS got a suitor, and if he don't suit her—" And then his wit gave out.
"There, father, I never thought you'd come to that. It's well she has, for you will soon have to be taken care of."
"He's got the muscle to do it. He shall have my law-business, anyway."
"Thank the Lord, it isn't much; but that's not saying he shall have
Sue."
"Why, what have you against him?"
"Nothing so far. I was only finding out if you had anything against him."
"Lawyers, indeed! What would become of the men if women turned lawyers.
Do you think Sue—"
"Hush213!"
They all laughed till the tears came when Minturn again appeared dressed for work; but he nonchalantly lighted a cigar and was entirely214 at his ease.
Sue was armed with thick gloves and a pair of pruning-nippers. Minturn threw a spade and pickaxe on his shoulder, and Mr. Banning, whom Sue had warned threateningly "never to be far away," tramped at their side as they went up the lane. Apparently there was no need of such precaution, for the young man seemed wholly bent on getting up the trees, most of which she had selected and marked during recent rambles215. She helped now vigorously, pulling on the young saplings as they loosened the roots, then trimming them into shape. More than once, however, she detected glances, and his thoughts were more flattering than she imagined. "What vigor217 she has in that supple218, rounded form! Her very touch ought to put life into these trees; I know it would into me. How young she looks in that comical old dress which barely reaches her ankles! Yes, Hal Minturn; and remember, that trim little ankle can put a firm foot down for or against you—so no blundering."
He began to be doubtful whether he would make his grand attack that day, and finally decided219 against it, unless a very favorable opportunity occurred, until her plan of birthday-work had been carried out and he had fulfilled the obligation into which he had entered in the morning. He labored221 on manfully, seconding all her wishes, and taking much pains to get the young trees up with an abundance of fibrous roots. At last his assiduity induced her to relent a little, and she smiled sympathetically as she remarked, "I hope you are enjoying yourself. Well, never mind; some other day you will fare better."
"Why should I not enjoy myself?" he asked in well-feigned surprise. "What condition of a good time is absent? Even an April day has forgotten to be moody222, and we are having unclouded, genial109 sunshine. The air is delicious with springtime fragrance223. Were ever hemlocks224 so aromatic225 as these young fellows? They come out of the ground so readily that one would think them aware of their proud destiny. Of course I'm enjoying myself. Even the robins226 and sparrows know it, and are singing as if possessed."
"Hadn't you better give up your law-office and turn farmer?"
"This isn't farming. This is embroidery-work."
"Well, if all these trees grow they will embroider227 the old place, won't they?"
"They'll grow, every mother's son of 'em."
"What makes you so confident?"
"I'm not confident. That's where you are mistaken." And he gave her such a direct, keen look that she suddenly found something to do elsewhere.
"I declare!" she exclaimed mentally, "he seems to read my very thoughts."
At last the wagon was loaded with trees enough to occupy the holes which had been dug, and they started for the vicinity of the farmhouse again. Mr. Banning had no match-making proclivities228 where Sue was concerned, as may be well understood, and had never been far off. Minturn, however, had appeared so single-minded in his work, so innocent of all designs upon his daughter, that the old man began to think that this day's performance was only a tentative and preliminary skirmish, and that if there were danger it lurked229 in the unknown future. He was therefore inclined to be less vigilant230, reasoning philosophically231, "I suppose it's got to come some time or other. It looks as if Sue might go a good deal further than this young man and fare worse. But then she's only eighteen, and he knows it. I guess he's got sense enough not to plant his corn till the sun's higher. He can see with half an eye that my little girl isn't ready to drop, like an over-ripe apple." Thus mixing metaphors232 and many thoughts, he hurried ahead to open the gate for Hiram.
"I'm in for it now," thought Sue, and she instinctively234 assumed an indifferent expression and talked volubly of trees.
"Yes, Miss Banning," he said formally, "by the time your hair is tinged235 with gray the results of this day's labor220 will be seen far and wide. No passenger in the cars, no traveller in the valley, but will turn his eyes admiringly in this direction."
"I wasn't thinking of travellers," she answered, "but of making an attractive home in which I can grow old contentedly80. Some day when you have become a gray-haired and very dignified judge you may come out and dine with us again. You can then smoke your cigar under a tree which you helped to plant."
"Certainly, Miss Banning. With such a prospect, how could you doubt that I was enjoying myself? What suggested the judge? My present appearance?"
The incongruity236 of the idea with his absurd aspect and a certain degree of nervousness set her off again, and she startled the robins by a laugh as loud and clear as their wild notes.
"I don't care," she cried. "I've had a jolly birthday, and am accomplishing all on which I had set my heart."
"Yes, and a great deal more, Miss Banning," he replied with a formal bow. "In all your scheming you hadn't set your heart on my coming out and—does modesty237 permit me to say it?—helping a little."
"Now, you HAVE helped wonderfully, and you must not think I don't appreciate it."
"Ah, how richly I am rewarded!"
She looked at him with a laughing and perplexed little frown, but only said, "No irony238, sir."
By this time they had joined her father and begun to set out the row of hemlocks. To her surprise, Sue had found herself a little disappointed that he had not availed himself of his one opportunity to be at least "a bit friendly" as she phrased it. It was mortifying239 to a girl to be expecting "something awkward to meet" and nothing of the kind take place. "After all," she thought, "perhaps he came out just for a lark, or, worse still, is amusing himself at my expense; or he may have come on an exploring expedition and plain old father and mother, and the plain little farmhouse, have satisfied him. Well, the dinner wasn't very plain, but he may have been laughing in his sleeve at our lack of style in serving it. Then this old dress! I probably appear to him a perfect guy." And she began to hate it, and devoted240 it to the rag-bag the moment she could get it off.
This line of thought, once begun, seemed so rational that she wondered it had not occurred to her before. "The idea of my being so ridiculously on the defensive!" she thought. "No, it wasn't ridiculous either, as far as my action went, for he can never say I ACTED as if I wanted him to speak. My conceit241 in expecting him to speak the moment he got a chance WAS absurd. He has begun to be very polite and formal. That's always the way with men when they want to back out of anything. He came out to look us over, and me in particular; he made himself into a scarecrow just because I looked like one, and now will go home and laugh it all over with his city friends. Oh, why did he come and spoil my day? Even he said it WAS my day, and he has done a mean thing in spoiling it. Well, he may not carry as much self-complacency back to town as he thinks he will. Such a cold-blooded spirit, too!—to come upon us unawares in order to spy out everything, for fear he might get taken in! You were very attentive and flattering in the city, sir, but now you are disenchanted. Well, so am I."
Under the influence of this train of thought she grew more and more silent. The sun was sinking westward243 in undimmed splendor244, but her face was clouded. The air was sweet, balmy, well adapted to sentiment and the setting out of trees, but she was growing frosty.
"Hiram," she said shortly, "you've got that oak crooked245; let me hold it." And thereafter she held the trees for the old colored man as he filled in the earth around them.
Minturn appeared as oblivious246 as he was keenly observant. At first the change in Sue puzzled and discouraged him; then, as his acute mind sought her motives247, a rosy light began to dawn upon him. "I may be wrong," he thought, "but I'll take my chances in acting87 as if I were right before I go home."
At last Hiram said: "Reckon I'll have to feed de critters again;" and he slouched off.
Sue nipped at the young trees further and further away from the young man who must "play spy before being lover." The spy helped Mr. Banning set out the last tree. Meantime, the complacent249 farmer had mused: "The little girl's safe for another while, anyhow. Never saw her more offish; but things looked squally about dinner-time. Then, she's only eighteen; time enough years hence." At last he said affably, "I'll go in and hasten supper, for you've earned it if ever a man did, Mr. Minturn. Then I'll drive you down to the evening train." And he hurried away.
Sue's back was toward them, and she did not hear Minturn's step until he was close beside her. "All through," he said; "every tree out. I congratulate you; for rarely in this vale of tears are plans and hopes crowned with better success."
"Oh, yes," she hastened to reply; "I am more than satisfied. I hope that you are too."
"I have no reason to complain," he said. "You have stood by your morning's bargain, as I have tried to."
"It was your own fault, Mr. Minturn, that it was so one-sided. But I've no doubt you enjoy spicing your city life with a little lark in the country."
"It WAS a one-sided bargain, and I have had the best of it."
"Perhaps you have," she admitted. "I think supper will be ready by the time we are ready for it." And she turned toward the house. Then she added, "You must be weary and anxious to get away."
"You were right; my bones DO ache. And look at my hands. I know you'll say they need washing; but count the blisters250."
"I also said, Mr. Minturn, that you would know better next time. So you see I was right then and am right now."
"Are you perfectly251 sure?"
"I see no reason to think otherwise." In turning, she had faced a young sugar-maple115 which he had aided her in planting early in the afternoon. Now she snipped252 at it nervously253 with her pruning-shears254, for he would not budge255, and she felt it scarcely polite to leave him.
"Well," he resumed, after an instant, "it has a good look, hasn't it, for a man to fulfil an obligation literally?"
"Certainly, Mr. Minturn," and there was a tremor256 in her tone; "but you have done a hundred-fold more than I expected, and never were under any obligations."
"Then I am free to begin again?"
"You are as free now as you have been all day to do what you please."
And her shears were closing on the main stem of the maple. He caught
and stayed her hand. "I don't care!" she cried almost passionately258.
"Come, let us go in and end this foolish talk."
"But I do care," he replied, taking the shears from her, yet retaining her hand in his strong grasp. "I helped you plant this tree, and whenever you see it, whenever you care for it, when, in time, you sit under its shade or wonder at its autumn hues259, I wish you to remember that I told you of my love beside it. Dear little girl, do you think I am such a blind fool that I could spend this long day with you at your home and not feel sorry that I must ever go away? If I could, my very touch should turn the sap of this maple into vinegar. To-day I've only tried to show how I can work for you. I am eager to begin again, and for life."
At first Sue had tried to withdraw her hand, but its tenseness relaxed. As he spoke, she turned her averted260 face slowly toward him, and the rays of the setting sun flashed a deeper crimson261 into her cheeks. Her honest eyes looked into his and were satisfied. Then she suddenly gathered the young tree against her heart and kissed the stem she had so nearly severed262. "This maple is witness to what you've said," she faltered263. "Ah! but it will be a sugar-maple in truth; and if petting will make it live—there, now! behave! The idea! right out on this bare lawn! You must wait till the screening evergreens grow before—Oh, you audacious—I haven't promised anything."
"I promise everything. I'm engaged, and only taking my retaining-fees."
"Mother," cried Farmer Banning at the dining-room window, "just look yonder!"
"And do you mean to say, John Banning, that you didn't expect it?"
"Why, Sue was growing more and more offish."
"Of course! Don't you remember?"
"Oh, this unlucky birthday! As if trees could take Sue's place!"
"Yah!" chuckled Hiram from the barn door, "I knowed dat ar gem'lin was a-diggin' a hole fer hisself on dis farm."
"Mr. Minturn—" Sue began as they came toward the house arm in arm.
"Hal—" he interrupted.
"Well, then, Mr. Hal, you must promise me one thing in dead earnest. I'm the only chick father and mother have. You must be very considerate of them, and let me give them as much of my time as I can. This is all that I stipulate264; but this I do."
"Sue," he said in mock solemnity, "the prospects are that you'll be a widow."
"Why do you make such an absurd remark?"
"Because you have struck amidships the commandment with the promise, and your days will be long in the land. You'll outlive everybody."
"This will be no joke for father and mother."
So it would appear. They sat in the parlor as if waiting for the world to come to an end—as indeed it had, one phase of it, to them. Their little girl, in a sense, was theirs no longer.
"Father, mother," said Sue, demurely265, "I must break some news to you."
"It's broken already," began Mrs. Banning, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
Sue's glance renewed her reproaches for the scene on the lawn; but Minturn went promptly forward, and throwing his arm around the matron's plump shoulders, gave his first filial kiss.
"Come, mother," he said, "Sue has thought of you both; and I've given her a big promise that I won't take any more of her away than I can help. And you, sir," wringing267 the farmer's hand, "will often see a city tramp here who will be glad to work for his dinner. These overalls are my witness."
Then they became conscious of his absurd figure, and the scene ended in laughter that was near akin67 to tears.
The maple lived, you may rest assured; and Sue's children said there never was such sugar as the sap of that tree yielded.
All the hemlocks, oaks, and dogwood thrived as if conscious that theirs had been no ordinary transplanting; while Minturn's half-jesting prophecy concerning the travellers in the valley was amply fulfilled.
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT
"Jack269, she played with me deliberately270, heartlessly. I can never forgive her."
"In that case, Will, I congratulate you. Such a girl isn't worth a second thought, and you've made a happy escape."
"No congratulations, if you please. You can talk coolly, because in regard to such matters you are cool, and, I may add, a trifle cold. Ambition is your mistress, and a musty law-book has more attractions for you than any woman living. I'm not so tempered. I am subject to the general law of nature, and a woman's love and sympathy are essential to success in my life and work."
"That's all right; but there are as good fish—"
"Oh, have done with your trite271 nonsense," interrupted Will Munson, impatiently. "I'd consult you on a point of law in preference to most of the gray-beards, but I was a fool to speak of this affair. And yet as my most intimate friend—"
"Come, Will, I'm not unfeeling;" and John Ackland rose and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I admit that the subject is remote from my line of thought and wholly beyond my experience. If the affair is so serious I shall take it to heart."
"Serious! Is it a slight thing to be crippled for life?"
"Oh, come, now," said Ackland, giving his friend a hearty and encouraging thump272, "you are sound in mind and limb; what matters a scratch on the heart to a man not twenty-five?"
"Very well; I'll say no more about it. When I need a lawyer I'll come to you. Good-by; I sail for Brazil in the morning."
"Will, sit down and look me in the eyes," said Ackland, decisively.
"Will, forgive me. You are in trouble. A man's eyes usually tell me
more than all his words, and I don't like the expression of yours.
There is yellow fever in Brazil."
"I know it," was the careless reply.
"What excuse have you for going?"
"Business complications have arisen there, and I promptly volunteered to go. My employers were kind enough to hesitate and warn me, and to say that they could send a man less valuable to them, but I soon overcame their objections."
"That is your excuse for going. The reason I see in your eyes. You are reckless, Will."
"I have reason to be."
"I can't agree with you, but I feel for you all the same. Tell me all about it, for this is sad news to me. I had hoped to join you on the beach in a few days, and to spend August with you and my cousin. I confess I am beginning to feel exceedingly vindictive273 toward this pretty little monster, and if any harm comes to you I shall be savage274 enough to scalp her."
"The harm has come already, Jack. I'm hit hard. She showed me a mirage275 of happiness that has made my present world a desert. I am reckless; I'm desperate. You may think it is weak and unmanly, but you don't know anything about it. Time or the fever may cure me, but now I am bankrupt in all that gives value to life. A woman with an art so consummate277 that it seemed artless, deliberately evoked278 the best there was in me, then threw it away as indifferently as a cast-off glove."
"Tell me how it came about."
"How can I tell you? How can I in cold blood recall glances, words, intonations279, the pressure of a hand that seemed alive with reciprocal feeling? In addition to her beauty she had the irresistible280 charm of fascination281. I was wary282 at first, but she angled for me with a skill that would have disarmed283 any man who did not believe in the inherent falseness of woman. The children in the house idolized her, and I have great faith in a child's intuitions."
"Oh, that was only a part of her guile284," said Ackland, frowningly.
"Probably; at any rate she has taken all the color and zest285 out of my life. I wish some one could pay her back in her own coin. I don't suppose she has a heart; but I wish her vanity might be wounded in a way that would teach her a lesson never to be forgotten."
"It certainly would be a well-deserved retribution," said Ackland, musingly286.
"Jack, you are the one, of all the world, to administer the punishment.
I don't believe a woman's smiles ever quickened your pulse one beat."
"You are right, Will, it is my cold-bloodedness—to put your thought in plain English—that will prove your best ally."
"I only hope that I am not leading you into danger. You will need an
Indian's stoicism."
"Bah! I may fail ignominiously287, and find her vanity invulnerable, but I pledge you my word that I will avenge289 you if it be within the compass of my skill. My cousin, Mrs. Alston, may prove a useful ally. I think you wrote me that the name of this siren was Eva Van Tyne?"
"Yes; I only wish she had the rudiments290 of a heart, so that she might feel in a faint, far-off way a little of the pain she has inflicted291 on me. Don't let her make you falter or grow remorseful292, Jack. Remember that you have given a pledge to one who may be dead before you can fulfil it."
Ackland said farewell to his friend with the fear that he might never see him again, and a few days later found himself at a New England seaside resort, with a relentless293 purpose lurking294 in his dark eyes. Mrs. Alston did unconsciously prove a useful ally, for her wealth and elegance295 gave her unusual prestige in the house, and in joining her party Ackland achieved immediately all the social recognition he desired.
While strolling with this lady on the piazza296 he observed the object of his quest, and was at once compelled to make more allowance than he had done hitherto for his friend's discomfiture297. Two or three children were leaning over the young girl's chair, and she was amusing them by some clever caricatures. She was not so interested, however, but that she soon noted298 the new-comer, and bestowed299 upon him from time to time curious and furtive88 glances. That these were not returned seemed to occasion her some surprise, for she was not accustomed to be so utterly ignored, even by a stranger. A little later Ackland saw her consulting the hotel register.
"I have at least awakened300 her curiosity," he thought.
"I've been waiting for you to ask me who that pretty girl is," said Mrs. Alton, laughing; "you do indeed exceed all men in indifference301 to women."
"I know all about that girl," was the grim reply. "She has played the very deuce with my friend Munson."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Alston, indignantly, "it was the most shameful302 piece of coquetry I ever saw. She is a puzzle to me. To the children and the old people in the house she is consideration and kindness itself; but she appears to regard men of your years as legitimate303 game and is perfectly remorseless. So beware! She is dangerous, invulnerable as you imagine yourself to be. She will practice her wiles304 upon you if you give her half a chance, and her art has much more than her pretty face to enforce it. She is unusually clever."
Ackland's slight shrug305 was so contemptuous that his cousin was nettled306, and she thought, "I wish the girl could disturb his complacent equanimity307 just a little. It vexes308 one to see a man so indifferent; it's a slight to woman;" and she determined to give Miss Van Tyne the vantage-ground of an introduction at the first opportunity.
And this occurred before the evening was over. To her surprise Ackland entered into an extended conversation with the enemy. "Well," she thought, "if he begins in this style there will soon be another victim. Miss Van Tyne can talk to as bright a man as he is and hold her own. Meanwhile she will assail309 him in a hundred covert310 ways. Out of regard for his friend he should have shown some disapproval311 of her; but there he sits quietly talking in the publicity312 of the parlor."
"Mrs. Alston," said a friend at her elbow, "you ought to forewarn your cousin and tell him of Mr. Munson's fate."
"He knows all about Mr. Munson," was her reply. "Indeed, the latter is his most intimate friend. I suppose my cousin is indulging in a little natural curiosity concerning this destroyer of masculine peace, and if ever a man could do so in safety he can."
"Why so?"
"Well, I never knew so unsusceptible a man. With the exception of a few of his relatives, he has never cared for ladies' society."
Mrs. Alston was far astray in supposing that curiosity was Ackland's motive248 in his rather prolonged conversation with Miss Van Tyne. It was simply part of his tactics, for he proposed to waste no time in skirmishing or in guarded and gradual approaches. He would cross weapons at once, and secure his object by a sharp and aggressive campaign. His object was to obtain immediately some idea of the calibre of the girl's mind, and in this respect he was agreeably surprised, for while giving little evidence of thorough education, she was unusually intelligent and exceedingly quick in her perceptions. He soon learned also that she was gifted with more than woman's customary intuition, that she was watching his face closely for meanings that he might not choose to express in words or else to conceal313 by his language. While he feared that his task would be far more difficult than he expected, and that he would have to be extremely guarded in order not to reveal his design, he was glad to learn that the foe314 was worthy315 of his steel. Meanwhile her ability and self-reliance banished all compunction. He had no scruples in humbling316 the pride of a woman who was at once so proud, so heartless, and so clever. Nor would the effort be wearisome, for she had proved herself both amusing and interesting. He might enjoy it quite as much as an intricate law case.
Even prejudiced Ackland, as he saw her occasionally on the following day, was compelled to admit that she was more than pretty. Her features were neither regular nor faultless. Her mouth was too large to be perfect, and her nose was not Grecian; but her eyes were peculiarly fine and illumined her face, whose chief charm lay in its power of expression. If she chose, almost all her thoughts and feelings could find their reflex there. The trouble was that she could as readily mask her thought and express what she did not feel. Her eyes were of the darkest blue and her hair seemed light in contrast. It was evident that she had studied grace so thoroughly317 that her manner and carriage appeared unstudied and natural. She never seemed self-conscious, and yet no one had ever seen her in an ungainly posture318 or had known her to make an awkward gesture. This grace, however, like a finished style in writing, was tinged so strongly with her own individuality that it appeared original as compared with the fashionable monotony which characterized the manners of so many of her age. She could not have been much more than twenty; and yet, as Mrs. Alston took pains to inform her cousin, she had long been in society, adding, "Its homage319 is her breath of life, and from all I hear your friend Munson has had many predecessors320. Be on your guard."
"Your solicitude in my behalf is quite touching," he replied. "Who is this fair buccaneer that has made so many wrecks321 and exacts so heavy a revenue from society? Who has the care of her and what are her antecedents?"
"She is an orphan322, and possessed, I am told, of considerable property in her own name. A forceless, nerveless maiden323 aunt is about the only antecedent we see much of. Her guardian324 has been here once or twice, but practically she is independent."
Miss Van Tyne's efforts to learn something concerning Ackland were apparently quite as casual and indifferent and yet were made with utmost skill. She knew that Mrs. Alston's friend was something of a gossip; and she led her to speak of the subject of her thoughts with an indirect finesse325 that would have amused the young man exceedingly could he have been an unobserved witness. When she learned that he was Mr. Munson's intimate friend and that he was aware of her treatment of the latter, she was somewhat disconcerted. One so forewarned might not become an easy prey326. But the additional fact that he was almost a woman-hater put her upon her mettle327 at once, and she felt that here was a chance for a conquest such as she had never made before. She now believed that she had discovered the key to his indifference. He was ready enough to amuse himself with her as a clever woman, but knew her too well to bestow upon her even a friendly thought.
"If I can bring him to my feet it will be a triumph indeed," she murmured exultantly328; "and at my feet he shall be if he gives me half a chance." Seemingly he gave her every chance that she could desire, and while he scarcely made any effort to seek her society, she noted with secret satisfaction that he often appeared as if accidentally near her, and that he ever made it the easiest and most natural thing in the world for her to join him. His conversation was often as gay and unconventional as she could wish; but she seldom failed to detect in it an uncomfortable element of satire329 and irony. He always left her dissatisfied with herself and with a depressing consciousness that she had made no impression upon him.
His conquest grew into an absorbing desire; and she unobtrusively brought to bear upon him every art and fascination that she possessed. Her toilets were as exquisite as they were simple. The children were made to idolize her more than ever; but Ackland was candid330 enough to admit that this was not all guile on her part, for she was evidently in sympathy with the little people, who can rarely be imposed upon by any amount of false interest. Indeed, he saw no reason to doubt that she abounded331 in good-nature toward all except the natural objects of her ruling passion; but the very skill and deliberateness with which she sought to gratify this passion greatly increased his vindictive feeling. He saw how naturally and completely his friend had been deceived and how exquisite must have been the hopes and anticipations332 so falsely raised. Therefore he smiled more grimly at the close of each succeeding day, and was more than ever bent upon the accomplishment333 of his purpose.
At length Miss Van Tyne changed her tactics and grew quite oblivious to Ackland's presence in the house; but she found him apparently too indifferent to observe the fact. She then permitted one of her several admirers to become devoted; Ackland did not offer the protest of even a glance. He stood, as it were, just where she had left him, ready for an occasional chat, stroll, or excursion, if the affair came about naturally and without much effort on his part. She found that she could neither induce him to seek her nor annoy him by an indifference which she meant should be more marked than his own.
Some little time after there came a windy day when the surf was so heavy that there were but few bathers. Ackland was a good swimmer, and took his plunge334 as usual. He was leaving the water when Miss Van Tyne ran down the beach and was about to dart335 through the breakers in her wonted fearless style.
"Be careful," he said to her; "the undertow is strong, and the man who has charge of the bathing is ill and not here. The tide is changing—in fact, running out already, I believe." But she would not even look at him, much less answer. As there were other gentlemen present, he started for his bath-house, but had proceeded but a little way up the beach before a cry brought him to the water's edge instantly.
"Something is wrong with Miss Van Tyne," cried half a dozen voices.
"She ventured out recklessly, and it seems as if she couldn't get back."
At that moment her form rose on the crest336 of a wave, and above the thunder of the surf came her faint cry, "Help!"
The other bathers stood irresolute337, for she was dangerously far out, and the tide had evidently turned. Ackland, on the contrary, dashed through the breakers and then, in his efforts for speed, dived through the waves nearest to the shore. When he reached the place where he expected to find her he saw nothing for a moment or two but great crested338 billows that every moment were increasing in height under the rising wind. For a moment he feared that she had perished, and the thought that the beautiful creature had met her death so suddenly and awfully339 made him almost sick and faint. An instant later, however, a wave threw her up from the trough of the sea into full vision somewhat on his right, and a few strong strokes brought him to her side.
"Oh, save me!" she gasped340.
"Don't cling to me," he said sternly. "Do as I bid you. Strike out for the shore if you are able; if not, lie on your back and float."
She did the latter, for now that aid had reached her she apparently recovered from her panic and was perfectly tractable341. He placed his left hand under her and struck out quietly, aware that the least excitement causing exhaustion342 on his part might cost both of them their lives.
As they approached the shore a rope was thrown to them, and Ackland, who felt his strength giving way, seized it—desperately. He passed his arm around his companion with a grasp that almost made her breathless, and they were dragged half suffocated344 through the water until strong hands on either side rushed them through the breakers.
Miss Van Tyne for a moment or two stood dazed and panting, then disengaged herself from the rather warm support of the devoted admirer whom she had tried to play against Ackland, and tried to walk, but after a few uncertain steps fell senseless on the sand, thus for the moment drawing to herself the attention of the increasing throng345. Ackland, glad to escape notice, was staggering off to his bath-house when several ladies, more mindful of his part in the affair than the men had been, overtook him with a fire of questions and plaudits.
"Please leave me alone," he said almost savagely346, without looking around.
"What a bear he is! Any one else would have been a little complacent over such an exploit," they chorused, as they followed the unconscious girl, who was now being carried to the hotel.
Ackland locked the door of his little apartment and sank panting on the bench. "Maledictions on her!" he muttered. "At one time there was a better chance of her being fatal to me than to Munson with his yellow-fever tragedy in prospect. Her recklessness to-day was perfectly insane. If she tries it again she may drown for all that I care, or at least ought to care." His anger appeared to act like a tonic36, and he was soon ready to return to the house. A dozen sprang forward to congratulate him, but they found such impatience347 and annoyance348 at all reference to the affair that with many surmises350 the topic was dropped.
"You are a queer fellow," remarked his privileged cousin, as he took her out to dinner. "Why don't you let people speak naturally about the matter, or rather, why don't you pose as the hero of the occasion?"
"Because the whole affair was most unnatural351, and I am deeply incensed353. In a case of necessity I am ready to risk my life, although it has unusual attractions for me; but I'm no melodramatic hero looking for adventures. What necessity was there in this case? It is the old story of Munson over again in another guise167. The act was that of an inconsiderate, heartless woman who follows her impulses and inclinations355, no matter what may be the consequences." After a moment he added less indignantly, "I must give her credit for one thing, angry as I am—she behaved well in the water, otherwise she would have drowned me."
"She is not a fool. Most women would have drowned you."
"She is indeed not a fool; therefore she's the more to blame. If she is ever so reckless again, may I be asleep in my room. Of course one can't stand by and see a woman drown, no matter who or what she is."
"Jack, what made her so reckless?" Mrs. Alston asked, with a sudden intelligence lighting356 up her face.
"Hang it all! How should I know? What made her torture Munson? She follows her impulses, and they are not always conducive357 to any one's well-being358, not even her own."
"Mark my words, she has never shown this kind of recklessness before."
"Oh, yes, she has. She was running her horse to death the other hot morning and nearly trampled359 on a child;" and he told of an unexpected encounter while he was taking a rather extended ramble216.
"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Alston, smiling significantly, "I think I understand her symptoms better than you do. If you are as cold-blooded as you seem, I may have to interfere360."
"Oh, bah!" he answered impatiently. "Pardon me, but I should despise myself forever should I become sentimental193, knowing what I do."
"Jack, had you no compunctions when fearing that such a beautiful girl might perish? We are going to have an awful night. Hear the wind whistle and moan, and the sky is already black with clouds. The roar of the surface grows louder every hour. Think of that lovely form being out in those black angry waves, darted361 at and preyed362 upon by horrible slimy monsters. Oh, it fairly makes my flesh creep!"
"And mine too," he said with a strong gesture of disgust; "especially when I remember that I should have kept her company, for of course I could not return without her. I confess that when at first I could not find her I was fairly sick at the thought of her fate. But remember how uncalled for it all was—quite as much so as that poor Will Munson is on his way to die with the yellow fever, like enough."
"Jack," said his cousin, affectionately, laying her hand on his arm, "blessings363 on your courage to-day! If what might have happened so easily had occurred, I could never have looked upon the sea again without a shudder365. I should have been tormented367 by a horrible memory all my life. It was brave and noble—"
"Oh, hush!" he said angrily. "I won't hear another word about it even from you. I'm not brave and noble. I went because I was compelled to go; I hated to go. I hate the girl, and have more reason now than ever. If we had both drowned, no doubt there would have been less trouble in the world. There would have been one lawyer the less, and a coquette extinguished. Now we shall both prey on society in our different ways indefinitely."
"Jack, you are in an awful mood to-day."
"I am; never was in a worse."
"Having so narrowly escaped death, you ought to be subdued368 and grateful."
"On the contrary, I'm inclined to profanity. Excuse me; don't wish any dessert. I'll try a walk and a cigar. You will now be glad to be rid of me on any terms."
"Stay, Jack. See, Miss Van Tyne has so far recovered as to come down.
She looked unutterable things at you as she entered."
"Of course she did. Very few of her thoughts concerning me or other young men would sound well if uttered. Tell your friends to let this topic alone, or I shall be rude to them," and without a glance toward the girl he had rescued he left the dining-room.
"Well, well," murmured Mrs. Alston, "I never saw Jack in such a mood before. It is quite as unaccountable as Miss Tyne's recklessness. I wonder what is the matter with HIM."
Ackland was speedily driven back from his walk by the rain, which fact he did not regret, for he found himself exhausted and depressed369. Seeking a retired370 piazza in order to be alone, he sat down with his hat drawn over his eyes and smoked furiously. Before very long, however, he was startled out of a painful revery by a timid voice saying:
"Mr. Ackland, won't you permit me to thank you?"
He rose. Miss Van Tyne stood before him with outstretched hand. He did not notice it, but bowing coldly, said:
"Please consider that you have thanked me and let the subject drop."
"Do not be so harsh with me," she pleaded. "I cannot help it if you are. Mr. Ackland, you saved my life."
"Possibly."
"And possibly you think that it is scarcely worth saving."
"Possibly your own conscience suggested that thought to you."
"You are heartless," she burst out indignantly. He began to laugh.
"That's a droll371 charge for you to make," he said.
She looked at him steadfastly372 for a moment, and then murmured: "You are thinking of your friend, Mr. Munson."
"That would be quite natural. How many more can you think of?"
"You are indeed unrelenting," she faltered, tears coming into her eyes; "but I cannot forget that but for you I should now be out there"—and she indicated the sea by a gesture, then covered her face with her hands, and shuddered373.
"Do not feel under obligations. I should have been compelled to do as much for any human being. You seem to forget that I stood an even chance of being out there with you, and that there was no more need of the risk than there was that my best friend's life should be blight—"
"You—you out there?" she cried, springing toward him and pointing to the sea.
"Certainly. You cannot suppose that having once found you, I could come ashore374 without you. As it was, my strength was rapidly giving way, and were it not for the rope—"
"Oh, forgive me," she cried passionately, seizing his hand in spite of him. "It never entered my mind that you could drown. I somehow felt that nothing could harm you. I was reckless—I didn't know what I was doing—I don't understand myself any more. Please—please forgive me, or I shall not sleep to-night."
"Certainly," he said lightly, "if you will not refer to our little episode again."
"Please don't speak in that way," she sighed, turning away.
"I have complied with your request."
"I suppose I must be content," she resumed sadly. Then turning her head slowly toward him she added hesitatingly: "Will you forgive me for—for treating your friend—"
"No," he replied, with such stern emphasis that she shrank from him and trembled.
"You are indeed heartless," she faltered, as she turned to leave him.
"Miss Van Tyne," he said indignantly, "twice you have charged me with being heartless. Your voice and manner indicate that I would be unnatural and unworthy of respect were I what you charge. In the name of all that's rational what does this word 'heartless' mean to you? Where was your heart when you sent my friend away so wretched and humbled377 that he is virtually seeking the death from which you are so glad to escape?"
"I did not love him," she protested faintly.
He laughed bitterly, and continued, "Love! That's a word which I believe has no meaning for you at all, but it had for him. You are a remarkably378 clever woman, Miss Van Tyne. You have brains in abundance. See, I do you justice. What is more, you are beautiful and can be so fascinating that a man who believed in you might easily worship you. You made him believe in you. You tried to beguile379 me into a condition that with my nature would be ruin indeed. You never had the baby plea of a silly, shallow woman. I took pains to find that out the first evening we met. In your art of beguiling380 an honest, trusting man you were as perfect as you were remorseless, and you understood exactly what you were doing."
For a time she seemed overwhelmed by his lava-like torrent381 of words, and stood with bowed head and shrinking, trembling form; but when he ceased she turned to him and said bitterly and emphatically:
"I did NOT understand what I was doing, nor would my brain have taught me were I all intellect like yourself. I half wish you had left me to drown," and with a slight, despairing gesture she turned away and did not look back.
Ackland's face lighted up with a sudden flash of intelligence and deep feeling. He started to recall her, hesitated, and watched her earnestly until she disappeared; then looking out on the scowling382 ocean, he took off his hat and exclaimed in a deep, low tone:
"By all that's divine, can this be? Is it possible that through the suffering of her own awakening383 heart she is learning to know the pain she has given to others? Should this be true, the affair is taking an entirely new aspect, and Munson will be avenged384 as neither of us ever dreamed would be possible."
He resumed his old position and thought long and deeply, then rejoined his cousin, who was somewhat surprised to find that his bitter mood had given place to his former composure.
"How is this, Jack?" she asked. "As the storm grows wilder without, you become more serene385."
"Only trying to make amends386 for my former bearishness," he said carelessly, but with a little rising color.
"I don't understand you at all," she continued discontentedly. "I saw you sulking in that out-of-the-way corner, and I saw Miss Van Tyne approach you hesitatingly and timidly, with the purpose, no doubt, of thanking you. Of course I did not stay to watch, but a little later I met Miss Van Tyne, and she looked white and rigid387. She has not left her room since."
"You take a great interest in Miss Van Tyne. It is well you are not in my place."
"I half wish I was and had your chances. You are more pitiless than the waves from which you saved her."
"I can't help being just what I am," he said coldly. "Good-night." And he too disappeared for the rest of the evening.
The rain continued to fall in blinding torrents388, and the building fairly trembled under the violence of the wind. The guests drew together in the lighted rooms, and sought by varied389 amusements to pass the time until the fierceness of the storm abated390, few caring to retire while the uproar391 of the elements was so great.
At last as the storm passed away, and the late-rising moon threw a sickly gleam on the tumultuous waters, Eva looked from her window with sleepless392 eyes, thinking sadly and bitterly of the past and future. Suddenly a dark figure appeared on the beach in the track of the moonlight. She snatched an opera-glass, but could not recognize the solitary393 form. The thought would come, however, that it was Ackland; and if it were, what were his thoughts and what place had she in them? Why was he watching so near the spot that might have been their burial-place?
"At least he shall not think that I can stolidly394 sleep after what has occurred," she thought, and she turned up her light, opened her window, and sat down by it again. Whoever the unseasonable rambler might be, he appeared to recognize the gleam from her window, for he walked hastily down the beach and disappeared. After a time she darkened her room again and waited in vain for his return. "If it were he, he shuns396 even the slightest recognition," she thought despairingly; and the early dawn was not far distant when she fell into an unquiet sleep.
For the next few days Miss Van Tyne was a puzzle to all except Mrs. Alston. She was quite unlike the girl she had formerly397 been, and she made no effort to disguise the fact. In the place of her old exuberance398 of life and spirits, there was lassitude and great depression. The rich color ebbed399 steadily400 from her face, and dark lines under her eyes betokened401 sleepless nights. She saw the many curious glances in her direction, but apparently did not care what was thought or surmised402. Were it not that her manner to Ackland was so misleading, the tendency to couple their names together would have been far more general. She neither sought nor shunned403 his society; in fact, she treated him as she did the other gentlemen of her acquaintance. She took him at his word. He had said he would forgive her on condition that she would not speak of what he was pleased to term that "little episode," and she never referred to it.
Her aunt was as much at fault as the others, and one day querulously complained to Mrs. Alston that she was growing anxious about Eva. "At first I thought she was disappointed over the indifference of that icy cousin of yours; but she does not appear to care a straw for him. When I mention his name she speaks of him in a natural, grateful way, then her thoughts appear to wander off to some matter that is troubling her. I can't find out whether she is ill or whether she has heard some bad news of which she will not speak. She never gave me or any one that I know of much of her confidence."
Mrs. Alston listened but made no comments. She was sure she was right in regard to Miss Van Tyne's trouble, but her cousin mystified her. Ackland had become perfectly inscrutable. As far as she could judge by any word or act of his he had simply lost his interest in Miss Van Tyne, and that was all that could be said; and yet a fine instinct tormented Mrs. Alston with the doubt that this was not true, and that the young girl was the subject of a sedulously405 concealed406 scrutiny407. Was he watching for his friend or for his own sake, or was he, in a spirit of retaliation408, enjoying the suffering of one who had made others suffer? His reserve was so great that she could not pierce it, and his caution baffled even her vigilance. But she waited patiently, assured that the little drama must soon pass into a more significant phase.
And she was right. Miss Van Tyne could not maintain the line of action she had resolved upon. She had thought, "I won't try to appear happy when I am not. I won't adopt the conventional mask of gayety when the heart is wounded. How often I have seen through it and smiled at the transparent409 farce—farce it seemed then, but I now fear it was often tragedy. At any rate there was neither dignity nor deception410 in it. I have done with being false, and so shall simply act myself and be a true woman. Though my heart break a thousand times, not even by a glance shall I show that it is breaking for him. If he or others surmise349 the truth, they may; let them. It is a part of my penance411; and I will show the higher, stronger pride of one who makes no vain, useless pretence412 to happy indifference, but who can maintain a self-control so perfect that even Mrs. Alston shall not see one unmaidenly advance or overture413."
She succeeded for a time, as we have seen, but she overrated her will and underrated her heart, that with deepening intensity414 craved415 the love denied her. With increasing frequency she said to herself, "I must go away. My only course is to hide my weakness and never see him again. He is inflexible416, yet his very obduracy417 increases my love a hundred-fold."
At last after a lonely walk on the beach she concluded, "My guardian must take me home on Monday next. He comes to-night to spend Sunday with us, and I will make preparations to go at once."
Although her resolution did not fail her, she walked forward more and more slowly, her dejection and weariness becoming almost overpowering. As she was turning a sharp angle of rocks that jutted418 well down to the water she came face to face with Ackland and Mrs. Alston. She was off her guard; and her thoughts of him had been so absorbing that she felt he must be conscious of them. She flushed painfully and hurried by with slight recognition and downcast face, but she had scarcely passed them when, acting under a sudden impulse, she stopped and said in a low tone:
"Mr. Ackland—"
He turned expectantly toward her. For a moment she found it difficult to speak, then ignoring the presence of Mrs. Alston, resolutely419 began:
"Mr. Ackland, I must refer once more to a topic which you have in a sense forbidden. I feel partially420 absolved421, however, for I do not think you have forgiven me anything. At any rate I must ask your pardon once more for having so needlessly and foolishly imperilled your life. I say these words now because I may not have another opportunity; we leave on Monday." With this she raised her eyes to his with an appeal for a little kindness which Mrs. Alston was confident could not be resisted. Indeed, she was sure that she saw a slight nervous tremor in Ackland's hands, as if he found it hard to control himself. Then he appeared to grow rigid. Lifting his hat, he said gravely and unresponsively:
"Miss Van Tyne, you now surely have made ample amends. Please forget the whole affair."
She turned from him at once, but not so quickly but that both he and his cousin saw the bitter tears that would come. A moment later she was hidden by the angle of the rock. As long as she was visible Ackland watched her without moving, then he slowly turned to his cousin, his face as inscrutable as ever. She walked at his side for a few moments in ill-concealed impatience, then stopped and said decisively:
"I'll go no further with you to-day. I am losing all respect for you."
Without speaking, he turned to accompany her back to the house. His reticence422 and coldness appeared to annoy her beyond endurance, for she soon stopped and sat down on a ledge288 of the rocks that jutted down the beach where they had met Miss Van Tyne.
"John, you are the most unnatural man I ever saw in my life," she began angrily.
"What reason have you for so flattering an opinion," he asked coolly.
"You have been giving reason for it every day since you came here," she resumed hotly. "I always heard it said that you had no heart; but I defended you and declared that your course toward your mother even when a boy showed that you had, and that you would prove it some day. But I now believe that you are unnaturally423 cold, heartless, and unfeeling. I had no objection to your wounding Miss Van Tyne's vanity and encouraged you when that alone bid fair to suffer. But when she proved she had a heart and that you had awakened it, she deserved at least kindness and consideration on your part. If you could not return her affection, you should have gone away at once; but I believe that you have stayed for the sole and cruel purpose of gloating over her suffering."
"She has not suffered more than my friend, or than I would if—"
"You indeed! The idea of your suffering from any such cause! I half believe you came here with the deliberate purpose of avenging424 your friend, and that you are keeping for his inspection425 a diary in which the poor girl's humiliation426 to-day will form the hateful climax427."
They did not dream that the one most interested was near. Miss Van Tyne had felt too faint and sorely wounded to go further without rest. Believing that the rocks would hide her from those whose eyes she would most wish to shun395, she had thrown herself down beyond the angle and was shedding the bitterest tears that she had ever known. Suddenly she heard Mrs. Alston's words but a short distance away, and was so overcome by their import that she hesitated what to do. She would not meet them again for the world, but felt so weak that she doubted whether she could drag herself away without being discovered, especially as the beach trended off to the left so sharply a little further on that they might discover her. While she was looking vainly for some way of escape she heard Ackland's words and Mrs. Alston's surmise in reply that he had come with the purpose of revenge. She was so stung by their apparent truth that she resolved to clamber up through an opening of the rocks if the thing were possible. Panting and exhausted she gained the summit, and then hastened to an adjacent grove428, as some wounded, timid creature would run to the nearest cover. Ackland had heard sounds and had stepped around the point of the rocks just in time to see her disappearing above the bank. Returning to Mrs. Alston, he said impatiently:
"In view of your opinions my society can have no attractions for you.
Shall I accompany you to the hotel?"
"No," was the angry reply. "I'm in no mood to speak to you again to-day."
He merely bowed and turned as if to pursue his walk. The moment she was hidden, however, he also climbed the rocks in time to see Miss Van Tyne entering the grove. With swift and silent tread he followed her, but could not at once discover her hiding-place. At last passionate257 sobs429 made it evident that she was concealed behind a great oak a little on his left. Approaching cautiously, he heard her moan:
"Oh, this is worse than death! He makes me feel as if even God had no mercy for me. But I will expiate430 my wrong; I will, at the bitterest sacrifice which a woman can make."
She sprang up to meet Ackland standing with folded arms before her. She started violently and leaned against the tree for support. But the weakness was momentary431, for she wiped the tears from her eyes, and then turned to him so quietly that only her extreme pallor proved that she realized the import of her words.
"Mr. Ackland," she asked, "have you Mr. Munson's address?"
It was his turn now to start, but he merely answered: "Yes."
"Do—do you think he still cares for me?"
"Undoubtedly432."
"Since then you are so near a friend, will you write to him that I will try"—she turned away and would not look at him as, after a moment's hesitation433, she concluded her sentence—"I will try to make him as happy as I can."
"Do you regret your course?" he asked with a slight tremor in his voice.
"I regret that I misled—that I wronged him beyond all words. I am willing to make all the amends in my power."
"Do you love him?"
She now turned wholly away and shook her head.
"And yet you would marry him?"
"Yes, if he wished it, knowing all the truth."
"Can you believe he would wish it?" he asked indignantly. "Can you believe that any man—"
"Then avenge him to your cruel soul's content," she exclaimed passionately. "Tell him that I have no heart to give to him or to any one. Through no effort or fault of mine I overheard Mrs. Alston's words and yours. I know your design against me. Assuage434 your friend's grief by assuring him of your entire success, of which you are already so well aware. Tell him how you triumphed over an untaught, thoughtless girl who was impelled435 merely by the love of power and excitement, as you are governed by ambition and a remorseless will. I did not know—I did not understand how cruel I was, although now that I do know I shall never forgive myself. But if you had the heart of a man you might have seen that you were subjecting me to torture. I did not ask or expect that you should care for me; but I had a right to hope for a little kindness, a little manly276 and delicate consideration, a little healing sympathy for the almost mortal wound that you have made. But I now see that you have stood by and watched like a grand inquisitor. Tell your friend that you have transformed the thoughtless girl into a suffering woman. I cannot go to Brazil. I cannot face dangers that might bring rest. I must keep my place in society—keep it too under a hundred observant and curious eyes. You have seen it all of late in this house; I was too wretched to care. It was a part of my punishment, and I accepted it. I would not be false again even in trying to conceal a secret which it is like death to a woman to reveal. I only craved one word of kindness from you. Had I received it, I would have gone away in silence and suffered in silence. But your course and what I have heard have made me reckless and despairing. You do not leave me even the poor consolation436 of self-sacrifice. You are my stony437-hearted fate. I wish you had left me to drown. Tell your friend that I am more wretched than he ever can be, because I am a woman. Will he be satisfied?"
"He ought to be," was the low, husky reply.
"Are you proud of your triumph?"
"No, I am heartily438 ashamed of it; but I have kept a pledge that will probably cost me far more than it has you."
"A pledge?"
"Yes, my pledge to make you suffer as far as possible as he suffered."
She put her hand to her side as if she had received a wound, and after a moment said wearily and coldly:
"Well, tell him that you succeeded, and be content;" and she turned to leave him.
"Stay," he cried impetuously. "It is now your turn. Take your revenge."
"My revenge?" she repeated in unfeigned astonishment439.
"Yes, your revenge. I have loved you from the moment I hoped you had a woman's heart, yes, and before—when I feared I might not be able to save your life. I know it now, though the very thought of it enraged440 me then. I have watched and waited more to be sure that you had a woman's heart than for aught else, though a false sense of honor kept me true to my pledge. After I met you on the beach I determined at once to break my odious441 bond and place myself at your mercy. You may refuse me in view of my course—you probably will; but every one in that house there shall know that you refused me, and your triumph shall be more complete than mine."
She looked into his face with an expression of amazement442 and doubt; but instead of coldness, there was now a devotion and pleading that she had never seen before.
She was too confused and astounded443, however, to comprehend his words immediately, nor could the impression of his hostility444 pass away readily.
"You are mocking me," she faltered, scarcely knowing what she said.
"I cannot blame you that you think me capable of mocking the noble candor445 which has cost you so dear, as I can now understand. I cannot ask you to believe that I appreciate your heroic impulse of self-sacrifice—your purpose to atone446 for wrong by inflicting447 irreparable wrong on yourself. It is natural that you should think of me only as an instrument of revenge with no more feeling than some keen-edged weapon would have. This also is the inevitable448 penalty of my course. When I speak of my love I cannot complain if you smile in bitter incredulity. But I have at least proved that I have a resolute will and that I keep my word; and I again assure you that it shall be known this very night that you have refused me, that I offered you my hand, that you already had my heart, where your image is enshrined with that of my mother, and that I entreated you to be my wife. My cousin alone guessed my miserable449 triumph; all shall know of yours."
As he spoke with impassioned earnestness, the confusion passed from her mind. She felt the truth of his words; she knew that her ambitious dream had been fulfilled, and that she had achieved the conquest of a man upon whom all others had smiled in vain. But how immeasurably different were her emotions from those which she had once anticipated! Not her beauty, not her consummate skill in fascination had wrought450 this miracle, but her woman's heart, awakened at last; and it thrilled with such unspeakable joy that she turned away to hide its reflex in her face. He was misled by the act into believing that she could not forgive him, and yet was perplexed when she murmured with a return of her old piquant451 humor:
"You are mistaken, Mr. Ackland; it shall never be known that I refused you."
"How can you prevent it?"
"If your words are sincere, you will submit to such terms as I choose to make."
"I am sincere, and my actions shall prove it; but I shall permit no mistaken self-sacrifice on your part, nor any attempt to shield me from the punishment I well deserve."
She suddenly turned upon him a radiant face in which he read his happiness, and faltered:
"Jack, I do believe you, although the change seems wrought by some heavenly magic. But it will take a long time to pay you up. I hope to be your dear torment366 for a lifetime."
He caught her in such a strong, impetuous embrace that she gasped:
"I thought you were—cold to our sex."
"It's not your sex that I am clasping, but you—YOU, my Eve. Like the first man, I have won my bride under the green trees and beneath the open sky."
"Yes, Jack; and I give you my whole heart as truly as did the first woman when there was but one man in all the world. That is MY REVENGE."
This is what Will Munson wrote some weeks later:
"Well, Jack, I've had the yellow fever, and it was the most fortunate event of my life. I was staying with a charming family, and they would not permit my removal to a hospital. One of my bravest and most devoted nurses has consented to become my wife. I hope you punished that little wretch375 Eva Van Tyne as she deserved."
"Confound your fickle452 soul!" muttered Ackland. "I punished her as she did not deserve; and I risked more than life in doing so. If her heart had not been as good as gold and as kind as Heaven she never would have looked at me again."
Ackland is quite as indifferent to the sex as ever, but Eva has never complained that he was cold to her.
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT
The Christmas holidays had come, and with them a welcome vacation for Hedley Marstern. Although as yet a briefless young lawyer, he had a case in hand which absorbed many of his thoughts—the conflicting claims of two young women in his native village on the Hudson. It must not be imagined that the young women were pressing their claims except as they did so unconsciously, by virtue453 of their sex and various charms. Nevertheless, Marstern was not the first lawyer who had clients over whom midnight oil was burned, they remaining unaware242 of the fact.
If not yet a constitutional attorney, he was at least constitutionally one. Falling helplessly in love with one girl simplifies matters. There are no distracting pros34 and cons—nothing required but a concentration of faculties454 to win the enslaver, and so achieve mastery. Marstern did not appear amenable455 to the subtle influences which blind the eyes and dethrone reason, inspiring in its place an overwhelming impulse to capture a fortuitous girl because (to a heated imagination) she surpasses all her sex. Indeed, he was level-headed enough to believe that he would never capture any such girl; but he hoped to secure one who promised to make as good a wife as he would try to be a husband, and with a fair amount of self-esteem456, he was conscious of imperfections. Therefore, instead of fancying that any of his fair acquaintances were angels, he had deliberately and, as some may think, in a very cold-blooded fashion, endeavored to discover what they actually were. He had observed that a good deal of prose followed the poetry of wooing and the lunacy of the honeymoon457; and he thought it might be well to criticise458 a little before marriage as well as after it.
There were a number of charming girls in the social circle of his native town; and he had, during later years, made himself quite impartially459 agreeable to them. Indeed, without much effort on his part he had become what is known as a general favorite. He had been too diligent460 a student to become a society man, but was ready enough in vacation periods to make the most of every country frolic, and even on great occasions to rush up from the city and return at some unearthly hour in the morning when his partners in the dance were not half through their dreams. While on these occasions he had shared in the prevailing461 hilarity, he nevertheless had the presentiment155 that some one of the laughing, light-footed girls would one day pour his coffee and send him to his office in either a good or a bad mood to grapple with the problems awaiting him there. He had in a measure decided that when he married it should be to a girl whom he had played with in childhood and whom he knew a good deal about, and not to a chance acquaintance of the world at large. So, beneath all his diversified462 gallantries he had maintained a quiet little policy of observation, until his thoughts had gradually gathered around two of his young associates who, unconsciously to themselves, as we have said, put in stronger and stronger claims every time he saw them. They asserted these claims in the only way in which he would have recognized them—by being more charming, agreeable, and, as he fancied, by being better than the others. He had not made them aware, even by manner, of the distinction accorded to them; and as yet he was merely a friend.
But the time had come, he believed, for definite action. While he weighed and considered, some prompter fellows might take the case out of his hands entirely; therefore he welcomed this vacation and the opportunities it afforded.
The festivities began with what is termed in the country a "large party"; and Carrie Mitchell and Lottie Waldo were both there, resplendent in new gowns made for the occasion. Marstern thought them both charming. They danced equally well and talked nonsense with much the same ease and vivacity464. He could not decide which was the prettier, nor did the eyes and attentions of others afford him any aid. They were general favorites, as well as himself, although it was evident that to some they might become more, should they give encouragement. But they were apparently in the heyday465 of their girlhood, and thus far had preferred miscellaneous admiration466 to individual devotion. By the time the evening was over Marstern felt that if life consisted of large parties he might as well settle the question by the toss of a copper467.
It must not be supposed that he was such a conceited468 prig as to imagine that such a fortuitous proceeding469, or his best efforts afterward470, could settle the question as it related to the girls. It would only decide his own procedure. He was like an old marauding baron471, in honest doubt from which town he can carry off the richest booty—that is, in case he can capture any one of them. His overtures472 for capitulation might be met with the "slings473 and arrows of outrageous474 fortune" and he be sent limping off the field. Nevertheless, no man regrets that he must take the initiative, and he would be less than a man who would fear to do so. When it came to this point in the affair, Marstern shrugged475 his shoulders and thought, "I must take my chances like the rest." But he wished to be sure that he had attained476 this point, and not lay siege to one girl only to wish afterward it had been the other.
His course that evening proved that he not only had a legal cast of mind but also a judicial477 one. He invited both Miss Mitchell and Miss Waldo to take a sleigh-ride with him the following evening, fancying that when sandwiched between them in the cutter he could impartially note his impressions. His unsuspecting clients laughingly accepted, utterly unaware of the momentous478 character of the trial scene before them.
As Marstern smoked a cigar before retiring that night, he admitted to himself that it was rather a remarkable court that was about to be held. He was the only advocate for the claims of each, and finally he proposed to take a seat on the bench and judge between them. Indeed, before he slept he decided to take that august position at once, and maintain a judicial impartiality479 while noting his impressions.
Christmas Eve happened to be a cold, clear, star-lit night; and when Marstern drove to Miss Waldo's door, he asked himself, "Could a fellow ask for anything daintier and finer" than the red-lipped, dark-eyed girl revealed by the hall-lamp as she tripped lightly out, her anxious mamma following her with words of unheeded caution about not taking cold, and coming home early. He had not traversed the mile which intervened between the residences of the two girls before he almost wished he could continue the drive under the present auspices481, and that, as in the old times, he could take toll482 at every bridge, and encircle his companion with his arm as they bounced over the "thank-'ee mams." The frosty air appeared to give keenness and piquancy483 to Miss Lottie's wit, and the chime of the bells was not merrier or more musical than her voice. But when a little later he saw blue-eyed Carrie Mitchell in her furs and hood68 silhouetted484 in the window, his old dilemma485 became as perplexing as ever. Nevertheless, it was the most delightful486 uncertainty487 that he had ever experienced; and he had a presentiment that he had better make the most of it, since it could not last much longer. Meanwhile, he was hedged about with blessings clearly not in disguise, and he gave utterance488 to this truth as they drove away.
"Surely there never was so lucky a fellow. Here I am kept warm and happy by the two finest girls in town."
"Yes," said Lottie; "and it's a shame you can't sit on both sides of us."
"I assure you I wish it were possible. It would double my pleasure."
"I'm very well content," remarked Carrie, quietly, "as long as I can keep on the right side of people—"
"Well, you are not on the right side to-night," interrupted Lottie.
"Good gracious!" thought Marstern, "she's next to my heart. I wonder if that will give her unfair advantage;" but Carrie explained:
"Of course I was speaking metaphorically489."
"In that aspect of the case it would be a shame to me if any side I have is not right toward those who have so honored me," he hastened to say.
"Oh, Carrie has all the advantage—she is next to your heart."
"Would you like to exchange places?" was the query490 flashed back by
Carrie.
"Oh, no, I'm quite as content as you are."
"Why, then, since I am more than content—exultant, indeed—it appears that we all start from excellent premises491 to reach a happy conclusion of our Christmas Eve," cried Marstern.
"Now you are talking shop, Mr. Lawyer—Premises and Conclusions, indeed!" said Lottie; "since you are such a happy sandwich, you must be a tongue sandwich, and be very entertaining."
He did his best, the two girls seconding his efforts so genially that he found himself, after driving five miles, psychologically just where he was physically—between them, as near to one in his thoughts and preferences as to the other.
"Let us take the river road home," suggested Lottie.
"As long as you agree," he answered, "you both are sovereign potentates492. If you should express conflicting wishes, I should have to stop here in the road till one abdicated493 in favor of the other, or we all froze."
"But you, sitting so snugly494 between us, would not freeze," said Lottie. "If we were obstinate495 we should have to assume our pleasantest expressions, and then you could eventually take us home as bits of sculpture. In fact, I'm getting cold already."
"Are you also, Miss Carrie?"
"Oh, I'll thaw496 out before summer. Don't mind me."
"Well, then, mind me," resumed Lottie. "See how white and smooth the river looks. Why can't we drive home on the ice? It will save miles—I mean it looks so inviting497."
"Oh, dear!" cried Carrie, "I feel like protesting now. The longest way round may be both the shortest and safest way home."
"You ladies shall decide. This morning I drove over the route we would take to-night, and I should not fear to take a ton of coal over it."
"A comparison suggesting warmth and a grate-fire. I vote for the river," said Lottie, promptly.
"Oh, well, Mr. Marstern, if you've been over the ice so recently—I only wish to feel reasonably safe."
"I declare!" thought Marstern, "Lottie is the braver and more brilliant girl; and the fact that she is not inclined to forego the comfort of the home-fire for the pleasure of my company, reveals the difficulty of, and therefore incentive498 to, the suit I may decide to enter upon before New Year's."
Meanwhile, his heart on Carrie's side began to grow warm and alert, as if recognizing an affinity499 to some object not far off. Granting that she had not been so brilliant as Lottie, she had been eminently500 companionable in a more quiet way. If there had not been such bursts of enthusiasm at the beginning of the drive, her enjoyment501 appeared to have more staying powers. He liked her none the less that her eyes were often turned toward the stars or the dark silhouettes502 of the leafless trees against the snow. She did not keep saying, "Ah, how lovely! What a fine bit that is!" but he had only to follow her eyes to see something worth looking at.
"A proof that Miss Carrie also is not so preoccupied503 with the pleasure of my company that she has no thoughts for other things," cogitated504 Marstern. "It's rather in her favor that she prefers Nature to a grate fire. They're about even yet."
Meanwhile the horse was speeding along on the white, hard expanse of the river, skirting the west shore. They now had only about a mile to drive before striking land again; and the scene was so beautiful with the great dim outlines of the mountains before them that both the girls suggested that they should go leisurely505 for a time.
"We shouldn't hastily and carelessly pass such a picture as that, any more than one would if a fine copy of it were hung in a gallery," said Carrie. "The stars are so brilliant along the brow of that highland506 yonder that they form a dia—oh, oh! what IS the matter?" and she clung to Marstern's arm.
The horse was breaking through the ice.
"Whoa!" said Marstern, firmly. Even as he spoke, Lottie was out of the sleigh and running back on the ice, crying and wringing her hands.
"We shall be drowned," she almost screamed hysterically507.
"Mr. Marstern, what SHALL we do? Can't we turn around and go back the way we came?"
"Miss Carrie, will you do what I ask? Will you believe me when I say that I do not think you are in any danger?"
"Yes, I'll do my best," she replied, catching her breath. She grew calm rapidly as he tried to reassure16 Lottie, telling her that water from the rising of the tide had overflowed508 the main ice and that thin ice had formed over it, also that the river at the most was only two or three feet deep at that point. But all was of no avail; Lottie stood out upon the ice in a panic, declaring that he never should have brought them into such danger, and that he must turn around at once and go back as they came.
"But, Miss Waldo, the tide is rising, and we may find wet places returning. Besides, it would bring us home very late. Now, Miss Carrie and I will drive slowly across this place and then return for you. After we have been across it twice you surely won't fear."
"I won't be left alone; suppose you two should break through and disappear, what would become of ME?"
"You would be better off than we," he replied, laughing.
"I think it's horrid509 of you to laugh. Oh, I'm so cold and frightened! I feel as if the ice were giving way under my feet."
"Why, Miss Lottie, we just drove over that spot where you stand. Here,
Miss Carrie shall stay with you while I drive back and forth510 alone."
"Then if you were drowned we'd both be left alone to freeze to death."
"I pledge you my word you shall be by that grate-fire within less than an hour if you will trust me five minutes."
"Oh, well, if you will risk your life and ours too; but Carrie must stay with me."
"Will YOU trust me, Miss Carrie, and help me out of this scrape?"
Carrie was recovering from her panic, and replied, "I have given you my promise."
He was out of the sleigh instantly, and the thin ice broke with him also. "I must carry you a short distance," he said. "I cannot allow you to get your feet wet. Put one arm around my neck, so; now please obey as you promised."
She did so without a word, and he bore her beyond the water, inwardly exulting511 and blessing364 that thin ice. His decision was coming with the passing seconds; indeed, it had come. Returning to the sleigh he drove slowly forward, his horse making a terrible crunching512 and splashing, Lottie meanwhile keeping up a staccato accompaniment of little shrieks514.
"Ah, my charming creature," he thought, "with you it was only, 'What will become of ME?' I might not have found out until it was too late the relative importance of 'me' in the universe had we not struck this bad crossing; and one comes to plenty of bad places to cross in a lifetime."
The area of thin ice was not very narrow, and he was becoming but a dim and shadowy outline to the girls. Lottie was now screaming for his return. Having crossed the overflowed space and absolutely assured himself that there was no danger, he returned more rapidly and found Carrie trying to calm her companion.
"Oh," sobbed Lottie, "my feet are wet and almost frozen. The ice underneath515 may have borne you, but it won't bear all three of us. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't—I wish I was home; and I feel as if I'd never get there."
"Miss Lottie, I assure you that the ice will hold a ton, but I'll tell you what I'll do. I shall put you in the sleigh, and Miss Carrie will drive you over. You two together do not weigh much more than I do. I'll walk just behind you with my hands on the back of the sleigh, and if I see the slightest danger I'll lift you out of the sleigh first and carry you to safety."
This proposition promised so well that she hesitated, and he lifted her in instantly before she could change her mind, then helped Carrie in with a quiet pressure of the hand, as much as to say, "I shall depend on you."
"But, Mr. Marstern, you'll get your feet wet," protested Carrie.
"That doesn't matter," he replied good-naturedly. "I shall be no worse off than Miss Lottie, and I'm determined to convince her of safety. Now go straight ahead as I direct."
Once the horse stumbled, and Lottie thought he was going down head first. "Oh, lift me out, quick, quick!" she cried.
"Yes, indeed I will, Miss Lottie, as soon as we are opposite that grate fire of yours."
They were soon safely over, and within a half-hour reached Lottie's home. It was evident she was a little ashamed of her behavior, and she made some effort to retrieve516 herself. But she was cold and miserable, vexed517 with herself and still more vexed with Marstern. That a latent sense of justice forbade the latter feeling only irritated her the more. Individuals as well as communities must have scapegoats518; and it is not an unusual impulse on the part of some to blame and dislike those before whom they have humiliated519 themselves.
She gave her companions a rather formal invitation to come in and get warm before proceeding further; but Marstern said very politely that he thought it was too late, unless Miss Carrie was cold. Carrie protested that she was not so cold but that she could easily wait till she reached her own fireside.
"Well, good-night, then," and the door was shut a trifle emphatically.
"Mr. Marstern," said Carrie, sympathetically, "your feet must be very cold and wet after splashing through all that ice-water."
"They are," he replied; "but I don't mind it. Well, if I had tried for years I could not have found such a test of character as we had to-night."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, well, you two girls did not behave exactly alike. I liked the way you behaved. You helped me out of a confounded scrape."
"Would you have tried for years to find a test?" she asked, concealing520 the keenness of her query under a laugh.
"I should have been well rewarded if I had, by such a fine contrast," he replied.
Carrie's faculties had not so congealed521 but that his words set her thinking. She had entertained at times the impression that she and Lottie were his favorites. Had he taken them out that night together in the hope of contrasts, of finding tests that would help his halting decision? He had ventured where the intuitions of a girl like Carrie Mitchell were almost equal to second-sight; and she was alert for what would come next.
He accepted her invitation to come in and warm his feet at the glowing fire in the grate, which Carrie's father had made before retiring. Mrs. Mitchell, feeling that her daughter was with an old friend and playmate, did not think the presence of a chaperon essential, and left the young people alone. Carrie bustled522 about, brought cake, and made hot lemonade, while Marstern stretched his feet to the grate with a luxurious523 sense of comfort and complacency, thinking how homelike it all was and how paradisiacal life would become if such a charming little Hebe presided over his home. His lemonade became nectar offered by such hands.
She saw the different expression in his eyes. It was now homage, decided preference for one and not mere gallantry to two. Outwardly she was demurely oblivious and maintained simply her wonted friendliness524. Marstern, however, was thawing525 in more senses than one, and he was possessed by a strong impulse to begin an open siege at once.
"I haven't had a single suit of any kind yet, Carrie," he said, dropping the prefix526 of "Miss," which had gradually been adopted as they had grown up.
"Oh, well, that was the position of all the great lawyers once," she replied, laughing. Marstern's father was wealthy, and all knew that he could afford to be briefless for a time.
"I may never be great; but I shall work as hard as any of them," he continued. "To tell you the honest truth, however, this would be the happiest Christmas Eve of my life if I had a downright suit on my hands. Why can't I be frank with you and say I'd like to begin the chief suit of my life now and here—a suit for this little hand? I'd plead for it as no lawyer ever pleaded before. I settled that much down on the ice."
"And if I hadn't happened to behave on the ice in a manner agreeable to your lordship, you would have pleaded with the other girl?" she remarked, withdrawing her hand and looking him directly in the eyes.
"What makes you think so?" he asked somewhat confusedly.
"You do."
He sprang up and paced the room a few moments, then confronted her with the words, "You shall have the whole truth. Any woman that I would ask to be my wife is entitled to that," and he told her just what the attitude of his mind had been from the first.
She laughed outright527, then gave him her hand as she said, "Your honesty insures that we can be very good friends; but I don't wish to hear anything more about suits which are close of kin to lawsuits528."
He looked very dejected, feeling that he had blundered fatally in his precipitation.
"Come now, Hedley, be sensible," she resumed, half laughing, half serious. "As you say, we can be frank with each other. Why, only the other day we were boy and girl together coasting downhill on the same sled. You are applying your legal jargon529 to a deep experience, to something sacred—the result, to my mind, of a divine instinct. Neither you nor I have ever felt for each other this instinctive233 preference, this subtle gravitation of the heart. Don't you see? Your head has been concerned about me, and only your head. By a kindred process you would select one bale of merchandise in preference to another. Good gracious! I've faults enough. You'll meet some other girl that will stand some other test far better than I. I want a little of what you call silly romance in my courtship. See; I can talk about this suit as coolly and fluently as you can. We'd make a nice pair of lovers, about as frigid530 as the ice-water you waded531 through so good-naturedly;" and the girl's laugh rang out merrily, awakening echoes in the old house. Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell might rest securely when their daughter could laugh like that. It was the mirth of a genuine American girl whose self-protection was better than the care of a thousand duennas.
He looked at her with honest admiration in his eyes, then rose quietly and said, "That's fine, Carrie. Your head's worth two of mine, and you'd make the better lawyer. You see through a case from top to bottom. You were right—I wasn't in love with you; I don't know whether I'm in love with you now, and you haven't an infinitesimal spark for me. Nevertheless, I begin my suit here and now, and I shall never withdraw it till you are engaged to another fellow. So there!"
Carrie looked rather blank at this result of her reductio ad absurdum process; and he did not help her by adding, "A fellow isn't always in love. There must be a beginning; and when I arrive at this beginning under the guidance of reason, judgment532, and observation, I don't see as I'm any more absurd than the fellow who tumbles helplessly in love, he doesn't know why. What becomes of all these people who have divine gravitations? You and I both know of some who had satanic repulsions afterward. They used their eyes and critical faculties after marriage instead of before. The romance exhaled533 like a morning mist; and the facts came out distinctly. They learned what kind of man and woman they actually were, and two idealized creatures were sent to limbo534. Because I don't blunder upon the woman I wish to marry, but pick her out, that's no reason I can't and won't love her. Your analysis and judgment were correct only up to date. You have now to meet a suit honestly, openly announced. This may be bad policy on my part; yet I have so much faith in you and respect for you that I don't believe you will let my precipitation create a prejudice. Give me a fair hearing; that's all I ask."
"Well, well, I'll promise not to frown, even though some finer paragon535 should throw me completely in the shade."
"You don't believe in my yet," he resumed, after a moment of thought. "I felt that I had blundered awfully a while ago; but I doubt it. A girl of your perceptions would soon have seen it all. I've not lost anything by being frank from the start. Be just to me, however. It wasn't policy that led me to speak, but this homelike scene, and you appearing like the good genius of a home."
He pulled out his watch, and gave a low whistle as he held it toward her. Then his manner suddenly became grave and gentle. "Carrie," he said, "I wish you, not a merry Christmas, but a happy one, and many of them. It seems to me it would be a great privilege for a man to make a woman like you happy."
"Is this the beginning of the suit?" she asked with a laugh that was a little forced.
"I don't know. Perhaps it is; but I spoke just as I felt. Good-night."
She would not admit of a trace of sentiment on her part. "Good-night," she said. "Merry Christmas! Go home and hang up your stocking."
"Bless me!" she thought, as she went slowly up the stairs, "I thought I was going to be through with him for good and all, except as a friend; but if he goes on this way—"
The next morning a basket of superb roses was left at her home. There was no card, and mamma queried536 and surmised; but the girl knew. They were not displeasing537 to her, and somehow, before the day was over, they found their way to her room; but she shook her head decidedly as she said, "He must be careful not to send me other gifts, for I will return them instantly. Flowers, in moderation, never commit a girl."
But then came another gift—a book with pencillings here and there, not against sentimental passages, but words that made her think. It was his manner in society, however, that at once annoyed, perplexed, and pleased her. On the first occasion they met in company with others, he made it clear to every one that he was her suitor; yet he was not a burr which she could not shake off. He rather seconded all her efforts to have a good time with any and every one she chose. Nor did he, wallflower fashion, mope in the meanwhile and look unutterable things. He added to the pleasure of a score of others, and even conciliated Lottie, yet at the same time surrounded the girl of his choice with an atmosphere of unobtrusive devotion. She was congratulated on her conquest—rather maliciously538 so by Lottie. Her air of courteous539 indifference was well maintained; yet she was a woman, and could not help being flattered. Certain generous traits in her nature were touched also by a homage which yielded everything and exacted nothing.
The holidays soon passed, and he returned to his work. She learned incidentally that he toiled540 faithfully, instead of mooning around. At every coigne of vantage she found him, or some token of his ceaseless effort. She was compelled to think of him, and to think well of him. Though mamma and papa judiciously541 said little, it was evident that they liked the style of lover into which he was developing.
Once during the summer she said: "I don't think it's right to let you go on in this way any longer."
"Are my attentions so very annoying?"
"No, indeed. A girl never had a more agreeable or useful friend."
"Are you engaged to some other fellow?"
"Of course not. You know better."
"There is no 'of course not' about it. I couldn't and wouldn't lay a straw in the way. You are not bound, but I."
"You bound?"
"Certainly. You remember what I said."
"Then I must accept the first man that asks me—"
"I ask you."
"No; some one else, so as to unloose your conscience and give you a happy deliverance."
"You would leave me still bound and hopeless in that case. I love you now, Carrie Mitchell."
"Oh, dear! you are incorrigible542. It's just a lawyer's persistence543 in winning a suit."
"You can still swear on the dictionary that you don't love me at all?"
"I might—on the dictionary. There, I won't talk about such things any more," and she resolutely changed the subject.
But she couldn't swear, even on the dictionary. She didn't know where she stood or how it would all end; but with increasing frequency the words, "I love you now," haunted her waking and dreaming hours.
The holidays were near again, and then came a letter from Marstern, asking her to take another sleigh-ride with him on Christmas Eve. His concluding words were: "There is no other woman in the world that I want on the other side of me." She kissed these words, then looked around in a startled, shamefaced manner, blushing even in the solitude544 of her room.
Christmas Eve came, but with it a wild storm of wind and sleet545. She was surprised at the depth of her disappointment. Would he even come to call through such a tempest?
He did come, and come early; and she said demurely: "I did not expect you on such a night as this."
He looked at her for a moment, half humorously, half seriously, and her eyes drooped546 before his. "You will know better what to expect next time," was his comment.
"When is next time?"
"Any and every time which gives me a chance to see you. Who should know that better than you?"
"Are you never going to give up?" she asked with averted face.
"Not till you become engaged."
"Hush! They are all in the parlor."
"Well, they ought to know as much, by this time, also."
She thought it was astonishing how he made himself at home in the family circle. In half an hour there was scarcely any restraint left because a visitor was present. Yet, as if impelled by some mysterious influence, one after another slipped out; and Carrie saw with strange little thrills of dismay that she would soon be alone with that indomitable lawyer. She signalled to her mother, but the old lady's eyes were glued to her knitting.
At last they were alone, and she expected a prompt and powerful appeal from the plaintiff; but Marstern drew his chair to the opposite side of the hearth547 and chatted so easily, naturally, and kindly that her trepidation548 passed utterly. It began to grow late, and a heavier gust161 than usual shook the house. It appeared to waken him to the dire148 necessity of breasting the gale549, and he rose and said:
"I feel as if I could sit here forever, Carrie. It's just the impression I had a year ago to-night. You, sitting there by the fire, gave then, and give now to this place the irresistible charm of home. I think I had then the decided beginning of the divine gravitation—wasn't that what you called it?—which has been growing so strong ever since. You thought then that the ice-water I waded was in my veins551. Do you think so now? If you do I shall have to take another year to prove the contrary. Neither am I convinced of the absurdity552 of my course, as you put it then. I studied you coolly and deliberately before I began to love you, and reason and judgment have had no chance to jeer553 at my love."
"But, Hedley," she began with a slight tremor in her tones, "you are idealizing me as certainly as the blindest. I've plenty of faults."
"I haven't denied that; so have I plenty of faults. What right have I to demand a perfection I can't offer? I have known people to marry who imagined each other perfect, and then come to court for a separation on the ground of incompatibility554 of temperament555. They learned the meaning of that long word too late, and were scarcely longer about it than the word itself. Now, I'm satisfied that I could cordially agree with you on some points and lovingly disagree with you on others. Chief of all it's your instinct to make a home. You appear better at your own fireside than when in full dress at a reception. You—"
"See here, Hedley, you've got to give up this suit at last. I'm engaged," and she looked away as if she could not meet his eyes.
"Engaged?" he said slowly, looking at her with startled eyes.
"Well, about the same as engaged. My heart has certainly gone from me beyond recall." He drew a long breath. "I was foolish enough to begin to hope," he faltered.
"You must dismiss hope to-night, then," she said, her face still averted.
He was silent and she slowly turned toward him. He had sunk into a chair and buried his face in his hands, the picture of dejected defeat.
There was a sudden flash of mirth through tear-gemmed eyes, a glance at the clock, then noiseless steps, and she was on her knees beside him, her arm about his neck, her blushing face near his wondering eyes as she breathed:
"Happy Christmas, Hedley! How do you like your first gift; and what room is there now for hope?"
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES
It was the day before Thanksgiving. The brief cloudy November afternoon was fast merging556 into early twilight. The trees, now gaunt and bare, creaked and groaned557 in the passing gale, clashing their icy branches together with sounds sadly unlike the slumberous558 rustle of their foliage559 in June. And that same foliage was now flying before the wind, swept hither and thither560, like exiles driven by disaster from the moorings of home, at times finding a brief abiding-place, and then carried forward to parts unknown by circumstances beyond control. The street leading into the village was almost deserted; and the few who came and went hastened on with fluttering garments, head bent down, and a shivering sense of discomfort561. The fields were bare and brown; and the landscape on the uplands rising in the distance would have been utterly sombre had not green fields of grain, like childlike faith in wintry age, relieved the gloomy outlook and prophesied of the sunshine and golden harvest of a new year and life.
But bleak November found no admittance in Mrs. Alford's cosey parlor. Though, as usual, it was kept as the room for state occasions, it was not a stately room. It was furnished with elegance and good taste; but what was better, the genial home atmosphere from the rest of the house had invaded it, and one did not feel, on entering it from the free-and-easy sitting-room, as if passing from a sunny climate to the icebergs562 of the Pole. Therefore I am sure my reader will follow me gladly out of the biting, boisterous563 wind into the homelike apartment, and as we stand in fancy before the glowing grate, we will make the acquaintance of the May-day creature who is its sole occupant.
Elsie Alford, just turning seventeen, appeared younger than her years warranted. Some girls carry the child far into their teens, and Head the mirthful innocence564 of infancy565 with the richer, fuller life of budding womanhood. This was true of Elsie. Hers was not the forced exotic bloom of fashionable life; but rather one of the native blossoms of her New England home, having all the delicacy566 and at the same time hardiness567 of the windflower. She was also as shy and easily agitated568, and yet, like the flower she resembled, well rooted among the rocks of principle and truth. She was the youngest and the pet of the household, and yet the "petting" was not of that kind that develops selfishness and wilfulness569, but rather a genial sunlight of love falling upon her as a focus from the entire family. They always spoke of her as "little Sis," or the "child." And a child it seemed she would ever be, with her kittenish ways, quick impulses, and swiftly alternating moods. As she developed into womanly proportions, her grave, businesslike father began to have misgivings570. After one of her wild sallies at the table, where she kept every one on the qui vive by her unrestrained chatter571, Mr. Alford said:
"Elsie, will you ever learn to be a woman?"
Looking mischievously at him through her curls, she replied, "Yes; I might if I became as old as Mrs. Methuselah."
They finally concluded to leave Elsie's cure to care and trouble—two certain elements of earthly life; and yet her experience of either would be slight indeed, could their love shield her.
But it would not be exactly care or trouble that would sober Elsie into a thoughtful woman, as our story will show.
Some of the November wind seemed in her curling hair upon this fateful day; but her fresh young April face was a pleasant contrast to the scene presented from the window, to which she kept flitting with increasing frequency. It certainly was not the dismal572 and darkening landscape that so intensely interested her. The light of a great and coming pleasure was in her face, and her manner was one of restless, eager expectancy573. Little wonder. Her pet brother, the one next older than herself, a promising574 young theologue, was coming home to spend Thanksgiving. It was time he appeared. The shriek513 of the locomotive had announced the arrival of the train; and her ardent575 little spirit could scarcely endure the moments intervening before she would almost concentrate herself into a rapturous kiss and embrace of welcome, for the favorite brother had been absent several long months.
Her mother called her away for a few moments, for the good old lady was busy indeed, knowing well that merely full hearts would not answer for a New England Thanksgiving. But the moment Elsie was free she darted back to the window, just in time to catch a glimpse, as she supposed, of her brother's well-remembered dark-gray overcoat, as he was ascending576 the front steps.
A tall, grave-looking young man, an utter stranger to the place and family, had his hand upon the doorbell; but before he could ring it, the door flew open, and a lovely young creature precipitated577 herself on his neck, like a missile fired from heavenly battlements, and a kiss was pressed upon his lips that he afterward admitted to have felt even to the "toes of his boots."
But his startled manner caused her to lift her face from under his side-whiskers; and though the dusk was deepening, she could see that her arms were around an utter stranger. She recoiled578 from him with a bound, and trembling like a windflower indeed, her large blue eyes dilating579 at the intruder with a dismay beyond words. How the awkward scene would have ended it were hard to tell had not the hearty voice of one coming up the path called out:
"Hi, there, you witch! who is that you are kissing, and then standing off to see the effect?"
There was no mistake this time; so, impelled by love, shame, and fear of "that horrid man," she fled, half sobbing580, to his arms.
"No, he isn't a 'horrid man,' either," whispered her brother, laughing. "He is a classmate of mine. Why, Stanhope, how are you? I did not know that you and my sister were so well acquainted," he added, half banteringly and half curiously581, for as yet he did not fully understand the scene.
The hall-lamp, shining through the open door, had revealed the features of the young man (whom we must now call Mr. Stanhope), so that his classmate had recognized him. His first impulse had been to slip away in the darkness, and so escape from his awkward predicament; but George Alford's prompt address prevented this and brought him to bay. He was painfully embarrassed, but managed to stammer582: "I was taken for you, I think. I never had the pleasure—honor of meeting your sister."
"Oh, ho! I see now. My wild little sister kissed before she looked. Well, that was your good-fortune. I could keep two Thanksgiving days on the strength of such a kiss as that," cried the light-hearted student, shaking the diffident, shrinking Mr. Stanhope warmly by the hand. "You will hardly need a formal introduction now. But, bless me, where is she? Has the November wind blown her away?"
"I think your sist—the lady passed around to the side entrance. I fear
I have annoyed her sadly."
"Nonsense! A good joke—something to tease the little witch about. But come in. I'm forgetting the sacred rites."
And before the bewildered Mr. Stanhope could help himself, he was half dragged into the lighted hall, and the door shut between him and escape.
In the meantime, Elsie, like a whirlwind, had burst into the kitchen, where Mrs. Alford was superintending some savory583 dishes.
"Oh, mother, George has come and has a horrid man with him, who nearly devoured585 me."
And, with this rather feminine mode of stating the case, she darted into the dusky, fire-lighted parlor, from whence, unseen, she could reconnoitre the hall. Mr. Stanhope was just saying:
"Please let me go. I have stood between you and your welcome long enough. I shall only be an intruder; and besides, as an utter stranger, I have no right to stay." To all of which Elsie devoutly586 whispered to herself, "Amen."
But Mrs. Alford now appeared, and after a warm, motherly greeting to her son, turned in genial courtesy to welcome his friend, as she supposed.
George was so happy that he wished every one else to be the same. The comical episode attending Mr. Stanhope's unexpected appearance just hit his frolicsome587 mood, and promised to be a source of endless merriment if he could only keep his classmate over the coming holiday. Moreover, he long had wished to become better acquainted with this young man, whose manner at the seminary had deeply interested him. So he said:
"Mother, this is Mr. Stanhope, a classmate of mine. I wish you would help me persuade him to stay."
"Why, certainly, I supposed you expected to stay with us, of course," said Mrs. Alford, heartily.
Mr. Stanhope looked ready to sink through the floor, his face crimson with vexation.
"I do assure you, madam," he urged, "it is all a mistake. I am not an invited guest. I was merely calling on a little matter of business, when—" and there he stopped. George exploded into a hearty, uncontrollable laugh; while Elsie, in the darkness, shook her little fist at the stranger, who hastened to add, "Please let me bid you good-evening, I have not the slightest claim on your hospitality."
"Where are you staying?" asked Mrs. Alford, a little mystified. "We would like you to spend at least part of the time with us."
"I do not expect to be here very long. I have a room at the hotel."
"Now, look here, Stanhope," cried George, barring all egress588 by planting his back against the door, "do you take me, a half-fledged theologue, for a heathen? Do you suppose that I could be such a churl589 as to let a classmate stay at our dingy590, forlorn little tavern591 and eat hash on Thanksgiving Day? I could never look you in the face at recitation again. Have some consideration for my peace of mind, and I am sure you will find our home quite as endurable as anything Mr. Starks can provide."
"Oh! as to that, from even the slight glimpse that I have had, this seems more like a home than anything I have known for many years; but I cannot feel it right that I, an unexpected stranger—"
"Come, come! No more of that! You know what is written about 'entertaining strangers;' so that is your strongest claim. Moreover, that text works both ways sometimes, and the stranger angel finds himself among angels. My old mother here, if she does weigh well on toward two hundred, is more like one than anything I have yet seen, and Elsie, if not an angel, is at least part witch and part fairy. But you need not fear ghostly entertainment from mother's larder592. As you are a Christian593, and not a Pagan, no more of this reluctance594. Indeed, nolens volens, I shall not permit you to go out into this November storm to-night;" and Elsie, to her dismay, saw the new-comer led up to the "spare room" with a sort of hospitable violence.
With flaming cheeks and eyes half full of indignant tears, she now made onslaught on her mother, who had returned to the kitchen, where she was making preparations for a supper that might almost answer for the dinner the next day.
"Mother, mother," she exclaimed, "how could you keep that disagreeable stranger! He will spoil our Thanksgiving."
"Why, child, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Alford, raising her eyes in surprise to her daughter's face, that looked like a red moon through the mist of savory vapors595 rising from the ample cooking-stove. "I don't understand you. Why should not your brother's classmate add to the pleasure of our Thanksgiving?"
"Well, perhaps if we had expected him, if he had come in some other way, and we knew more about him—"
"Bless you, child, what a formalist you have become. You stand on a fine point of etiquette596, as if it were the broad foundation of hospitality; while only last week you wanted a ragged343 tramp, who had every appearance of being a thief, to stay all night. Your brother thinks it a special providence597 that his friend should have turned up so unexpectedly."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie. "If that is what the doctrine598 of special providence means, I shall need a new confession599 of faith." Then, a sudden thought occurring to her, she vanished, while her mother smiled, saying:
"What a queer child she is, to be sure!"
A moment later Elsie gave a sharp knock at the spare room door, and in a second was in the further end of the dark hall. George put his head out.
"Come here," she whispered. "Are you sure it's you?" she added, holding him off at arm's-length.
His response was such a tempest of kisses and embraces that in her nervous state she was quite panic-stricken.
"George," she gasped, "have mercy on me!"
"I only wished to show you how he felt, so you would have some sympathy for him."
"If you don't stop," said the almost desperate girl, "I will shut myself up and not appear till he is gone. I will any way, if you don't make me a solemn promise."
"Leave out the 'solemn.'"
"No, I won't. Upon your word and honor, promise never to tell what has happened—my mistake, I mean."
"Oh, Elsie, it's too good to keep," laughed George.
"Now, George, if you tell," sobbed Elsie, "you'll spoil my holiday, your visit, and everything."
"If you feel that way, you foolish child, of course I won't tell. Indeed, I suppose I should not, for Stanhope seems half frightened out of his wits also."
"Serves him right, though I doubt whether he has many to lose," said
Elsie, spitefully.
"Well, I will do my best to keep in," said George, soothingly600, and stroking her curls. "But you will let it all out; you see. The idea of your keeping anything with your April face!"
Elsie acted upon the hint, and went to her room in order to remove all traces of agitation601 before the supper-bell should summon her to meet the dreaded stranger.
In the meantime, Mr. Alford and James, the second son, had come up from the village, where they had a thriving business. They greeted George's friend so cordially that it went some way toward putting the diffident youth at his ease; but he dreaded meeting Elsie again quite as much as she dreaded meeting him.
"Who is this Mr. Stanhope?" his parents asked, as they drew George aside for a little private talk after his long absence.
"Well, he is a classmate with whom I have long wished to get better acquainted; but he is so shy and retiring that I have made little progress. He came from another seminary, and entered our class in this the middle year. No one seems to know much about him; and indeed he has shunned all intimacies602 and devotes himself wholly to his books. The recitation-room is the one place where he appears well—for there he speaks out, as if forgetting himself, or rather, losing himself in some truth under contemplation. Sometimes he will ask a question that wakes up both class and professor; but at other times it seems difficult to pierce the shell of his reserve or diffidence. And yet, from little things I have seen, I know that he has a good warm heart; and the working of his mind in the recitation-room fascinates me. Further than this I know little about him, but have just learned, from his explanation as to his unexpected appearance at our door, that he is very poor, and purposed to spend his holiday vacation as agent for a new magazine that is offering liberal premiums603. I think his poverty is one of the reasons why he has so shrunk from companionship with the other students. He thinks he ought to go out and continue his efforts tonight."
"This stormy night!" ejaculated kind Mrs. Alford. "It would be barbarous."
"Certainly it would, mother. We must not let him. But you must all be considerate, for he seems excessively diffident and sensitive; and besides—but no matter."
"No fear but that we will soon make him at home. And it's a pleasure to entertain people who are not surfeited604 with attention. I don't understand Elsie, however, for she seems to have formed a violent prejudice against him. From the nature of her announcement of his presence I gathered that he was a rather forward young man."
There was a twinkle in George's eye; but he merely said:
"Elsie is full of moods and tenses; but her kind little heart is always the same, and that will bring her around all right."
They were soon after marshalled to the supper-room. Elsie slipped in among the others, but was so stately and demure266, and with her curls brushed down so straight that you would scarcely have known her. Her father caught his pet around the waist, and was about to introduce her, when George hastened to say with the solemnity of an undertaker that Elsie and Mr. Stanhope had met before.
Elsie repented605 the promise she had wrung from her brother, for any amount of badinage606 would be better than this depressing formality. She took her seat, not daring to look at the obnoxious607 guest; and the family noticed with surprise that they had never seen the little maiden so quenched608 and abashed609 before. But George good-naturedly tried to make the conversation general, so as to give them time to recover themselves.
Elsie soon ventured to steal shy looks at Mr. Stanhope, and with her usual quickness discovered that he was more in terror of her than she of him, and she exulted610 in the fact.
"I'll punish him well, if I get a chance," she thought with a certain phase of the feminine sense of justice. But the sadness of his face quite disarmed her when her mother, in well-meant kindness, asked:
"Where is your home located, Mr. Stanhope?"
"In the seminary," he answered in rather a low tone.
"You don't mean to say that you have no better one than a forlorn cell in Dogma Hall?" exclaimed George, earnestly.
Mr. Stanhope crimsoned611, and then grew pale, but tried to say lightly,
"An orphan of my size and years is not a very moving object of
sympathy; but one might well find it difficult not to break the Tenth
Commandment while seeing how you are surrounded."
Elsie was vexed at her disposition612 to relent toward him; she so hardened her face, however, that James rallied her:
"Why, Puss, what is the matter? Yours is the most unpromising
Thanksgiving phiz I have seen today. 'Count your marcies.'"
Elsie blushed so violently, and Mr. Stanhope looked so distressed613 that James finished his supper in puzzled silence, thinking, however, "What has come over the little witch? For a wonder, she seems to have met a man that she is afraid of: but the joke is, he seems even more afraid of her."
In the social parlor some of the stiffness wore off; but Elsie and Mr. Stanhope kept on opposite sides of the room and had very little to say to each other. Motherly Mrs. Alford drew the young man out sufficiently614, however, to become deeply interested in him.
By the next morning time for thought had led him to feel that he must trespass615 on their hospitality no longer. Moreover, he plainly recognized that his presence was an oppression and restraint upon Elsie; and he was very sorry that he had stayed at all. But when he made known his purpose the family would not listen to it.
"I should feel dreadfully hurt if you left us now," said Mrs. Alford, so decidedly that he was in a dilemma, and stole a timid look toward Elsie, who at once guessed his motive in going away. Her kind heart got the better of her; and her face relented in a sudden reassuring616 smile. Then she turned hastily away. Only George saw and understood the little side scene and the reason Mr. Stanhope was induced to remain. Then Elsie, in her quickly varying moods, was vexed at herself, and became more cold and distant than ever. "He will regard me as only a pert, forward miss, but I will teach him better," she thought; and she astonished the family more and more by a stateliness utterly unlike herself. Mr. Stanhope sincerely regretted that he had not broken away, in spite of the others; but in order not to seem vacillating he resolved to stay till the following morning, even though he departed burdened with the thought that he had spoiled the day for one of the family. Things had now gone so far that leaving might only lead to explanations and more general annoyances617, for George had intimated that the little mistake of the previous evening should remain a secret.
And yet he sincerely wished she would relent toward him, for she could not make her sweet little face repellent. The kiss she had given him still seemed to tingle618 in his very soul, while her last smile was like a ray of warmest sunshine. But her face, never designed to be severe, was averted.
After having heard the affairs of the nation discussed in a sound, scriptural manner, they all sat down to a dinner such as had never blessed poor Mr. Stanhope's vision before. A married son and daughter returned after church, and half a dozen grandchildren enlivened the gathering619. There was need of them, for Elsie, usually in a state of wild effervescence upon such occasions, was now demure and comparatively silent. The children, with whom she was accustomed to romp126 like one of them, were perplexed indeed; and only the intense excitement of a Thanksgiving dinner diverted their minds from Aunt Elsie, so sadly changed. She was conscious that all were noting her absent manner, and this embarrassed and vexed her more; and yet she seemed under a miserable paralysis620 that she could neither explain nor escape.
"If we had only laughed it off at first," she groaned to herself; "but now the whole thing grows more absurd and disagreeable every moment."
"Why, Elsie," said her father, banteringly, "you doubted the other day whether Mrs. Methuselah's age would ever sober you; and yet I think that good old lady would have looked more genial on Thanksgiving Day. What is the matter?"
"I was thinking of the sermon," she said.
Amid the comic elevation621 of eyebrows622, George said slyly:
"Tell us the text."
Overwhelmed with confusion, she darted a reproachful glance at him and muttered:
"I did not say anything about the text."
"Well, tell us about the sermon then," laughed James.
"No," said Elsie, sharply. "I'll quote you a text: 'Eat, drink, and be merry,' and let me alone."
They saw that for some reason she could not bear teasing, and that such badinage troubled Mr. Stanhope also. George came gallantly623 to the rescue, and the dinner-party grew so merry that Elsie thawed624 perceptibly and Stanhope was beguiled626 into several witty627 speeches. At each one Elsie opened her eyes in wider and growing appreciation. At last, when they rose from their coffee, she come to the surprising conclusion—
"Why, he is not stupid and bad-looking after all."
George was bent on breaking the ice between them, and so proposed that the younger members of the family party should go up a swollen628 stream and see the fall. But Elsie flanked herself with a sister-in-law on one side and a niece on the other, while Stanhope was so diffident that nothing but downright encouragement would bring him to her side. So George was almost in despair. Elsie's eyes had been conveying favorable impressions to her reluctant mind throughout the walk. She sincerely regretted that such an absurd barrier had grown up between her and Stanhope, but could not for the life of her, especially before others, do anything to break the awkward spell.
At last they were on their return, and were all grouped together on a little bluff629, watching the water pour foamingly through a narrow gorge631.
"Oh, see," cried Elsie, suddenly pointing to the opposite bank, "what beautiful moss632 that is over there! It is just the kind I have been wanting. Oh, dear! there isn't a bridge within half a mile."
Stanhope glanced around a moment, and then said gallantly, "I will get you the moss, Miss Alford." They saw that in some inconceivable way he intended crossing where they stood. The gorge was much too wide for the most vigorous leap, so Elsie exclaimed eagerly:
"Oh, please don't take any risk! What is a little moss?"
"I say, Stanhope," remonstrated633 George, seriously, "it would be no laughing matter if you should fall in there."
But Stanhope only smiled, threw off his overcoat, and buttoned his undercoat closely around him. George groaned to himself, "This will be worse than the kissing scrape," and was about to lay a restraining grasp upon his friend. But he slipped away, and lightly went up hand-over-hand a tall, slender sapling on the edge of the bank, the whole party gathering round in breathless expectation. Having reached its slender, swaying top, he threw himself out on the land side. The tree bent at once to the ground with his weight, but without snapping, showing that it was tough and fibrous. Holding firmly to the top, he gave a strong spring, which, with the spring of the bent sapling, sent him well over the gorge on the firm ground beyond.
There was a round of applause from the little group he had just left, in which Elsie joined heartily. Her eyes were glowing with admiration, for when was not power and daring captivating to a woman? Then, in sudden alarm and forgetfulness of her former coolness, she exclaimed:
"But how will you get back?"
"This is my bridge," he replied, smiling brightly across to her, and holding on to the slender young tree. "You perceive that I was brought up in the country."
So saying, he tied the sapling down to a root with a handkerchief, and then proceeded to fill another with moss.
As George saw Elsie's face while she watched Stanhope gather the coveted634 trifle, he chuckled to himself—
"The ice is broken between them now."
But Stanhope had insecurely fastened the sapling down. The strain upon the knot was too severe, and suddenly the young tree flew up and stood erect635 but quivering, with his handkerchief fluttering in its top as a symbol of defeat. There was an exclamation of dismay and Elsie again asked with real anxiety in her tone:
"How will you get back now?"
Stanhope shrugged his shoulders.
"I confess I am defeated, for there is no like sapling on this side; but I have the moss, and can join you at the bridge below, if nothing better offers."
"George," said Elsie, indignantly, "don't go away and leave Mr.
Stanhope's handkerchief in that tree."
"Bless you, child," cried George, mischievously, and leading the way down the path, "I can't climb anymore than a pumpkin636. You will have to go back with him after it, or let it wave as a memento637 of his gallantry on your behalf."
"If I can only manage to throw them together without any embarrassing third parties present, the ridiculous restraint they are under will soon vanish," he thought; and so he hastened his steps. The rest trooped after him, while Stanhope made his way with difficulty on the opposite bank, where there was no path. His progress therefore was slow; and Elsie saw that if she did not linger he would be left behind. Common politeness forbade this, and so she soon found herself alone, carrying his overcoat on one bank, and he keeping pace with her on the other. She comforted herself at first with the thought that with the brawling638, deafening639 stream between them, there would be no chance for embarrassing conversation. But soon her sympathies became aroused, as she saw him toilsomely making his way over the rocks and through the tangled640 thickets641: and as she could not speak to him, she smiled her encouragement so often that she felt it would be impossible to go back to her old reserve.
Stanhope now came to a little opening in the brush. The cleared ground sloped evenly down to the stream, and its current was divided by a large rock. He hailed the opportunity here offered with delight, for he was very anxious to speak to her before they should join the others. So he startled Elsie by walking out into the clearing, away from the stream.
"Well, I declare; that's cool, to go and leave me alone without a word," she thought.
But she was almost terror-stricken to see him turn and dart to the torrent like an arrow. With a long flying leap, he landed on the rock in the midst of the stream, and then, without a second's hesitation, with the impetus642 already acquired, sprang for the solid ground where she stood, struck it, wavered, and would have fallen backward into the water had not she, quick as thought, stepped forward and given him her hand.
"You have saved me from a ducking, if not worse," he said, giving the little rescuing hand a warm pressure.
"Oh!" exclaimed she, panting, "please don't do any more dreadful things. I shall be careful how I make any wishes in your hearing again."
"I am sorry to hear you say that," he replied. And then there was an awkward silence.
Elsie could think of nothing better than to refer to the handkerchief they had left behind.
"Will you wait for me till I run and get it?" he asked.
"I will go back with you, if you will permit me," she said timidly.
"Indeed, I could not ask so much of you as that."
"And yet you could about the same as risk your neck to gratify a whim643 of mine," she said more gratefully than she intended.
"Please do not think," he replied earnestly, "that I have been practicing cheap heroics. As I said, I was a country boy, and in my early home thought nothing of doing such things." But even the brief reference to that vanished home caused him to sigh deeply, and Elsie gave him a wistful look of sympathy.
For a few moments they walked on in silence. Then Mr. Stanhope turned, and with some hesitation said:
"Miss Alford, I did very wrong to stay after—after last evening. But my better judgment was borne down by invitations so cordial that I hardly knew how to resist them. At the same time I now realize that I should have done so. Indeed, I would go away at once, would not such a course only make matters worse. And yet, after receiving so much kindness from your family, more than has blessed me for many long years—for since my dear mother died I have been quite alone in the world—I feel I cannot go away without some assurance or proof that you will forgive me for being such a kill-joy in your holiday."
Elsie's vexation with herself now knew no bounds. She stopped in the path, determining that she would clear up matters, cost what it might.
"Mr. Stanhope," she said, "will you grant a request that will contain such assurance, or rather, will show you that I am heartily ashamed of my foolish course? Will you not spend next Thanksgiving with us, and give me a chance to retrieve myself from first to last?"
His face brightened wonderfully as he replied, "I will only be too glad to do so, if you truly wish it."
"I do wish it," she said earnestly. "What must you think of me?" (His eyes then expressed much admiration; but hers were fixed on the ground and half filled with tears of vexation.) Then, with a pretty humility644 that was exquisite in its simplicity and artlessness, she added:
"You have noticed at home that they call me 'child'—and indeed, I am little more than one—and now see that I have behaved like a very silly and naughty one toward you. I have trampled on every principle of hospitality, kindness, and good-breeding. I have no patience with myself, and I wish another chance to show that I can do better. I—"
"Oh, Miss Alford, please do not judge yourself so harshly and unjustly," interrupted Stanhope.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie, "I'm so sorry for what happened last night.
We all might have had such a good time."
"Well, then," said Stanhope, demurely, "I suppose I ought to be also."
"And do you mean to say that you are not?" she asked, turning suddenly upon him.
"Oh, well, certainly, for your sake," he said with rising color.
"But not for your own?" she asked with almost the naivete of a child.
He turned away with a perplexed laugh and replied: "Really, Miss
Alford, you are worse than the Catechism."
She looked at him with a half-amused, half-surprised expression, the thought occurring to her for the first time that it might not have been so disagreeable to him after all; and somehow this thought was quite a relief to her. But she said: "I thought you would regard me as a hoyden645 of the worst species."
"Because you kissed your brother? I have never for a moment forgotten that it was only your misfortune that I was not he."
"I should have remembered that it was not your fault. But here is your handkerchief, flying like a flag of truce646; so let bygones be bygones. My terms are that you come again another year, and give me a chance to entertain my brother's friend as a sister ought."
"I am only too glad to submit to them," he eagerly replied, and then added, so ardently647 as to deepen the roses already in her cheeks, "If such are your punishments, Miss Alford, how delicious must be your favors!"
By common consent the subject was dropped; and with tongues released from awkward restraint, they chatted freely together, till in the early twilight they reached her home. The moment they entered George exultingly648 saw that the skies were serene.
But Elsie would never be the frolicsome child of the past again. As she surprised the family at dinner, so now at supper they could scarcely believe that the elegant, graceful649 young lady was the witch of yesterday. She had resolved with all her soul to try to win some place in Mr. Stanhope's respect before he departed, and never did a little maiden succeed better.
In the evening they had music; and Mr. Stanhope pleased them all with his fine tenor650, while Elsie delighted him by her clear, birdlike voice. So the hours fled away.
"You think better of the 'horrid man,' little Sis," said George, as he kissed her good-night.
"I was the horrid one," said Elsie, penitently651. "I can never forgive myself my absurd conduct. But he has promised to come again next Thanksgiving, and give me a chance to do better; so don't you fail to bring him."
George gave a long, low whistle, and then said: "Oh! ah! Seems to me you are coming on, for an innocent. Are we to get mixed up again in the twilight?"
"Nonsense!" said Elsie, with a peony face, and she slammed her door upon him.
The next morning the young man took his leave, and Elsie's last words were:
"Mr. Stanhope, remember your promise."
And he did remember more than that, for this brief visit had enshrined a sweet, girlish face within his heart of hearts, and he no longer felt lonely and orphaned652. He and George became the closest friends, and messages from the New England home came to him with increasing frequency, which he returned with prodigal653 interest. It also transpired654 that he occasionally wrote for the papers, and Elsie insisted that these should be sent to her; while he of course wrote much better with the certainty that she would be his critic. Thus, though separated, they daily became better acquainted, and during the year George found it not very difficult to induce his friend to make several visits.
But it was with joy that seemed almost too rich for earthly experience that he found himself walking up the village street with George the ensuing Thanksgiving Eve. Elsie was at the door; and he pretended to be disconsolate98 that his reception was not the same as on the previous year. Indeed she had to endure not a little chaffing, for her mistake was a family joke now.
It was a peerless Thanksgiving eve and day—one of the sun-lighted heights of human happiness.
After dinner they all again took a walk up the brawling stream, and Stanhope and Elsie became separated from the rest, though not so innocently as on the former occasion.
"See!" cried Elsie, pointing to the well-remembered sapling, which she had often visited. "There fluttered our flag of truce last year."
Stanhope seized her hand and said eagerly: "And here I again break the truce, and renew the theme we dropped at this place. Oh, Elsie, I have felt that kiss in the depths of my heart every hour since; and in that it led to my knowing and loving you, it has made every day from that time one of thanksgiving. If you could return my love, as I have dared to hope, it would be a happiness beyond words. If I could venture to take one more kiss, as a token that it is returned, I could keep Thanksgiving forever."
Her hand trembled in his, but was not withdrawn655. Her blushing face was turned away toward the brawling stream; but she saw not its foam630, she heard not its hoarse656 murmurs657. A sweeter music was in her ears. She seemed under a delicious spell, but soon became conscious that a pair of dark eyes were looking down eagerly, anxiously for her answer. Shyly raising hers, that now were like dewy violets, she said, with a little of her old witchery:
"I suppose you will have to kiss me this Thanksgiving, to make things even."
Stanhope needed no broader hint.
"I owe you a heavy grudge658," said Mr. Alford, in the evening. "A year ago you robbed me of my child, for little, kittenish Elsie became a thoughtful woman from the day you were here; and now you are going to take away the daughter of my old age."
"Yes, indeed, husband. Now you know how my father felt," said Mrs.
Alford, at the same time wiping something from the corner of her eye.
"Bless me, are you here?" said the old gentleman, wheeling round to his wife. "Mr. Stanhope, I have nothing more to say."
"I declare," exulted George, "that 'horrid man' will devour584 Elsie yet."
"Haw! haw! haw!" laughed big-voiced, big-hearted James. "The idea of our little witch of an Elsie being a minister's wife!"
* * * * * * *
It is again Thanksgiving Eve. The trees are gaunt, the fields bare and brown, with dead leaves whirling across them; but a sweeter than June sunshine seems filling the cosey parlor where Elsie, a radiant bride, is receiving her husband's first kiss almost on the moment that she with her lips so unexpectedly kindled the sacred fire, three years before.
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS
Picnicking in December would be a dreary659 experience even if one could command all the appliances of comfort which outdoor life permitted. This would be especially true in the latitude660 of Boston and on the bleak hills overlooking that city and its environing waters. Dreary business indeed Ezekiel Watkins regarded it as he shivered over the smoky camp-fire which he maintained with difficulty. The sun was sinking into the southwest so early in the day that he remarked irritably661: "Durned if it was worth while for it to rise at all."
Ezekiel Watkins, or Zeke, as he was generally known among his comrades, had ceased to be a resident on that rocky hillside from pleasure. His heart was in a Connecticut valley in more senses than one; and there was not a more homesick soldier in the army. It will be readily guessed that the events of our story occurred more than a century ago. The shots fired at Bunker Hill had echoed in every nook and corner of the New England colonies, and the heart of Zeke Watkins, among thousands of others, had been fired with military ardor662. With companions in like frame of mind he had trudged663 to Boston, breathing slaughter664 and extermination665 against the red-coated instruments of English tyranny. To Zeke the expedition had many of the elements of an extended bear-hunt, much exalted666. There was a spice of danger and a rich promise of novelty and excitement. The march to the lines about Boston had been a continuous ovation667; grandsires came out from the wayside dwellings668 and blessed the rustic669 soldiers; they were dined profusely670 by the housewives, and if not wined, there had been slight stint671 in New England rum and cider; the apple-cheeked daughters of the land gave them the meed of heroes in advance, and abated somewhat of their ruddy hues at the thought of the dangers to be incurred672. Zeke was visibly dilated673 by all this attention, incense352, and military glory; and he stepped forth from each village and hamlet as if the world were scarcely large enough for the prowess of himself and companions. Even on parade he was as stiff as his long-barrelled flintlock, looking as if England could hope for no quarter at his hands; yet he permitted no admiring glances from bright eyes to escape him. He had not traversed half the distance between his native hamlet and Boston before he was abundantly satisfied that pretty Susie Rolliffe had made no mistake in honoring him among the recruits by marks of especial favor. He wore in his squirrel-skin cap the bit of blue ribbon she had given him, and with the mien674 of a Homeric hero had intimated darkly that it might be crimson before she saw it again. She had clasped her hands, stifled675 a little sob20, and looked at him admiringly. He needed no stronger assurance than her eyes conveyed at that moment. She had been shy and rather unapproachable before, sought by others than himself, yet very chary676 of her smiles and favors to all. Her ancestors had fought the Indians, and had bequeathed to the demure little maiden much of their own indomitable spirit. She had never worn her heart on her sleeve, and was shy of her rustic admirers chiefly because none of them had realized her ideals of manhood created by fireside stories of the past.
Zeke's chief competitor for Susie's favor had been Zebulon Jarvis; and while he had received little encouragement, he laid his unostentatious devotion at her feet unstintedly, and she knew it. Indeed, she was much inclined to laugh at him, for he was singularly bashful, and a frown from her overwhelmed him. Unsophisticated Susie reasoned that any one who could be so afraid of HER could not be much of a man. She had never heard of his doing anything bold and spirited. It might be said, indeed, that the attempt to wring268 a livelihood677 for his widowed mother and for his younger brothers and sisters from the stumpy, rocky farm required courage of the highest order; but it was not of a kind that appealed to the fancy of a romantic young girl. Nothing finer or grander had Zebulon attempted before the recruiting officer came to Opinquake, and when he came, poor Zeb appeared to hang back so timorously678 that he lost what little place he had in Susie's thoughts. She was ignorant of the struggle taking place in his loyal heart. More intense even than his love for her was the patriotic679 fire which smouldered in his breast; yet when other young men were giving in their names and drilling on the village green, he was absent. To the war appeals of those who sought him, he replied briefly680. "Can't leave till fall."
"But the fighting will be over long before that," it was urged.
"So much the better for others, then, if not for me."
Zeke Watkins made it his business that Susie should hear this reply in the abbreviated681 form of, "So much the better, then."
She had smiled scornfully, and it must be added, a little bitterly. In his devotion Zeb had been so helpless, so diffidently unable to take his own part and make advances that she, from odd little spasms682 of sympathy, had taken his part for him, and laughingly repeated to herself in solitude all the fine speeches which she perceived he would be glad to make. But, as has been intimated, it seemed to her droll indeed that such a great stalwart fellow should appear panic-stricken in her diminutive683 presence. In brief, he had been timidity embodied684 under her demurely mischievous183 blue eyes; and now that the recruiting officer had come and marched away with his squad685 without him, she felt incensed that such a chicken-hearted fellow had dared to lift his eyes to her.
"It would go hard with the Widow Jarvis and all those children if Zeb 'listed," Susie's mother had ventured in half-hearted defence, for did she not look upon him as a promising suitor.
"The people of Opinquake wouldn't let the widow or the children starve," replied Susie, indignantly. "If I was a big fellow like him, my country would not call me twice. Think how grandfather left grandma and all the children!"
"Well, I guess Zeb thinks he has his hands full wrastling with that stony farm."
"He needn't come to see me any more, or steal glances at me 'tween meetings on Sunday," said the girl, decisively. "He cuts a sorry figure beside Zeke Watkins, who was the first to give in his name, and who began to march like a soldier even before he left us."
"Yes," said Mrs. Rolliffe; "Zeke was very forward. If he holds out as he began—Well, well, Zeke allus was a little forward, and able to speak for himself. You are young yet, Susan, and may learn before you reach my years that the race isn't allus to the swift. Don't be in haste to promise yourself to any of the young men."
"Little danger of my promising myself to a man who is afraid even of me! I want a husband like grandfather. He wasn't afraid to face anything, and he honored his wife by acting as if she wasn't afraid either."
Zeb gave Susie no chance to bestow the rebuffs she had premeditated. He had been down to witness the departure of the Opinquake quota686, and had seen Susie's farewell to Zeke Watkins. How much it had meant he was not sure—enough to leave no hope or chance for him, he had believed; but he had already fought his first battle, and it had been a harder one than Zeke Watkins or any of his comrades would ever engage in. He had returned and worked on the stony farm until dark. From dawn until dark he continued to work every secular687 day till September.
His bronzed face grew as stern as it was thin; and since he would no longer look at her, Susie Rolliffe began to steal an occasional and wondering glance at him "'tween meetings."
No one understood the young man or knew his plans except his patient, sad-eyed mother, and she learned more by her intuitions than from his spoken words. She idolized him, and he loved and revered688 her: but the terrible Puritan restraint paralyzed manifestations690 of affection. She was not taken by surprise when one evening he said quietly, "Mother, I guess I'll start in a day or two."
She could not repress a sort of gasping691 sob however, but after a few moments was able to say steadily, "I supposed you were preparing to leave us."
"Yes, mother, I've been a-preparing. I've done my best to gather in everything that would help keep you and the children and the stock through the winter. The corn is all shocked, and the older children can help you husk it, and gather in the pumpkins692, the beans, and the rest. As soon as I finish digging the potatoes I think I'll feel better to be in the lines around Boston. I'd have liked to have gone at first, but in order to fight as I ought I'd want to remember there was plenty to keep you and the children."
"I'm afraid, Zebulon, you've been fighting as well as working so hard all summer long. For my sake and the children's, you've been letting Susan Rolliffe think meanly of you."
"I can't help what she thinks, mother; I've tried not to act meanly."
"Perhaps the God of the widow and the fatherless will shield and bless you, my son. Be that as it may," she added with a heavy sigh, "conscience and His will must guide in everything. If He says go forth to battle, what am I that I should stay you?" Although she did not dream of the truth, the Widow Jarvis was a disciplined soldier herself. To her, faith meant unquestioning submission693 and obedience694; she had been taught to revere689 a jealous and an exacting God rather than a loving one. The heroism695 with which she pursued her toilsome, narrow, shadowed pathway was as sublime696 as it was unrecognized on her part. After she had retired she wept sorely, not only because her eldest697 child was going to danger, and perhaps death, but also for the reason that her heart clung to him so weakly and selfishly, as she believed. With a tenderness of which she was half-ashamed she filled his wallet with provisions which would add to his comfort, then, both to his surprise and her own, kissed him good-by. He left her and the younger brood with an aching heart of which there was little outward sign, and with no loftier ambition than to do his duty; she followed him with deep, wistful eyes till he, and next the long barrel of his rifle, disappeared in an angle of the road, and then her interrupted work was resumed.
Susie Rolliffe was returning from an errand to a neighbor's when she heard the sound of long rapid steps.
A hasty glance revealed Zeb in something like pursuit. Her heart fluttered slightly, for he had looked so stern and sad of late that she had felt a little sorry for him in spite of herself. But since he could "wrastle" with nothing more formidable than a stony farm, she did not wish to have anything to say to him, or meet the embarrassment of explaining a tacit estrangement698. She was glad, therefore, that her gate was so near, and passed in as if she had not recognized him. She heard his steps become slower and pause at the gate, and then almost in shame in being guilty of too marked discourtesy, she turned to speak, but hesitated in surprise, for now she recognized his equipment as a soldier.
"Why, Mr. Jarvis, where are you going?" she exclaimed.
A dull red flamed through the bronze of his thin cheeks as he replied awkwardly, "I thought I'd take a turn in the lines around Boston."
"Oh, yes," she replied, mischievously, "take a turn in the lines. Then we may expect you back by corn-husking?"
He was deeply wounded, and in his embarrassment could think of no other reply than the familiar words, "'Let not him that girdeth on his harness boast himself as he that putteth it off.'"
"I can't help hoping, Mr. Jarvis, that neither you nor others will put it off too soon—not, at least, while King George claims to be our master. When we're free I can stand any amount of boasting."
"You'll never hear boasting from me, Miss Susie;" and then an awkward silence fell between them.
Shyly and swiftly she raised her eyes. He looked so humble376, deprecatory, and unsoldier-like that she could not repress a laugh. "I'm not a British cannon," she began, "that you should be so fearful."
His manhood was now too deeply wounded for further endurance even from her, for he suddenly straightened himself, and throwing his rifle over his shoulder, said sternly, "I'm not a coward. I never hung back from fear, but to keep mother from charity, so I could fight or die as God wills. You may laugh at the man who never gave you anything but love, if you will, but you shall never laugh at my deeds. Call that boasting or not as you please," and he turned on his heel to depart.
His words and manner almost took away the girl's breath, so unexpected were they, and unlike her idea of the man. In that brief moment a fearless soldier had flashed himself upon her consciousness, revealing a spirit that would flinch699 at nothing—that had not even quailed700 at the necessity of forfeiting701 her esteem, that his mother might not want. Humiliated and conscience-stricken that she had done him so much injustice702, she rushed forward, crying, "Stop, Zebulon; please do not go away angry with me! I do not forget that we have been old friends and playmates. I'm willing to own that I've been wrong about you, and that's a good deal for a girl to do. I only wish I were a man, and I'd go with you."
Her kindness restored him to his awkward self again, and he stammered703, "I wish you were—no, I don't—I merely stopped, thinking you might have a message; but I'd rather not take any to Zeke Watkins—will, though, if you wish. It cut me all up to have you think I was afraid," and then he became speechless.
"But you acted as if you were afraid of me, and that seemed so ridiculous."
He looked at her a moment so earnestly with his dark, deep-set eyes that hers dropped. "Miss Susie," he said slowly, and speaking with difficulty, "I AM afraid of you, next to God. I don't suppose I've any right to talk to you so, and I will say good-by. I was reckless when I spoke before. Perhaps—you'll go and see mother. My going is hard on her."
His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, as if he were taking his last look, then he turned slowly away.
"Good-by, Zeb," she called softly. "I didn't—I don't understand. Yes,
I will go to see your mother."
Susie also watched him as he strode away. He thought he could continue on steadfastly without looking back, but when the road turned he also turned, fairly tugged704 right about by his loyal heart. She stood where he had left her, and promptly waved her hand. He doffed705 his cap, and remained a moment in an attitude that appeared to her reverential, then passed out of view.
The moments lapsed706, and still she stood in the gateway707, looking down the vacant road as if dazed. Was it in truth awkward, bashful Zeb Jarvis who had just left her? He seemed a new and distinct being in contrast to the youth whom she had smiled at and in a measure scoffed708 at. The little Puritan maiden was not a reasoner, but a creature of impressions and swift intuitions. Zeb had not set his teeth, faced his hard duty, and toiled that long summer in vain. He had developed a manhood and a force which in one brief moment had enabled him to compel her recognition.
"He will face anything," she murmured. "He's afraid of only God and me; what a strange thing to say—afraid of me next to God! Sounds kind of wicked. What can he mean? Zeke Watkins wasn't a bit afraid of me. As mother said, he was a little forward, and I was fool enough to take him at his own valuation. Afraid of me! How he stood with his cap off. Do men ever love so? Is there a kind of reverence709 in some men's love? How absurd that a great strong, brave man, ready to face cannons710, can bow down to such a little—" Her fragmentary exclamations711 ended in a peal11 of laughter, but tears dimmed her blue eyes.
Susie did visit Mrs. Jarvis, and although the reticent712 woman said little about her son, what she did say meant volumes to the girl who now had the right clew in interpreting his action and character. She too was reticent. New England girls rarely gushed713 in those days, so no one knew she was beginning to understand. Her eyes, experienced in country work, were quick, and her mind active. "It looks as if a giant had been wrestling with this stony farm," she muttered.
Zeb received no ovations714 on his lonely tramp to the lines, and the vision of Susie Rolliffe waving her hand from the gateway would have blinded him to all the bright and admiring eyes in the world. He was hospitably715 entertained, however, when there was occasion; but the advent354 of men bound for the army had become an old story. Having at last inquired his way to the position occupied by the Connecticut troops, he was assigned to duty in the same company with Zeke Watkins, who gave him but a cool reception, and sought to overawe him by veteran-like airs. At first poor Zeb was awkward enough in his unaccustomed duties, and no laugh was so scornful as that of his rival. Young Jarvis, however, had not been many days in camp before he guessed that Zeke's star was not in the ascendant. There was but little fighting required, but much digging of intrenchments, drill, and monotonous716 picket717 duty. Zeke did not take kindly to such tasks, and shirked them when possible. He was becoming known as the champion grumbler718 in the mess, and no one escaped his criticism, not even "Old Put"—as General Putnam, who commanded the Connecticut quota, was called. Jarvis, on the other hand, performed his military duties as he had worked the farm, and rapidly acquired the bearing of a soldier. Indomitable Putnam gave his men little rest, and was ever seeking to draw his lines nearer to Boston and the enemy's ships. He virtually fought with pick and shovel, and his working parties were often exposed to fire while engaged in fortifying720 the positions successively occupied. The Opinquake boys regarded themselves as well seasoned to such rude compliments, and were not a little curious to see how Zeb would handle a shovel with cannon-balls whizzing uncomfortably near. The opportunity soon came. Old Put himself could not have been more coolly oblivious than the raw recruit. At last a ball smashed his shovel to smithereens; he quietly procured721 another and went on with his work. Then his former neighbors gave him a cheer, while his captain clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Promote you to be a veteran on the spot!"
The days had grown shorter, colder, and drearier722, and the discomforts723 of camp-life harder to endure. There were few tents even for the officers, and the men were compelled to improvise724 such shelter as circumstances permitted. Huts of stone, wood, and brush, and barricades725 against the wind, lined the hillside, and the region already was denuded726 of almost everything that would burn. Therefore, when December came, Zeke Watkins found that even a fire was a luxury not to be had without trouble. He had become thoroughly disgusted with a soldier's life, and the military glory which had at first so dazzled him now wore the aspect of the wintry sky. He had recently sought and attained the only promotion727 for which his captain now deemed him fitted—that of cook for about a dozen of his comrades; and the close of the December day found him preparing the meagre supper which the limited rations29 permitted. By virtue of his office, Zeke was one of the best-fed men in the army, for if there were any choice morsels728 he could usually manage to secure them; still, he was not happy. King George and Congress were both pursuing policies inconsistent with his comfort, and he sighed more and more frequently for the wide kitchen-hearth of his home, which was within easy visiting distance of the Rolliffe farmhouse. His term of enlistment729 expired soon, and he was already counting the days. He was not alone in his discontent, for there was much homesickness and disaffection among the Connecticut troops. Many had already departed, unwilling730 to stay an hour after the expiration731 of their terms; and not a few had anticipated the periods which legally released them from duty. The organization of the army was so loose that neither appeals nor threats had much influence, and Washington, in deep solicitude, saw his troops melting away.
It was dark by the time the heavy tramp of the working party was heard returning from the fortifications. The great mess-pot, partly filled with pork and beans, was bubbling over the fire; Zeke, shifting his position from time to time to avoid the smoke which the wind, as if it had a spite against him, blew in his face, was sourly contemplating732 his charge and his lot, bent on grumbling733 to the others with even greater gusto than he had complained to himself. His comrades carefully put away their intrenching tools, for they were held responsible for them, and then gathered about the fire, clamoring for supper.
"Zeke, you lazy loon," cried Nat Atkinson, "how many pipes have you smoked to-day? If you'd smoke less and forage734 and dun the commissary more, we'd have a little fresh meat once in a hundred years."
"Yes, just about once in a hundred years!" snarled735 Zeke.
"YOU find something to keep fat on, anyhow. We'll broil736 you some cold night. Trot out your beans if there's nothing else."
"Growl737 away," retorted Zeke. "'Twon't be long before I'll be eating chickens and pumpkin-pie in Opinquake, instead of cooking beans and rusty738 pork for a lot of hungry wolves."
"You'd be the hungriest wolf of the lot if you'd 'a' been picking and shovelling739 frozen ground all day."
"I didn't 'list to be a ditch-digger!" said Zeke. "I thought I was going to be a soldier."
"And you turned out a cook!" quietly remarked Zeb Jarvis.
"Well, my hero of the smashed shovel, what do you expect to be—Old Put's successor? You know, fellows, it's settled that you're to dig your way into Boston, tunnel under the water when you come to it. Of course Put will die of old age before you get half there. Zeb'll be the chap of all others to command a division of shovellers. I see you with a pickaxe strapped740 on your side instead of a sword."
"Lucky I'm not in command now," replied Zeb, "or you'd shovel dirt under fire to the last hour of your enlistment. I'd give grumblers like you something to grumble719 about. See here, fellows, I'm sick of this seditious talk in our mess. The Connecticut men are getting to be the talk of the army. You heard a squad of New Hampshire boys jeer at us to-day, and ask, 'When are ye going home to mother?' You ask, Zeke Watkins, what I expect to be. I expect to be a soldier, and obey orders as long as Old Put and General Washington want a man. All I ask is to be home summers long enough to keep mother and the children off the town. Now what do you expect to be after you give up your cook's ladle?"
"None o' your business."
"He's going home to court Susie Rolliffe," cried Nat Atkinson. "They'll be married in the spring, and go into the chicken business. That'd just suit Zeke."
"It would not suit Susie Rolliffe," said Zeb, hotly. "A braver, better girl doesn't breathe in the colonies, and the man that says a slurring741 word against her's got to fight me."
"What! Has she given Zeke the mitten742 for your sake, Zeb?" piped little
Hiram Woodbridge.
"She hasn't given me anything, and I've got no claim; but she is the kind of girl that every fellow from Opinquake should stand up for. We all know that there is nothing chicken-hearted about her."
"Eight, by George—George W., I mean, and not the king," responded Hiram Woodbridge. "Here's to her health, Zeb, and your success! I believe she'd rather marry a soldier than a cook."
"Thank you," said Zeb. "You stand as good a chance as I do; but don't let's bandy her name about in camp any more'n we would our mother's. The thing for us to do now is to show that the men from Connecticut have as much backbone743 as any other fellows in the army, North or South. Zeke may laugh at Old Put's digging, but you'll soon find that he'll pick his way to a point where he can give the Britishers a dig under the fifth rib44. We've got the best general in the army. Washington, with all his Southern style, believes in him and relies on him. Whether their time's up or not, it's a burning shame that so many of his troops are sneaking744 off home."
"It's all very well for you to talk, Zeb Jarvis," growled745 Zeke. "You haven't been here very long yet; and you stayed at home when others started out to fight. Now that you've found that digging and not fighting is the order of the day, you're just suited. It's the line of soldiering you are cut out for. When fighting men and not ditch-diggers are wanted, you'll find me—-"
"All right, Watkins," said the voice of Captain Dean from without the circle of light. "According to your own story you are just the kind of man needed to-night—no ditch-digging on hand, but dangerous service. I detail you, for you've had rest compared with the other men. I ask for volunteers from those who've been at work all day."
Zeb Jarvis was on his feet instantly, and old Ezra Stokes also began to rise with difficulty. "No, Stokes," resumed the officer, "you can't go. I know you've suffered with the rheumatism746 all day, and have worked well in spite of it. For to-night's work I want young fellows with good legs and your spirit. How is it you're here anyhow Stokes? Your time's up."
"We ain't into Boston yet," was the quiet reply.
"So you want to stay?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you shall cook for the men till you're better. I won't keep so good a soldier, though, at such work any longer than I can help. Your good example and that of the gallant463 Watkins has brought out the whole squad. I think I'll put Jarvis in command, though; Zeke might be rash, and attempt the capture of Boston before morning;" and the facetious747 captain, who had once been a neighbor, concluded, "Jarvis, see that every man's piece is primed and ready for use. Be at my hut in fifteen minutes." Then he passed on to the other camp-fires.
In a few minutes Ezra Stokes was alone by the fire, almost roasting his lame101 leg, and grumbling from pain and the necessity of enforced inaction. He was a taciturn, middle-age man, and had been the only bachelor of mature years in Opinquake. Although he rarely said much, he had been a great listener, and no one had been better versed480 in neighborhood affairs. In brief, he had been the village cobbler, and had not only taken the measure of Susie Rolliffe's little foot, but also of her spirit. Like herself he had been misled at first by the forwardness of Zeke Watkins and the apparent backwardness of Jarvis. Actual service had changed his views very decidedly. When Zeb appeared he had watched the course of this bashful suitor with interest which had rapidly ripened748 into warm but undemonstrative goodwill. The young fellow had taken pains to relieve the older man, had carried his tools for him, and more than once with his strong hands had almost rubbed the rheumatism out of the indomitable cobbler's leg. He had received but slight thanks, and had acted as if he didn't care for any. Stokes was not a man to return favors in words; he brooded over his gratitude749 as if it were a grudge. "I'll get even with that young Jarvis yet," he muttered, as he nursed his leg over the fire. "I know he worships the ground that little Rolliffe girl treads on, though she don't tread on much at a time. She never trod on me nuther, though I've had her foot in my hand more'n once. She looked at the man that made her shoes as if she would like to make him happier. When a little tot, she used to say I could come and live with her when I got too old to take care of myself. Lame as I be, I'd walk to Opinquake to give her a hint in her choosin'. Guess Hi Woodbridge is right, and she wouldn't be long in making up her mind betwixt a soger and a cook—a mighty750 poor one at that. Somehow or nuther I must let her know before Zeke Watkins sneaks751 home and parades around as a soldier 'bove ditch-digging. I've taken his measure.
"He'll be putting on veteran airs, telling big stories of what he's going to do when soldiers are wanted, and drilling such fools as believe in him. Young gals752 are often taken by such strutters, and think that men like Jarvis, who darsn't speak for themselves, are of no account. But I'll put a spoke in Zeke's wheel, if I have to get the captain to write."
It thus may be gathered that the cobbler had much to say to himself when alone, though so taciturn to others.
The clouds along the eastern horizon were stained with red before the reconnoitring party returned. Stokes had managed, by hobbling about, to keep up the fire and to fill the mess-kettle with the inevitable pork and beans. The hungry, weary men therefore gave their new cook a cheer when they saw the good fire and provision awaiting them. A moment later, however, Jarvis observed how lame Stokes had become; he took the cobbler by the shoulder and sat him down in the warmest nook, saying, "I'll be assistant cook until you are better. As Zeke says, I'm a wolf sure enough; but as soon's the beast's hunger is satisfied, I'll rub that leg of yours till you'll want to dance a jig753;" and with the ladle wrung from Stokes's reluctant hand, he began stirring the seething754 contents of the kettle.
Then little Hi Woodbridge piped in his shrill755 voice, "Another cheer for our assistant cook and ditch-digger! I say, Zeke, wouldn't you like to tell Ezra that Zeb has showed himself fit for something more than digging? You expressed your opinion very plain last night, and may have a different one now."
Zeke growld something inaudible, and stalked to his hut in order to put away his equipments.
"I'm cook-in-chief yet," Stokes declared; "and not a bean will any one of you get till you report all that happened."
"Well," piped Hi, "you may stick a feather in your old cap, Ezra, for our Opinquake lad captured a British officer last night, and Old Put is pumping him this blessed minute."
"Well, well, that is news. It must have been Zeke who did that neat job," exclaimed Stokes, ironically; "he's been a-pining for the soldier business."
"No, no; Zeke's above such night scrimmages. He wants to swim the bay and walk right into Boston in broad daylight, so everybody can see him. Come, Zeb, tell how it happened. It was so confounded dark, no one can tell but you."
"There isn't much to tell that you fellows don't know," was Zeb's laconic756 answer. "We had sneaked757 down on the neck so close to the enemy's lines—-"
"Yes, yes, Zeb Jarvis," interrupted Stokes, "that's the kind of sneaking you're up to—close to the enemy's lines. Go on."
"Well, I crawled up so close that I saw a Britisher going the round of the sentinels, and I pounced758 on him and brought him out on the run, that's all."
"Oho! you both ran away, then? That wasn't good soldiering either, was it, Zeke?" commented Stokes, in his dry way.
"It's pretty good soldiering to stand fire within an inch of your nose," resumed Hi, who had become a loyal friend and adherent759 of his tall comrade. "Zeb was so close on the Britisher when he fired his pistol that we saw the faces of both in the flash; and a lot of bullets sung after us, I can sell you, as we dusted out of those diggin's."
"Compliments of General Putnam to Sergeant760 Zebulon Jarvis," said an orderly, riding out of the dim twilight of the morning. "The general requests your presence at headquarters."
"Sergeant! promoted! Another cheer for Zeb!" and the Opinquake boys gave it with hearty goodwill.
"Jerusalem, fellows! I'd like to have a chance at those beans before I go!" but Zeb promptly tramped off with the orderly.
When he returned he was subjected to a fire of questions by the two or three men still awake, but all they could get out of him was that he had been given a good breakfast. From Captain Dean, who was with the general at the time of the examination, it leaked out that Zeb was in the line of promotion to a rank higher than that of sergeant.
The next few days passed uneventfully; and Zeke was compelled to resume the pick and shovel again. Stokes did his best to fulfil his duties, but it had become evident to all that the exposure of camp would soon disable him utterly. Jarvis and Captain Dean persuaded him to go home for the winter, and the little squad raised a sum which enabled him to make the journey in a stage. Zeke, sullen761 toward his jeering762 comrades, but immensely elated in secret, had shaken the dust—snow and slush rather—of camp-life from his feet the day before. He had the grace to wait till the time of his enlistment expired, and that was more than could be said of many.
It spoke well for the little Opinquake quota that only two others besides Zeke availed themselves of their liberty. Poor Stokes was almost forced away, consoled by the hope of returning in the spring. Zeb was sore-hearted on the day of Zeke's departure. His heart was in the Connecticut Valley also. No message had come to him from Susie Rolliffe. Those were not the days of swift and frequent communication. Even Mrs. Jarvis had written but seldom, and her missives were brief. Mother-love glowed through the few quaint404 and scriptural phrases like heat in anthracite coals. All that poor Zeb could learn from them was that Susie Rolliffe had kept her word and had been to the farm more than once; but the girl had been as reticent as the mother. Zeke was now on his way home to prosecute763 his suit in person, and Zeb well knew how forward and plausible764 he could be. There was no deed of daring that he would not promise to perform after spring opened, and Zeb reasoned gloomily that a present lover, impassioned and importunate765, would stand a better chance than an absent one who had never been able to speak for himself.
When it was settled that Stokes should return to Opinquake, Zeb determined that he would not give up the prize to Zeke without one decisive effort; and as he was rubbing the cobbler's leg, he stammered, "I say Ezra, will you do me a turn? 'Twon't be so much, what I ask, except that I'll like you to keep mum about it, and you're a good hand at keeping mum."
"I know what yer driving at, Zeb. Write yer letter and I'll deliver it with my own hands."
"Well, now, I'm satisfied, I can stay on and fight it out with a clear mind. When Zeke marched away last summer, I thought it was all up with me; and I can tell you that any fighting that's to do about Boston will be fun compared with the fighting I did while hoeing corn and mowing766 grass. But I don't believe that Susie Rolliffe is promised to Zeke Watkins, or any one else yet, and I'm going to give her a chance to refuse me plump."
"That's the way to do it, Zeb," said the bachelor cobbler, with an emphasis that would indicate much successful experience. "Asking a girl plump is like standing up in a fair fight. It gives the girl a chance to bowl you over, if that's her mind, so there can't be any mistake about it; and it seems to me the women-folks ought to have all the chances that in any way belong to them. They have got few enough anyhow."
"And you think it'll end in my being bowled over?"
"How should I know, or you either, unless you make a square trial? You're such a strapping767, fighting feller that nothing but a cannon-ball or a woman ever will knock you off your pins."
"See here, Ezra Stokes, the girl of my heart may refuse me just as plump as I offer myself; and if that's her mind she has a right to do it. But I don't want either you or her to think I won't stand on my feet. I won't even fight any more recklessly than my duty requires. I have a mother to take care of, even if I never have a wife."
"I'll put in a few pegs768 right along to keep in mind what you say; and I'll give you a fair show by seeing to it that the girl gets your letter before Zeke can steal a march on you."
"That's all I ask," said Zeb, with compressed lips. "She shall choose between us. It's hard enough to write, but it will be a sight easier than facing her. Not a word of this to another soul, Ezra; but I'm not going to use you like a mail-carrier, but a friend. After all, there are few in Opinquake, I suppose, but know I'd give my eyes for her, so there isn't much use of my putting on secret airs."
"I'm not a talker, and you might have sent your letter by a worse messenger'n me," was the laconic reply.
Zeb had never written a love-letter, and was at a loss how to begin or end it. But time pressed, and he had to say what was uppermost in his mind. It ran as follows:
"I don't know how to write so as to give my words weight. I cannot come home; I will not come as long as mother and the children can get on without me. And men are needed here; men are needed. The general fairly pleads with the soldiers to stay. Stokes would stay if he could. We're almost driving him home. I know you will be kind to him, and remember he has few to care for him. I cannot speak for myself in person very soon, if ever. Perhaps I could not if I stood before you. You laugh at me; but if you knew how I love you and remember you, how I honor and almost worship you in my heart, you might understand me better. Why is it strange I should be afraid of you? Only God has more power over me than you. Will you be my wife? I will do anything to win you that YOU can ask. Others will plead with you in person. Will you let this letter plead for the absent?"
Zeb went to the captain's quarters and got some wax with which to seal this appeal, then saw Stokes depart with the feeling that his destiny was now at stake.
Meanwhile Zeke Watkins, with a squad of homeward-bound soldiers, was trudging769 toward Opinquake. They soon began to look into one another's faces in something like dismay. But little provision was in their wallets when they had started, for there was little to draw upon, and that furnished grudgingly770, as may well be supposed. Zeke had not cared. He remembered the continuous feasting that had attended his journey to camp, and supposed that he would only have to present himself to the roadside farmhouses in order to enjoy the fat of the land. This hospitality he proposed to repay abundantly by camp reminiscences in which it would not be difficult to insinuate771 that the hero of the scene was present.
In contrast to these rose-hued expectations, doors were slammed in their faces, and they were treated little better than tramps. "I suppose the people near Boston have been called on too often and imposed on, too," Zeke reasoned rather ruefully. "When we once get over the Connecticut border we'll begin to find ourselves at home;" and spurred by hunger and cold, as well as hope, they pushed on desperately, subsisting772 on such coarse provisions as they could obtain, sleeping in barns when it stormed, and not infrequently by a fire in the woods. At last they passed the Connecticut border, and led by Zeke they urged their way to a large farmhouse, at which, but a few months before, the table had groaned under rustic dainties, and feather-beds had luxuriously773 received the weary recruits bound to the front. They approached the opulent farm in the dreary dark of the evening, and pursued by a biting east wind laden774 with snow. Not only the weather, but the very dogs seemed to have a spite against them; and the family had to rush out to call them off.
"Weary soldiers ask for shelter," began Zeke.
"Of course you're bound for the lines," said the matronly housewife.
"Come in."
Zeke thought they would better enter at once before explaining; and truly the large kitchen, with a great fire blazing on the hearth, seemed like heaven. The door leading into the family sitting-room was open, and there was another fire, with the red-cheeked girls and the white-haired grandsire before it, their eyes turned expectantly toward the new-comers. Instead of hearty welcome, there was a questioning look on every face, even on that of the kitchen-maid. Zeke's four companions had a sort of hang-dog look—for they had been cowed by the treatment received along the road; but he tried to bear himself confidently, and began with an insinuating775 smile, "Perhaps I should hardly expect you to remember me. I passed this way last summer—-"
"Passed this way last summer?" repeated the matron, her face growing stern. "We who cannot fight are ready and glad to share all we have with those who fight for us. Since you carry arms we might very justly think you are hastening forward to use them."
"These are our own arms; we furnished them ourselves," Zeke hastened to say.
"Oh, indeed," replied the matron, coldly; "I supposed that not only the weapons, but the ones who carry them, belonged to the country. I hope you are not deserting from the army."
"I assure you we are not. Our terms of enlistment have expired."
"And your country's need was over at the same moment? Are you hastening home at this season to plow776 and sow and reap?"
"Well, madam, after being away so long we felt like having a little comfort and seeing the folks. We stayed a long as we agreed. When spring opens, or before, if need be—-"
"Pardon me, sir; the need is now. The country is not to be saved by men who make bargains like day-laborers, and who quit when the hour is up, but by soldiers who give themselves to their country as they would to their wives and sweethearts. My husband and sons are in the army you have deserted. General Washington has written to our governor asking whether an example should not be made of the men who have deserted the cause of their country at this critical time when the enemy are receiving re-enforcements. We are told that Connecticut men have brought disgrace on our colony and have imperilled the whole army. You feel like taking comfort and seeing the folks. The folks do not feel like seeing you. My husband and the brave men in the lines are in all the more danger because of your desertion, for a soldier's time never expires when the enemy is growing stronger and threatening every home in the land. If all followed your example, the British would soon be upon your heels, taking from us our honor and our all. We are not ignorant of the critical condition of our army; and I can tell you, sir, that if many more of our men come home, the women will take their places."
Zeke's companions succumbed777 to the stern arraignment778, and after a brief whispered consultation779 one spoke for the rest. "Madam," he said, "you put it in a way that we hadn't realized before. We'll right-about-face and march back in the morning, for we feel that we'd rather face all the British in Boston than any more Connecticut women."
"Then, sirs, you shall have supper and shelter and welcome," was the prompt reply.
Zeke assumed an air of importance as he said: "There are reasons why I must be at home for a time, but I not only expect to return, but also to take many back with me."
"I trust your deeds may prove as large as your words," was the chilly reply; and then he was made to feel that he was barely tolerated. Some hints from his old associates added to the disfavor which the family took but little pains to conceal. There was a large vein550 of selfish calculation in Zeke's nature, and he was not to be swept away by any impulses. He believed he could have a prolonged visit home, yet manage so admirably that when he returned he would be followed by a squad of recruits, and chief of all he would be the triumphant780 suitor of Susie Rolliffe. Her manner in parting had satisfied him that he had made go deep an impression that it would be folly781 not to follow it up. He trudged the remainder of the journey alone, and secured tolerable treatment by assuring the people that he was returning for recruits for the army. He reached home in the afternoon of Christmas; and although the day was almost completely ignored in the Puritan household, yet Mrs. Watkins forgot country, Popery, and all, in her mother love, and Zeke supped on the finest turkey of the flock. Old Mr. Watkins, it is true, looked rather grim, but the reception had been reassuring in the main; and Zeke had resolved on a line of tactics which would make him, as he believed, the military hero of the town. After he had satisfied an appetite which had been growing ever since he left camp, he started to call on Susie in all the bravery of his best attire782, filled with sanguine783 expectations inspired by memories of the past and recent potations of cider.
Meanwhile Susie had received a guest earlier in the day. The stage had stopped at the gate where she had stood in the September sunshine and waved her bewildered farewell to Zeb. There was no bewilderment or surprise now at her strange and unwonted sensations. She had learned why she had stood looking after him dazed and spellbound. Under the magic of her own light irony she had seen her drooping784 rustic lover transformed into the ideal man who could face anything except her unkindness. She had guessed the deep secret of his timidity. It was a kind of fear of which she had not dreamed, and which touched her innermost soul.
When the stage stopped at the gate, and she saw the driver helping out Ezra Stokes, a swift presentiment made her sure that she would hear from one soldier who was more to her than all the generals. She was soon down the walk, the wind sporting in her light-gold hair, supporting the cobbler on the other side.
"Ah, Miss Susie!" he said, "I am about worn out, sole and upper. It breaks my heart, when men are so sorely needed, to be thrown aside like an old shoe."
The girl soothed785 and comforted him, ensconced him by the fireside, banishing786 the chill from his heart, while Mrs. Rolliffe warmed his blood by a strong, hot drink. Then the mother hastened away to get dinner, while Susie sat down near, nervously twisting and untwisting her fingers, with questions on her lips which she dared not utter, but which brought blushes to her cheeks. Stokes looked at her and sighed over his lost youth, yet smiled as he thought: "Guess I'll get even with that Zeb Jarvis to-day." Then he asked, "Isn't there any one you would like to hear about in camp?"
She blushed deeper still, and named every one who had gone from
Opinquake except Zeb. At last she said a little ironically: "I suppose
Ezekiel Watkins is almost thinking about being a general about this
time?"
"Hasn't he been here telling you what he is thinking about?"
"Been here! Do you mean to say he has come home?"
"He surely started for home. All the generals and a yoke787 of oxen couldn't 'a' kept him in camp, he was so homesick—lovesick too, I guess. Powerful compliment to you, Miss Susie," added the politic788 cobbler, feeling his way, "that you could draw a man straight from his duty like one of these 'ere stump-extractors."
"No compliment to me at all!" cried the girl, indignantly. "He little understands me who seeks my favor by coming home at a time like this. The Connecticut women are up in arms at the way our men are coming home. No offence to you, Mr. Stokes. You're sick, and should come; but I'd like to go myself to show some of the strong young fellows what we think of them."
"Coming home was worse than rheumatism to me, and I'm going back soon's
I kin walk without a cane185. Wouldn't 'a' come as 'tis, if that Zeb
Jarvis hadn't jes' packed me off. By Jocks! I thought you and he was
acquainted, but you don't seem to ask arter him."
"I felt sure he would try—I heard he was doing his duty," she replied with averted face.
"Zeke Watkins says he's no soldier at all—nothing but a dirt-digger."
For a moment, as the cobbler had hoped, Susie forgot her blushes and secret in her indignation. "Zeke Watkins indeed!" she exclaimed. "He'd better not tell ME any such story. I don't believe there's a braver, truer man in the—Well," she added in sudden confusion, "he hasn't run away and left others to dig their way into Boston, if that's the best way of getting there."
"Ah, I'm going to get even with him yet," chuckled Stokes to himself. "Digging is only the first step, Miss Susie. When Old Put gets good and ready, you'll hear the thunder of the guns a'most in Opinquake."
"Well, Mr. Stokes," stammered Susie, resolving desperately on a short cut to the knowledge she craved, "you've seen Mr. Jarvis a-soldiering. What do you think about it?"
"Well, now, that Zeb Jarvis is the sneakin'ist fellow—-"
"What?" cried the girl, her face aflame.
"Wait till I get in a few more pegs," continued Stokes, coolly. "The other night he sneaked right into the enemy's lines and carried off a British officer as a hawk789 takes a chicken. The Britisher fired his pistol right under Zeb's nose; but, law! he didn't mind that any more'n a 'sketer-bite. I call that soldiering, don't you? Anyhow, Old Put thought it was, and sent for him 'fore6 daylight, and made a sergeant of him. If I had as good a chance of gettin' rid of the rheumatiz as he has of bein' captain in six months, I'd thank the Lord."
Susie sat up very straight, and tried to look severely790 judicial; but her lip was quivering and her whole plump little form trembling with excitement and emotion. Suddenly she dropped her face in her hands and cried in a gust of tears and laughter: "He's just like grandfather; he'd face anything!"
"Anything in the 'tarnal universe, I guess, 'cept you, Miss Susie. I seed a cannon-ball smash a shovel in his hands, and he got another, and went on with his work cool as a cucumber. Then I seed him writin' a letter to you, and his hand trembled—-"
"A letter to me!" cried the girl, springing up.
"Yes; 'ere it is. I was kind of pegging791 around till I got to that; and you know—-"
But Susie was reading, her hands trembling so she could scarcely hold the paper. "It's about you," she faltered, making one more desperate effort at self-preservation. "He says you'd stay if you could; that they almost drove you home. And he asks that I be kind to you, because there are not many to care for you—and—and—-"
"Oh, Lord! never can get even with that Zeb Jarvis," groaned Ezra. "But you needn't tell me that's all the letter's about."
Her eyes were full of tears, yet not so full but that she saw the plain, closing words in all their significance. Swiftly the letter went to her lips, then was thrust into her bosom, and she seized the cobbler's hand, exclaiming: "Yes, I will! I will! You shall stay with us, and be one of us!" and in her excitement she put her left hand caressingly792 on his shoulder.
"SUSAN!" exclaimed Mr. Rolliffe, who entered at that moment, and looked aghast at the scene.
"Yes, I WILL!" exclaimed Susie, too wrought up now for restraint.
"Will what?" gasped the mother.
"Be Zebulon Jarvis's wife. He's asked me plump and square like a soldier; and I'll answer as grandma did, and like grandma I'll face anything for his sake."
"WELL, this IS suddent!" exclaimed Mrs. Rolliffe, dropping into a chair. "Susan, do you think it is becoming and seemly for a young woman—-"
"Oh, mother dear, there's no use of your trying to make a prim152 Puritan maiden of me. Zeb doesn't fight like a deacon, and I can't love like one. Ha! ha! ha! to think that great soldier is afraid of little me, and nothing else! It's too funny and heavenly—-"
"Susan, I am dumfounded at your behavior!"
At this moment Mr. Rolliffe came in from the wood-lot, and he was dazed by the wonderful news also. In his eagerness to get even with Zeb, the cobbler enlarged and expatiated793 till he was hoarse. When he saw that the parents were almost as proud as the daughter over their prospective794 son-in-law, he relapsed into his old taciturnity, declaring he had talked enough for a month.
Susie, the only child, who apparently had inherited all the fire and spirit of her fighting ancestors, darted out, and soon returned with her rosebud795 of a face enveloped796 in a great calyx of a woollen hood.
"Where are you going?" exclaimed her parents.
"You've had the news. I guess Mother Jarvis has the next right." And she was off over the hills with almost the lightness and swiftness of a snowbird.
In due time Zeke appeared, and smiled encouragingly on Mrs. Rolliffe, who sat knitting by the kitchen fire. The matron did not rise, and gave him but a cool salutation. He discussed the coldness of the weather awkwardly for a few moments, and then ventured: "Is Miss Susan at home?"
"No, sir," replied Mrs. Rolliffe; "she's gone to make a visit to her mother-in-law that is to be, the Widow Jarvis. Ezra Stokes is sittin' in the next room, sent home sick. Perhaps you'd like to talk over camp-life with him."
Not even the cider now sustained Zeke. He looked as if a cannon-ball had wrecked797 all his hopes and plans instead of a shovel. "Good-evening, Mrs. Rolliffe," he stammered; "I guess I'll—I'll—go home."
Poor Mrs. Jarvis had a spiritual conflict that day which she never forgot. Susie's face had flashed at the window near which she had sat spinning, and sighing perhaps that Nature had not provided feathers or fur for a brood like hers; then the girl's arms were about her neck, the news was stammered out—for the letter could never be shown to any one—in a way that tore primness798 to tatters. The widow tried to act as if it were a dispensation of Providence which should be received in solemn gratitude; but before she knew it she was laughing and crying, kissing her sweet-faced daughter, or telling how good and brave Zeb had been when his heart was almost breaking.
Compunction had already seized upon the widow. "Susan," she began, "I fear we are not mortifyin' the flesh as we ought—-"
"No mortifying just yet, if you please," cried Susie. "The most important thing of all is yet to be done. Zeb hasn't heard the news; just think of it! You must write and tell him that I'll help you spin the children's clothes and work the farm; that we'll face everything in Opinquake as long as Old Put needs men. Where is the ink-horn? I'll sharpen a pen for you and one for me, and SUCH news as he'll get! Wish I could tell him, though, and see the great fellow tremble once more. Afraid of me! Ha! ha! ha! that's the funniest thing—Why, Mother Jarvis, this is Christmas Day!"
"So it is," said the widow, in an awed625 tone. "Susie, my heart misgives799 me that all this should have happened on a day of which Popery has made so much."
"No, no," cried the girl. "Thank God it IS Christmas! and hereafter I shall keep Christmas as long as love is love and God is good."
点击收听单词发音
1 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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2 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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3 parlor | |
n.店铺,营业室;会客室,客厅 | |
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4 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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5 strenuously | |
adv.奋发地,费力地 | |
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6 fore | |
adv.在前面;adj.先前的;在前部的;n.前部 | |
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7 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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8 appreciative | |
adj.有鉴赏力的,有眼力的;感激的 | |
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9 commiseration | |
n.怜悯,同情 | |
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10 falter | |
vi.(嗓音)颤抖,结巴地说;犹豫;蹒跚 | |
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11 peal | |
n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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12 blighted | |
adj.枯萎的,摧毁的 | |
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13 wrung | |
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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14 prudently | |
adv. 谨慎地,慎重地 | |
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15 reassured | |
adj.使消除疑虑的;使放心的v.再保证,恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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16 reassure | |
v.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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17 gee | |
n.马;int.向右!前进!,惊讶时所发声音;v.向右转 | |
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18 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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19 sobbed | |
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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20 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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21 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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22 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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23 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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24 brace | |
n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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25 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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26 sluggishness | |
不振,萧条,呆滞;惰性;滞性;惯性 | |
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27 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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28 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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29 rations | |
定量( ration的名词复数 ); 配给量; 正常量; 合理的量 | |
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30 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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31 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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32 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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33 prosaic | |
adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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34 pros | |
abbr.prosecuting 起诉;prosecutor 起诉人;professionals 自由职业者;proscenium (舞台)前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 );赞成的理由;抵偿物;交换物 | |
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35 physiologists | |
n.生理学者( physiologist的名词复数 );生理学( physiology的名词复数 );生理机能 | |
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36 tonic | |
n./adj.滋补品,补药,强身的,健体的 | |
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37 tonics | |
n.滋补品( tonic的名词复数 );主音;奎宁水;浊音 | |
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38 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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39 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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40 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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41 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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42 loathing | |
n.厌恶,憎恨v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的现在分词);极不喜欢 | |
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43 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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44 rib | |
n.肋骨,肋状物 | |
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45 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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46 degradation | |
n.降级;低落;退化;陵削;降解;衰变 | |
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47 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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48 plight | |
n.困境,境况,誓约,艰难;vt.宣誓,保证,约定 | |
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49 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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50 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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51 scouted | |
寻找,侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 ); 物色(优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等) | |
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52 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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53 tainted | |
adj.腐坏的;污染的;沾污的;感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 );使污染;败坏;被污染,腐坏,败坏 | |
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54 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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55 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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56 stupor | |
v.昏迷;不省人事 | |
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57 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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58 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59 contagion | |
n.(通过接触的疾病)传染;蔓延 | |
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60 sip | |
v.小口地喝,抿,呷;n.一小口的量 | |
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61 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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62 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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63 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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64 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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65 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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66 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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67 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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68 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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69 potent | |
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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70 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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71 prophesied | |
v.预告,预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72 regained | |
复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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73 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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74 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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75 depleted | |
adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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76 impoverishment | |
n.贫穷,穷困;贫化 | |
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77 cerebral | |
adj.脑的,大脑的;有智力的,理智型的 | |
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78 obstruction | |
n.阻塞,堵塞;障碍物 | |
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79 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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80 contentedly | |
adv.心满意足地 | |
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81 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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82 farmhouse | |
n.农场住宅(尤指主要住房) | |
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83 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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84 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
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85 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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86 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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87 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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88 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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89 furtively | |
adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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90 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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91 nags | |
n.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的名词复数 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的第三人称单数 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责 | |
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92 reins | |
感情,激情; 缰( rein的名词复数 ); 控制手段; 掌管; (成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的)保护带 | |
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93 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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94 boughs | |
大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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95 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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96 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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97 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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98 disconsolate | |
adj.忧郁的,不快的 | |
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99 disconsolately | |
adv.悲伤地,愁闷地;哭丧着脸 | |
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100 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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101 lame | |
adj.跛的,(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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102 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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103 bleakness | |
adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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104 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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105 meditatively | |
adv.冥想地 | |
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106 testily | |
adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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107 axe | |
n.斧子;v.用斧头砍,削减 | |
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108 genially | |
adv.亲切地,和蔼地;快活地 | |
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109 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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110 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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111 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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112 dubiously | |
adv.可疑地,怀疑地 | |
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113 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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114 hemlock | |
n.毒胡萝卜,铁杉 | |
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115 maple | |
n.槭树,枫树,槭木 | |
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116 maples | |
槭树,枫树( maple的名词复数 ); 槭木 | |
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117 evergreens | |
n.常青树,常绿植物,万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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118 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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119 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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120 rites | |
仪式,典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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121 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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122 pry | |
vi.窥(刺)探,打听;vt.撬动(开,起) | |
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123 lark | |
n.云雀,百灵鸟;n.嬉戏,玩笑;vi.嬉戏 | |
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124 dispense | |
vt.分配,分发;配(药),发(药);实施 | |
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125 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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126 romp | |
n.欢闹;v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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127 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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128 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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129 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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130 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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131 outgrown | |
长[发展] 得超过(某物)的范围( outgrow的过去分词 ); 长[发展]得不能再要(某物); 长得比…快; 生长速度超过 | |
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132 thrifty | |
adj.节俭的;兴旺的;健壮的 | |
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133 remonstrate | |
v.抗议,规劝 | |
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134 goodwill | |
n.善意,亲善,信誉,声誉 | |
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135 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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136 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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137 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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138 giggle | |
n.痴笑,咯咯地笑;v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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139 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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140 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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141 overalls | |
n.(复)工装裤;长罩衣 | |
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142 frisky | |
adj.活泼的,欢闹的;n.活泼,闹着玩;adv.活泼地,闹着玩地 | |
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143 blistered | |
adj.水疮状的,泡状的v.(使)起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 );(使表皮等)涨破,爆裂 | |
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144 yearn | |
v.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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145 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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146 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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147 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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148 dire | |
adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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149 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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150 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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151 portentous | |
adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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152 prim | |
adj.拘泥形式的,一本正经的;n.循规蹈矩,整洁;adv.循规蹈矩地,整洁地 | |
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153 vicissitude | |
n.变化,变迁,荣枯,盛衰 | |
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154 presentiments | |
n.(对不祥事物的)预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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155 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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156 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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157 inflexibly | |
adv.不屈曲地,不屈地 | |
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158 sipped | |
v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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160 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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161 gust | |
n.阵风,突然一阵(雨、烟等),(感情的)迸发 | |
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162 fragrant | |
adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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163 beverage | |
n.(水,酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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164 mused | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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165 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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166 shams | |
假象( sham的名词复数 ); 假货; 虚假的行为(或感情、言语等); 假装…的人 | |
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167 guise | |
n.外表,伪装的姿态 | |
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168 amplitude | |
n.广大;充足;振幅 | |
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169 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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171 stylish | |
adj.流行的,时髦的;漂亮的,气派的 | |
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172 cuffs | |
n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打,拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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173 nether | |
adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
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174 hilarity | |
n.欢乐;热闹 | |
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175 frivolity | |
n.轻松的乐事,兴高采烈;轻浮的举止 | |
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176 shovel | |
n.铁锨,铲子,一铲之量;v.铲,铲出 | |
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177 guffaw | |
n.哄笑;突然的大笑 | |
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178 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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179 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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180 Vogue | |
n.时髦,时尚;adj.流行的 | |
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181 athletic | |
adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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182 mischievously | |
adv.有害地;淘气地 | |
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183 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
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184 chuckled | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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186 canes | |
n.(某些植物,如竹或甘蔗的)茎( cane的名词复数 );(用于制作家具等的)竹竿;竹杖 | |
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187 fowl | |
n.家禽,鸡,禽肉 | |
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188 grasshoppers | |
n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 );蝗虫;蚂蚱;(孩子)矮小的 | |
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189 tranquilly | |
adv. 宁静地 | |
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190 vim | |
n.精力,活力 | |
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191 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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192 shovels | |
n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 );锹;推土机、挖土机等的)铲;铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 );锹;推土机、挖土机等的)铲;铲形部份 | |
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193 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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194 defensive | |
adj.防御的;防卫的;防守的 | |
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195 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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196 beckon | |
v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意,召唤 | |
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197 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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198 belongings | |
n.私人物品,私人财物 | |
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199 farmhouses | |
n.农舍,农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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200 athletics | |
n.运动,体育,田径运动 | |
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201 chilly | |
adj.凉快的,寒冷的 | |
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202 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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203 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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204 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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205 ravenous | |
adj.极饿的,贪婪的 | |
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206 scruples | |
n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 );顾虑,顾忌v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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207 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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208 throbs | |
体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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209 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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210 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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211 elusive | |
adj.难以表达(捉摸)的;令人困惑的;逃避的 | |
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212 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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213 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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214 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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215 rambles | |
(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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216 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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217 vigor | |
n.活力,精力,元气 | |
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218 supple | |
adj.柔软的,易弯的,逢迎的,顺从的,灵活的;vt.使柔软,使柔顺,使顺从;vi.变柔软,变柔顺 | |
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219 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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220 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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221 labored | |
adj.吃力的,谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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222 moody | |
adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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223 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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224 hemlocks | |
由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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225 aromatic | |
adj.芳香的,有香味的 | |
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226 robins | |
n.知更鸟,鸫( robin的名词复数 );(签名者不分先后,以避免受责的)圆形签名抗议书(或请愿书) | |
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227 embroider | |
v.刺绣于(布)上;给…添枝加叶,润饰 | |
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228 proclivities | |
n.倾向,癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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229 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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230 vigilant | |
adj.警觉的,警戒的,警惕的 | |
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231 philosophically | |
adv.哲学上;富有哲理性地;贤明地;冷静地 | |
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232 metaphors | |
隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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233 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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234 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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235 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236 incongruity | |
n.不协调,不一致 | |
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237 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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238 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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239 mortifying | |
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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240 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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241 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
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242 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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243 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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244 splendor | |
n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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245 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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246 oblivious | |
adj.易忘的,遗忘的,忘却的,健忘的 | |
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247 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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248 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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249 complacent | |
adj.自满的;自鸣得意的 | |
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250 blisters | |
n.水疱( blister的名词复数 );水肿;气泡 | |
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251 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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252 snipped | |
v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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253 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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254 shears | |
n.大剪刀 | |
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255 budge | |
v.移动一点儿;改变立场 | |
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256 tremor | |
n.震动,颤动,战栗,兴奋,地震 | |
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257 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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258 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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259 hues | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
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260 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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261 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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262 severed | |
v.切断,断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 );断,裂 | |
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263 faltered | |
(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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264 stipulate | |
vt.规定,(作为条件)讲定,保证 | |
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265 demurely | |
adv.装成端庄地,认真地 | |
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266 demure | |
adj.严肃的;端庄的 | |
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267 wringing | |
淋湿的,湿透的 | |
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268 wring | |
n.扭绞;v.拧,绞出,扭 | |
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269 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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270 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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271 trite | |
adj.陈腐的 | |
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272 thump | |
v.重击,砰然地响;n.重击,重击声 | |
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273 vindictive | |
adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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274 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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275 mirage | |
n.海市蜃楼,幻景 | |
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276 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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277 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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278 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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279 intonations | |
n.语调,说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 );(演奏或唱歌中的)音准 | |
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280 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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281 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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282 wary | |
adj.谨慎的,机警的,小心的 | |
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283 disarmed | |
v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 );使息怒 | |
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284 guile | |
n.诈术 | |
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285 zest | |
n.乐趣;滋味,风味;兴趣 | |
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286 musingly | |
adv.沉思地,冥想地 | |
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287 ignominiously | |
adv.耻辱地,屈辱地,丢脸地 | |
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288 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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289 avenge | |
v.为...复仇,为...报仇 | |
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290 rudiments | |
n.基础知识,入门 | |
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291 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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292 remorseful | |
adj.悔恨的 | |
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293 relentless | |
adj.残酷的,不留情的,无怜悯心的 | |
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294 lurking | |
潜在 | |
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295 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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296 piazza | |
n.广场;走廊 | |
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297 discomfiture | |
n.崩溃;大败;挫败;困惑 | |
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298 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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299 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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300 awakened | |
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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301 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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302 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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303 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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304 wiles | |
n.(旨在欺骗或吸引人的)诡计,花招;欺骗,欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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305 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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306 nettled | |
v.拿荨麻打,拿荨麻刺(nettle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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307 equanimity | |
n.沉着,镇定 | |
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308 vexes | |
v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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309 assail | |
v.猛烈攻击,抨击,痛斥 | |
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310 covert | |
adj.隐藏的;暗地里的 | |
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311 disapproval | |
n.反对,不赞成 | |
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312 publicity | |
n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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313 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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314 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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315 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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316 humbling | |
adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 );轻松打败(尤指强大的对手);低声下气 | |
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317 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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318 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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319 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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320 predecessors | |
n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 );前辈;(被取代的)原有事物;前身 | |
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321 wrecks | |
n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 );(事故中)遭严重毁坏的汽车(或飞机等);(身体或精神上)受到严重损伤的人;状况非常糟糕的车辆(或建筑物等)v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 );使(船舶)失事,使遇难,使下沉 | |
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322 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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323 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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324 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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325 finesse | |
n.精密技巧,灵巧,手腕 | |
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326 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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327 mettle | |
n.勇气,精神 | |
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328 exultantly | |
adv.狂欢地,欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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329 satire | |
n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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330 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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331 abounded | |
v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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332 anticipations | |
预期( anticipation的名词复数 ); 预测; (信托财产收益的)预支; 预期的事物 | |
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333 accomplishment | |
n.完成,成就,(pl.)造诣,技能 | |
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334 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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335 dart | |
v.猛冲,投掷;n.飞镖,猛冲 | |
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336 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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337 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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338 crested | |
adj.有顶饰的,有纹章的,有冠毛的v.到达山顶(或浪峰)( crest的过去式和过去分词 );到达洪峰,达到顶点 | |
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339 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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340 gasped | |
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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341 tractable | |
adj.易驾驭的;温顺的 | |
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342 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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343 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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344 suffocated | |
(使某人)窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 ); (将某人)闷死; 让人感觉闷热; 憋气 | |
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345 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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346 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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347 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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348 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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349 surmise | |
v./n.猜想,推测 | |
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350 surmises | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的第三人称单数 );揣测;猜想 | |
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351 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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352 incense | |
v.激怒;n.香,焚香时的烟,香气 | |
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353 incensed | |
盛怒的 | |
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354 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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355 inclinations | |
倾向( inclination的名词复数 ); 倾斜; 爱好; 斜坡 | |
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356 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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357 conducive | |
adj.有益的,有助的 | |
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358 well-being | |
n.安康,安乐,幸福 | |
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359 trampled | |
踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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360 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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361 darted | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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362 preyed | |
v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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363 blessings | |
n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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364 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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365 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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366 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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367 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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368 subdued | |
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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369 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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370 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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371 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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372 steadfastly | |
adv.踏实地,不变地;岿然;坚定不渝 | |
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373 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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374 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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375 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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376 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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377 humbled | |
adj. 卑下的,谦逊的,粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下,贬低 | |
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378 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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379 beguile | |
vt.欺骗,消遣 | |
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380 beguiling | |
adj.欺骗的,诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 );使陶醉;使高兴;消磨(时间等) | |
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381 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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382 scowling | |
怒视,生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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383 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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384 avenged | |
v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 );为…报复 | |
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385 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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386 amends | |
n. 赔偿 | |
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387 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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388 torrents | |
n.倾注;奔流( torrent的名词复数 );急流;爆发;连续不断 | |
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389 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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390 abated | |
减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
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391 uproar | |
n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
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392 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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393 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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394 stolidly | |
adv.迟钝地,神经麻木地 | |
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395 shun | |
vt.避开,回避,避免 | |
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396 shuns | |
v.避开,回避,避免( shun的第三人称单数 ) | |
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397 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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398 exuberance | |
n.丰富;繁荣 | |
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399 ebbed | |
(指潮水)退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 ); 落; 减少; 衰落 | |
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400 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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401 betokened | |
v.预示,表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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402 surmised | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 );揣测;猜想 | |
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403 shunned | |
v.避开,回避,避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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404 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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405 sedulously | |
ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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406 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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407 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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408 retaliation | |
n.报复,反击 | |
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409 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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410 deception | |
n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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411 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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412 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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413 overture | |
n.前奏曲、序曲,提议,提案,初步交涉 | |
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414 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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415 craved | |
渴望,热望( crave的过去式 ); 恳求,请求 | |
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416 inflexible | |
adj.不可改变的,不受影响的,不屈服的 | |
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417 obduracy | |
n.冷酷无情,顽固,执拗 | |
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418 jutted | |
v.(使)突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 );伸出;(从…)突出;高出 | |
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419 resolutely | |
adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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420 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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421 absolved | |
宣告…无罪,赦免…的罪行,宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 ); 不受责难,免除责任 [义务] ,开脱(罪责) | |
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422 reticence | |
n.沉默,含蓄 | |
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423 unnaturally | |
adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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424 avenging | |
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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425 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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426 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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427 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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428 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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429 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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430 expiate | |
v.抵补,赎罪 | |
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431 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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432 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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433 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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434 assuage | |
v.缓和,减轻,镇定 | |
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435 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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436 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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437 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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438 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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439 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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440 enraged | |
使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 ); 歜; 激愤 | |
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441 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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442 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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443 astounded | |
v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词);愕然;愕;惊讶 | |
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444 hostility | |
n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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445 candor | |
n.坦白,率真 | |
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446 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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447 inflicting | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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448 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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449 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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450 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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451 piquant | |
adj.辛辣的,开胃的,令人兴奋的 | |
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452 fickle | |
adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的,不坚定的 | |
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453 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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454 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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455 amenable | |
adj.经得起检验的;顺从的;对负有义务的 | |
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456 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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457 honeymoon | |
n.蜜月(假期);vi.度蜜月 | |
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458 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
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459 impartially | |
adv.公平地,无私地 | |
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460 diligent | |
adj.勤勉的,勤奋的 | |
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461 prevailing | |
adj.盛行的;占优势的;主要的 | |
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462 diversified | |
adj.多样化的,多种经营的v.使多样化,多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 );进入新的商业领域 | |
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463 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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464 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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465 heyday | |
n.全盛时期,青春期 | |
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466 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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467 copper | |
n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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468 conceited | |
adj.自负的,骄傲自满的 | |
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469 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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470 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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471 baron | |
n.男爵;(商业界等)巨头,大王 | |
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472 overtures | |
n.主动的表示,提议;(向某人做出的)友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 );(歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的)序曲,前奏曲 | |
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473 slings | |
抛( sling的第三人称单数 ); 吊挂; 遣送; 押往 | |
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474 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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475 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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476 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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477 judicial | |
adj.司法的,法庭的,审判的,明断的,公正的 | |
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478 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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479 impartiality | |
n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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480 versed | |
adj. 精通,熟练 | |
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481 auspices | |
n.资助,赞助 | |
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482 toll | |
n.过路(桥)费;损失,伤亡人数;v.敲(钟) | |
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483 piquancy | |
n.辛辣,辣味,痛快 | |
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484 silhouetted | |
显出轮廓的,显示影像的 | |
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485 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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486 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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487 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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488 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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489 metaphorically | |
adv. 用比喻地 | |
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490 query | |
n.疑问,问号,质问;vt.询问,表示怀疑 | |
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491 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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492 potentates | |
n.君主,统治者( potentate的名词复数 );有权势的人 | |
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493 abdicated | |
放弃(职责、权力等)( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 ); 退位,逊位 | |
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494 snugly | |
adv.紧贴地;贴身地;暖和舒适地;安适地 | |
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495 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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496 thaw | |
v.(使)融化,(使)变得友善;n.融化,缓和 | |
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497 inviting | |
adj.诱人的,引人注目的 | |
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498 incentive | |
n.刺激;动力;鼓励;诱因;动机 | |
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|
499 affinity | |
n.亲和力,密切关系 | |
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500 eminently | |
adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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|
501 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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502 silhouettes | |
轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 ); (人的)体形; (事物的)形状; 剪影 | |
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503 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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504 cogitated | |
v.认真思考,深思熟虑( cogitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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505 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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506 highland | |
n.(pl.)高地,山地 | |
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507 hysterically | |
ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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508 overflowed | |
溢出的 | |
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|
509 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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510 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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511 exulting | |
vi. 欢欣鼓舞,狂喜 | |
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512 crunching | |
v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 );嘎吱作响;(快速大量地)处理信息;数字捣弄 | |
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513 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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514 shrieks | |
n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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515 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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516 retrieve | |
vt.重新得到,收回;挽回,补救;检索 | |
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517 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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518 scapegoats | |
n.代人受过的人,替罪羊( scapegoat的名词复数 )v.使成为替罪羊( scapegoat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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519 humiliated | |
感到羞愧的 | |
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520 concealing | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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521 congealed | |
v.使凝结,冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 );(指血)凝结 | |
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522 bustled | |
闹哄哄地忙乱,奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 ); 催促 | |
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523 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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524 friendliness | |
n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
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|
525 thawing | |
n.熔化,融化v.(气候)解冻( thaw的现在分词 );(态度、感情等)缓和;(冰、雪及冷冻食物)溶化;软化 | |
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|
526 prefix | |
n.前缀;vt.加…作为前缀;置于前面 | |
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|
527 outright | |
adv.坦率地;彻底地;立即;adj.无疑的;彻底的 | |
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528 lawsuits | |
n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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|
529 jargon | |
n.术语,行话 | |
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|
530 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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|
531 waded | |
(从水、泥等)蹚,走过,跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
532 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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533 exhaled | |
v.呼出,发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 );吐出(肺中的空气、烟等),呼气 | |
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534 limbo | |
n.地狱的边缘;监狱 | |
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|
535 paragon | |
n.模范,典型 | |
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|
536 queried | |
v.质疑,对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 );询问 | |
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|
537 displeasing | |
不愉快的,令人发火的 | |
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|
538 maliciously | |
adv.有敌意地 | |
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|
539 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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|
540 toiled | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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541 judiciously | |
adv.明断地,明智而审慎地 | |
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542 incorrigible | |
adj.难以纠正的,屡教不改的 | |
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|
543 persistence | |
n.坚持,持续,存留 | |
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544 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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|
545 sleet | |
n.雨雪;v.下雨雪,下冰雹 | |
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|
546 drooped | |
弯曲或下垂,发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
547 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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|
548 trepidation | |
n.惊恐,惶恐 | |
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|
549 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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|
550 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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|
551 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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552 absurdity | |
n.荒谬,愚蠢;谬论 | |
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553 jeer | |
vi.嘲弄,揶揄;vt.奚落;n.嘲笑,讥评 | |
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|
554 incompatibility | |
n.不兼容 | |
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555 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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556 merging | |
合并(分类) | |
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|
557 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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|
558 slumberous | |
a.昏昏欲睡的 | |
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559 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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560 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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561 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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562 icebergs | |
n.冰山,流冰( iceberg的名词复数 ) | |
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|
563 boisterous | |
adj.喧闹的,欢闹的 | |
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564 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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565 infancy | |
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
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566 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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567 hardiness | |
n.耐劳性,强壮;勇气,胆子 | |
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568 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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569 wilfulness | |
任性;倔强 | |
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570 misgivings | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕;疑虑,担心,恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 );疑惧 | |
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571 chatter | |
vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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572 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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573 expectancy | |
n.期望,预期,(根据概率统计求得)预期数额 | |
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|
574 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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575 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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576 ascending | |
adj.上升的,向上的 | |
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577 precipitated | |
v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
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578 recoiled | |
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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579 dilating | |
v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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580 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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581 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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582 stammer | |
n.结巴,口吃;v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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583 savory | |
adj.风味极佳的,可口的,味香的 | |
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|
584 devour | |
v.吞没;贪婪地注视或谛听,贪读;使着迷 | |
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585 devoured | |
吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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586 devoutly | |
adv.虔诚地,虔敬地,衷心地 | |
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587 frolicsome | |
adj.嬉戏的,闹着玩的 | |
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588 egress | |
n.出去;出口 | |
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|
589 churl | |
n.吝啬之人;粗鄙之人 | |
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|
590 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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591 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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592 larder | |
n.食物贮藏室,食品橱 | |
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593 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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594 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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|
595 vapors | |
n.水汽,水蒸气,无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 );自夸者;幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁(症)v.自夸,(使)蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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596 etiquette | |
n.礼仪,礼节;规矩 | |
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597 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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|
598 doctrine | |
n.教义;主义;学说 | |
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|
599 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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|
600 soothingly | |
adv.抚慰地,安慰地;镇痛地 | |
参考例句: |
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|
601 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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|
602 intimacies | |
亲密( intimacy的名词复数 ); 密切; 亲昵的言行; 性行为 | |
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|
603 premiums | |
n.费用( premium的名词复数 );保险费;额外费用;(商品定价、贷款利息等以外的)加价 | |
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604 surfeited | |
v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 );由于过量而厌腻 | |
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605 repented | |
对(自己的所为)感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
606 badinage | |
n.开玩笑,打趣 | |
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607 obnoxious | |
adj.极恼人的,讨人厌的,可憎的 | |
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|
608 quenched | |
解(渴)( quench的过去式和过去分词 ); 终止(某事物); (用水)扑灭(火焰等); 将(热物体)放入水中急速冷却 | |
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|
609 abashed | |
adj.窘迫的,尴尬的v.使羞愧,使局促,使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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610 exulted | |
狂喜,欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
611 crimsoned | |
变为深红色(crimson的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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|
612 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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613 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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|
614 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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615 trespass | |
n./v.侵犯,闯入私人领地 | |
参考例句: |
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|
616 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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617 annoyances | |
n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 );烦恼;打扰;使人烦恼的事 | |
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618 tingle | |
vi.感到刺痛,感到激动;n.刺痛,激动 | |
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619 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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620 paralysis | |
n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
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621 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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622 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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623 gallantly | |
adv. 漂亮地,勇敢地,献殷勤地 | |
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624 thawed | |
解冻 | |
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625 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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626 beguiled | |
v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 );使陶醉;使高兴;消磨(时间等) | |
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627 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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628 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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629 bluff | |
v.虚张声势,用假象骗人;n.虚张声势,欺骗 | |
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630 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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631 gorge | |
n.咽喉,胃,暴食,山峡;v.塞饱,狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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632 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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633 remonstrated | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 );告诫 | |
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634 coveted | |
adj.令人垂涎的;垂涎的,梦寐以求的v.贪求,觊觎(covet的过去分词);垂涎;贪图 | |
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635 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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636 pumpkin | |
n.南瓜 | |
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637 memento | |
n.纪念品,令人回忆的东西 | |
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638 brawling | |
n.争吵,喧嚷 | |
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639 deafening | |
adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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640 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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641 thickets | |
n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 );丛状物 | |
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642 impetus | |
n.推动,促进,刺激;推动力 | |
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643 whim | |
n.一时的兴致,突然的念头;奇想,幻想 | |
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644 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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645 hoyden | |
n.野丫头,淘气姑娘 | |
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646 truce | |
n.休战,(争执,烦恼等的)缓和;v.以停战结束 | |
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647 ardently | |
adv.热心地,热烈地 | |
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648 exultingly | |
兴高采烈地,得意地 | |
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649 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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650 tenor | |
n.男高音(歌手),次中音(乐器),要旨,大意 | |
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651 penitently | |
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652 orphaned | |
[计][修]孤立 | |
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653 prodigal | |
adj.浪费的,挥霍的,放荡的 | |
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654 transpired | |
(事实,秘密等)被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 ); 泄露; 显露; 发生 | |
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655 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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656 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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657 murmurs | |
n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 );低语声;怨言;嘀咕 | |
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658 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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|
659 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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|
660 latitude | |
n.纬度,行动或言论的自由(范围),(pl.)地区 | |
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661 irritably | |
ad.易生气地 | |
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|
662 ardor | |
n.热情,狂热 | |
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|
663 trudged | |
vt.& vi.跋涉,吃力地走(trudge的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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|
664 slaughter | |
n.屠杀,屠宰;vt.屠杀,宰杀 | |
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|
665 extermination | |
n.消灭,根绝 | |
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666 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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667 ovation | |
n.欢呼,热烈欢迎,热烈鼓掌 | |
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668 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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|
669 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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670 profusely | |
ad.abundantly | |
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|
671 stint | |
v.节省,限制,停止;n.舍不得化,节约,限制;连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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672 incurred | |
[医]招致的,遭受的; incur的过去式 | |
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|
673 dilated | |
adj.加宽的,扩大的v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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674 mien | |
n.风采;态度 | |
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675 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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676 chary | |
adj.谨慎的,细心的 | |
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|
677 livelihood | |
n.生计,谋生之道 | |
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678 timorously | |
adv.胆怯地,羞怯地 | |
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|
679 patriotic | |
adj.爱国的,有爱国心的 | |
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680 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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|
681 abbreviated | |
adj. 简短的,省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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682 spasms | |
n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 );抽搐;(能量、行为等的)突发;发作 | |
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|
683 diminutive | |
adj.小巧可爱的,小的 | |
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|
684 embodied | |
v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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|
685 squad | |
n.班,小队,小团体;vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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|
686 quota | |
n.(生产、进出口等的)配额,(移民的)限额 | |
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|
687 secular | |
n.牧师,凡人;adj.世俗的,现世的,不朽的 | |
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|
688 revered | |
v.崇敬,尊崇,敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
689 revere | |
vt.尊崇,崇敬,敬畏 | |
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|
690 manifestations | |
n.表示,显示(manifestation的复数形式) | |
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|
691 gasping | |
adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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|
692 pumpkins | |
n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 );南瓜的果肉,南瓜囊 | |
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|
693 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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|
694 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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|
695 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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|
696 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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|
697 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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698 estrangement | |
n.疏远,失和,不和 | |
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|
699 flinch | |
v.畏缩,退缩 | |
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|
700 quailed | |
害怕,发抖,畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
701 forfeiting | |
(因违反协议、犯规、受罚等)丧失,失去( forfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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|
702 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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703 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
704 tugged | |
v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
705 doffed | |
v.脱去,(尤指)脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
706 lapsed | |
adj.流失的,堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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|
707 gateway | |
n.大门口,出入口,途径,方法 | |
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|
|
708 scoffed | |
嘲笑,嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
709 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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|
|
710 cannons | |
n.加农炮,大炮,火炮( cannon的名词复数 ) | |
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|
711 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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|
712 reticent | |
adj.沉默寡言的;言不如意的 | |
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|
713 gushed | |
v.喷,涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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|
714 ovations | |
n.热烈欢迎( ovation的名词复数 ) | |
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|
715 hospitably | |
亲切地,招待周到地,善于款待地 | |
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|
716 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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|
717 picket | |
n.纠察队;警戒哨;v.设置纠察线;布置警卫 | |
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|
718 grumbler | |
爱抱怨的人,发牢骚的人 | |
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|
719 grumble | |
vi.抱怨;咕哝;n.抱怨,牢骚;咕哝,隆隆声 | |
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|
720 fortifying | |
筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 ); 筑堡于; 增强; 强化(食品) | |
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|
721 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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|
722 drearier | |
使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 ); 阴沉的; 令人厌烦的; 单调的 | |
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|
723 discomforts | |
n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 );不愉快,苦恼 | |
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|
724 improvise | |
v.即兴创作;临时准备,临时凑成 | |
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|
725 barricades | |
路障,障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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|
726 denuded | |
adj.[医]变光的,裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 );剥光覆盖物 | |
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|
|
727 promotion | |
n.提升,晋级;促销,宣传 | |
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|
|
728 morsels | |
n.一口( morsel的名词复数 );(尤指食物)小块,碎屑 | |
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|
729 enlistment | |
n.应征入伍,获得,取得 | |
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|
730 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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|
731 expiration | |
n.终结,期满,呼气,呼出物 | |
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|
|
732 contemplating | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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|
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733 grumbling | |
adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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|
734 forage | |
n.(牛马的)饲料,粮草;v.搜寻,翻寻 | |
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|
735 snarled | |
v.(指狗)吠,嗥叫, (人)咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 );咆哮着说,厉声地说 | |
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736 broil | |
v.烤,烧,争吵,怒骂;n.烤,烧,争吵,怒骂 | |
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|
737 growl | |
v.(狗等)嗥叫,(炮等)轰鸣;n.嗥叫,轰鸣 | |
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|
738 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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|
739 shovelling | |
v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 );锹;推土机、挖土机等的)铲;铲形部份 | |
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|
|
740 strapped | |
adj.用皮带捆住的,用皮带装饰的;身无分文的;缺钱;手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词);用皮带抽打;包扎;给…打绷带 | |
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|
741 slurring | |
含糊地说出( slur的现在分词 ); 含糊地发…的声; 侮辱; 连唱 | |
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|
742 mitten | |
n.连指手套,露指手套 | |
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|
743 backbone | |
n.脊骨,脊柱,骨干;刚毅,骨气 | |
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744 sneaking | |
a.秘密的,不公开的 | |
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|
745 growled | |
v.(动物)发狺狺声, (雷)作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 );低声咆哮着说 | |
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|
|
746 rheumatism | |
n.风湿病 | |
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|
|
747 facetious | |
adj.轻浮的,好开玩笑的 | |
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|
|
748 ripened | |
v.成熟,使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
|
749 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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|
750 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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|
751 sneaks | |
abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋(网球鞋)v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 );偷偷溜走;(儿童向成人)打小报告;告状 | |
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|
|
752 gals | |
abbr.gallons (复数)加仑(液量单位)n.女孩,少女( gal的名词复数 ) | |
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|
|
753 jig | |
n.快步舞(曲);v.上下晃动;用夹具辅助加工;蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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|
|
754 seething | |
沸腾的,火热的 | |
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|
755 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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|
756 laconic | |
adj.简洁的;精练的 | |
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|
757 sneaked | |
v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 );偷偷溜走;(儿童向成人)打小报告;告状 | |
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|
758 pounced | |
v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 );猛扑;一眼看出;抓住机会(进行抨击) | |
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|
|
759 adherent | |
n.信徒,追随者,拥护者 | |
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|
760 sergeant | |
n.警官,中士 | |
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|
761 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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|
762 jeering | |
adj.嘲弄的,揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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|
763 prosecute | |
vt.告发;进行;vi.告发,起诉,作检察官 | |
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764 plausible | |
adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
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|
765 importunate | |
adj.强求的;纠缠不休的 | |
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|
|
766 mowing | |
n.割草,一次收割量,牧草地v.刈,割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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|
767 strapping | |
adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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|
768 pegs | |
n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 );挂钉;系帐篷的桩;弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 );使固定在某水平 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
769 trudging | |
vt.& vi.跋涉,吃力地走(trudge的现在分词形式) | |
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|
|
770 grudgingly | |
参考例句: |
|
|
771 insinuate | |
vt.含沙射影地说,暗示 | |
参考例句: |
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772 subsisting | |
v.(靠很少的钱或食物)维持生活,生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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773 luxuriously | |
adv.奢侈地,豪华地 | |
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774 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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775 insinuating | |
adj.曲意巴结的,暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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776 plow | |
n.犁,耕地,犁过的地;v.犁,费力地前进[英]plough | |
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777 succumbed | |
不再抵抗(诱惑、疾病、攻击等)( succumb的过去式和过去分词 ); 屈从; 被压垮; 死 | |
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778 arraignment | |
n.提问,传讯,责难 | |
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779 consultation | |
n.咨询;商量;商议;会议 | |
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780 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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781 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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782 attire | |
v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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783 sanguine | |
adj.充满希望的,乐观的,血红色的 | |
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784 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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785 soothed | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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786 banishing | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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787 yoke | |
n.轭;支配;v.给...上轭,连接,使成配偶 | |
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788 politic | |
adj.有智虑的;精明的;v.从政 | |
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789 hawk | |
n.鹰,骗子;鹰派成员 | |
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790 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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791 pegging | |
n.外汇钉住,固定证券价格v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的现在分词 );使固定在某水平 | |
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792 caressingly | |
爱抚地,亲切地 | |
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793 expatiated | |
v.详述,细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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794 prospective | |
adj.预期的,未来的,前瞻性的 | |
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795 rosebud | |
n.蔷薇花蕾,妙龄少女 | |
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796 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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797 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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798 primness | |
n.循规蹈矩,整洁 | |
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799 misgives | |
v.使(某人的情绪、精神等)疑虑,担忧,害怕( misgive的第三人称单数 ) | |
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