Jeff was as serious as could have been wished all that day, for there was much on his mind. Perplexing questions tinged14 with supernatural terrors tormented15 him. Passing over those having a moral point, the most urgent one was, "S'pose dat ar soger miss him box an come arter it ternight. Ki! If I go ter see, I mout run right on ter de spook. I'se a-gwine ter gib 'im his chance, an' den9 take mine." So that evening Jeff fortified16 himself and increased the cook's hope by a succession of psalm-tunes in which there was no lapse17 toward the "debil's" music.
Next morning, after a long sleep, Jeff's nerves were stronger, and he began to take a high hand with conscience.
"Dat ar soger has hab his chance," he reasoned. "Ef he want de box he mus' 'a' com arter it las' night. I'se done bin18 fa'r wid him, an' now ter-night, ef dat ar box ain' 'sturbed, I'se a-gwine ter see de 'scription an' heft on it. Toder night I was so 'fuscated dat I couldn't know nuffin straight."
When all were sleeping, he stole to the persimmon-tree and was elated to find his treasure where he had slightly buried it. The little box seemed heavy, and was wholly unlike anything he ever seen before.
"Ob cose it's got money in it," Jeff reasoned. "Nuffin else 'ud be done up to tight and strong. I'se woan open it jes' yet, feared de missus or de colored boys 'spec' someting. Ki! I isn't a-gwine ter be tied up, an' hab dat box whip out in me. I'll tink how I kin19 hide an' spen' de money kine of slowcution like." With this he restored the prize to its shallow excavation20 and covered it with leaves that no trace of fresh earth might be visible.
Jeff's deportment now began to evince a new evolution in mental and moral process. The influence of riches was quite as marked upon him as upon so many of his white brothers and sisters, proving their essential kinship. To-day he began to sniff10 disdainfully at his menial tasks; and in the evening "Ole Dan Tucker" resounded21 from his fiddle22 with a rollicking abandon over which the cook groaned23 in despair, "Dat ar niggah's 'ligion drop off ob 'im like a yaller pig from de bush. 'Ligion dat's skeert inter24 us hain't no 'count anyhow."
During the next few days it was evident that Jeff was falling from grace rapidly. Never had he been so slow and careless in his tasks. More than once the thought crossed his mind that he had better take his box and "cut stick" for Washington, where he believed that wealth and his fiddle would give him prominence25 over his race. For prudential and other reasons he was in no haste to open the box, preferring rather to gloat over it and to think how he could spend the money to the greatest advantage. He had been paying his court to a girl as black as himself on a neighboring plantation27; but he now regarded that affair as preposterous28.
"She ain' good nuff fer me no mo'," he reasoned. "I'se a-gwine ter shine up ter dat yeller Suky dat's been a-holdin' her head so high ober ter Marse Perkins's. I'se invited ter play ober dar ter-night, an' I'll make dat gal29 open her eye. Ki! she tinks no culled30 gemmen in dese parts fit ter hole a cannle when she braid her long straight ha'r, but when she see de ribbin I kin git her ter tie dat ha'r up wid, an' de earrings31 I kin put in her ears, she larf on toder side ob her face. 'Fo' I go I'se a-gwine ter buy dat ar gole ring ob Sam Milkins down at de tavern32. S'pose it does take all I'se been sabin' up, I'se needn't sabe any mo'. Dat ar box got nuff in it ter keep me like a lawd de rest ob my life. I'd open it ter-night if I wasn't goin' ter Marse Perkins's."
Jeff carried out his high-handed measures and appeared that evening at "Marse Perkins's" with a ring of portentous33 size squeezed on the little finger of his left hand. It had something of the color of gold, and that is the best that can be said of it; but it had left its purchaser penniless. This fact sat lightly on Jeff's mind, however, as he remembered the box at the foot of the persimmon-tree; and he stalked into the detached kitchen, where a dusky assemblage were to indulge in a shuffle34, with the air of one who intends that his superiority shall be recognized at once.
"Law sakes, Jeff!" said Mandy, his hitherto ebon flame, "yer comes in like a turkey gobbler. Doesn't yer know me?"
"Sartin I know yer, Mandy. You'se a good gal in you'se way, but, law! you'se had yer spell. A culled gemmen kin change his min' when he sees dat de 'finity's done gone."
"Look here, Jeff Wobbles, does yer mean ter give me de sack?"
"I mean ter gib yer good-ebenin', Miss Mandy Munson. Yer kyant 'spec' a gemmen to be degaged in de music an' a gal at de same time," replied Jeff, with oppressive gravity.
"Mister Johnsing, I'se tank yer fo' yer arm," said Mandy to a man near, with responsive dignity. "Yer wait on me here, an' yer kin wait on me home. I'se 'shamed on mysef dat I took up wid a lout35 dat kin do nuffin but fiddle; but I was kine ob sorry fer him, he sich a fool."
"Go 'long," remarked Jeff, smiling mysteriously. "Ef yer knowed, yer 'ud be wringin' yer han's wuss dan yer did at de las' 'tracted meetin'. Ah, Miss Suky, dat you?" and Jeff for the first time doffed37 his hat.
"Wat's in de win', Jeff, dat yer so scrumptious an' bumptious38 like dis ebenin'?" Suky asked a trifle scornfully.
"Wen de 'freshments parse39 'roun', I'se 'steem it a oblergation ter me ef yer'll let me bring yer de cake an' cider. I'se sumpin fer yer. Gemmen an' ladies, took yer places," he added in a stentorian40 voice; "I ax yer' sideration fer bein' late, cose I had 'portant business; now,
"Bow dar, scrape dar;
Doan hang about de doah.
Shine up ter de pretty gals42,
An' lead 'em on de floah"—
his fiddle seconding his exhortation43 with such inciting44 strains that soon there was not a foot but was keeping time.
Suky observed that the musician had eyes for her only, and that toward all others he maintained his depressing superiority. In vain did Mandy lavish45 tokens of favor on "Mister Johnsing." Jeff did not lose his sudden and unexpected indifference46; while the great ring glistening47 on his finger added to the mystery. There were many whispered surmises48; but gradually the conjecture49 that he had "foun' a heap ob Linkum money" was regarded as the best explanation of the marked change in his bearing.
Curiosity soon became more potent50 than Jeff's fiddle, and the "'freshments" were hurried up. So far from resenting this, Jeff put his violin under his arm and stalked across the improvised51 ball-room to Miss Suky, oblivious52 of the fact that she had a suitor on either side.
"Gemmen," he remarked with condescension53, "dis lady am degaged ter me durin' de 'freshments period,'" and he held out his arm in such a way that the massive ring glittered almost under Suky's nose. The magnet drew. His arm was taken in spite of the protests of the enamored swains.
"Permit me de suggestation," continued Jeff, "dat ter a lady ob yer 'finement, dis place am not fit ter breve in. Wha's mo', I doan 'cline ter hab dese yer common niggahs a-whisperin' an' a-pintin' an' a-'jecturin' about us. Lemme yet yer a seat under de lite ob de risin' moon. De dusk'll obscuate yer loveleness so I'se dar' tell all de news."
Suky, mystified and expectant, but complacent55 over another conquest, made no objections to these whispered "suggestations," and was led to a seat under the shadow of a tree. A chorus of not very flattering remarks broke out, ceasing as suddenly when Jeff returned for a portion of the cake and cider.
"Mister Wobbles, yer's prettin' on high de airs ter-night," Suky remarked, with an interrogation point in her voice.
"Here's ter de health ob Mrs. Wobbles," he answered, lifting the cider to his lips.
"I'se no 'jections ter dat. Who is she ter be?" replied Suky, very innocently.
"It's not my 'tention ter go furder and far' wuss. Dis am a case wha de presen' company am not 'cepted."
"No, not axcepted jes' yet, Mr. Wobbles, if yer'se 'dressin' yer remarks ter me. Yer is goin' on jes' a little too far."
"P'raps a little far; but yer'll soon catch up wid me. Yer'se a lady dat got a min' ob her own, I hope?"
"It's mine yet, anyhow."
"An' yer kin keep as mum as a possum w'en de cawn is in de milk?"
"Dat 'pends."
"Ob cose it does. But I'll trus' yer; yer ain' de one ter bite yer own nose off. Does yer see dat ar ring, Suky? Law! how pretty dat look on yer degaged finger!"
"'Tain' dar yet."
"Lemme put it dar. Ki! wouldn't dey look an' gape56 an' pint54 in dar yonder w'en yer come a-sailin' in wid dat ring on?"
"Yes; dey tink me a big fool ter be captivated by a ring—brass, too, like anuff."
"No, Suky, it's gole—yallow gole, di 'plexion ob yer own fair han'. But, law! dis ain' nuffin ter what I'se 'll git yer. Yer'se shall hab rings an' dresses an' jules till yer 'stinguish de oder gals like de sun put out de stars."
"What yer foun', Jeff Wobbles?"
"I'se foun' what'll make yer a lady if yer hab sense. I'se gib yer de compliment ob s'lecting yer ter shar' my fine if yer'll lemme put dis ring on yer degaged finger."
"Yer doan say nuffin 'bout41 lub in dis yer 'rangement," Suky simpered, sidling up to him.
"Oh, dat kind ob sent'ment 'll do fer common niggahs," Jeff explained with dignity. "I'se hurd my missus talk 'bout 'liances 'twixt people of quality. Ki! Suky, I'se in a'sition now ter make a 'liance wid yer. Yer ain' like dat low gal, Mandy. What Mister Johnsing ebber hab ter gib her but a lickin' some day? I'se done wid dat common class; I may fiddle fur 'em now an' den, jes' ter see dem sport deysefs, while I'se lookin' on kin' ob s'periur like, yer know. But den, dey ain' our kin' ob folks. Yer'se got qulities dat'll shine like de risin' moon dar." Then in a whisper he added, "De Linkum sogers is off dar ter the east'erd. One night's trabel an' dey'd sen' us on ter Washin'on. Onst yer git dar, an' hab all de jules an' dresses dat I gib yer, dar's not a culled gemmen dereaway but 'ud bow down ter yer."
Here was a dazzling vista57 that Suky could not resist. Her ideas of freedom, like those of Jeff, were not very exalted58. At that period, slave property in the vicinity of the union lines was fast melting away; and scarcely a night elapsed but some one was missing, the more adventurous60 and intelligent escaping first, and others following as opportunity and motive61 pointed62 the way. The region under consideration had not yet been occupied by the Federals, and there was still no slight risk involved in flight. Suky did not realize the magnitude of the project. She was not the first of her sex to be persuaded by a cavalier and promised gold to take a leap into the dark.
As a result of Jeff's representations the "'liance" was made there and then, secrecy63 promised, and an escape to Washington agreed upon as soon as circumstances permitted—Suky's mind, I regret to say, dwelling64 more on "gemmen bowing down" to her than on the devotion of the allied65 suitor.
No lady of rank in Timbuctoo could have sailed into the kitchen ball-room with greater state than Suky now after the compact had been made, Jeff supporting her on his arm with the conscious air of one who has taken the prize from all competitors. With the assurance of a potentate66 he ensconced himself in the orchestra corner and called the dancers to their feet.
But the spirit of mutiny was present. Eager eyes noted67 that the ring on his bow-hand was gone. Then it was seen glistening on Suky's hand as she ostentatiously fanned herself. The clamor broke out, "Mister Johnsing," incited68 by Mandy and the two swains between whom Suky had been sandwiched, leading the revolt against Jeff's arrogance69 and success.
There were many, however, who had no personal wrongs to right, and who did not relish70 being made a cat's-paw by the disaffected71. These were bent73 on the natural progression and conclusion of the dance. In consequence of the wordy uproar74 the master of the premises76 appeared and cleared them all out, sending his own servants to their quarters.
Jeff nearly came to grief that night, for a party of the malcontents followed him on his homeward walk. Suspecting their purpose, he dodged77 behind some shrubbery, heard their threats to break his head and smash his fiddle, and then went back to a tryst78 with Suky.
That sagacious damsel had been meditating79 on the proposed alliance. Even in her rather sophisticated mind she had regarded a semblance80 of love as essential; but since Jeff had put everything on such superior grounds, she felt that she should prove herself fit for new and exalted conditions of life by seeing to it that he made good all his remarkable81 promises. She remembered that he had not yet opened the box of money, and became a little sceptical as to its contents. Somebody might have watched Jeff, and have carried it off.
True, she had the ring, but that was not the price of her hand. Nothing less than had been promised would answer now; and when she stole out to meet Jeff she told him so. Under the witching moonlight he began to manifest tendencies to sentiment and tenderness. Her response was prompt: "Go 'long! what dese common niggah ways got ter do wid a 'liance? Yer show me de gole in dat box—dat's de bargain. Den de 'liance hole me fas', an' I'll help yer spen' de money in Washin'on. We'll hab a weddin' scrumptious as white folks. But, law sakes! Jeff Wobbles, 't ain' no kin' ob 'liance till I see dat gole an' hab some ob it too!"
Jeff had to succumb83 like many a higher-born suitor before him, with the added chagrin84 of remembering that he had first suggested the purely85 businesslike aspect of his motive.
"Berry well; meet me here ter-morrer night when I whistle like a whip-o'-will. But yer ain' so smart as yer tink yer are, Suky. Yer'se made it cl'ar ter me dat I'se got ter keep de han'lin' ob dat gole or you'll be a-carryin' dis 'liance business too far! If I gib yer gole, I expec' yer ter shine up an be 'greeable-like ter me ebbery way yer know how. Dat's only fa'r, doggoned ef it ain'!" and Jeff spoke86 in a very aggrieved87 tone.
Wily Suky chucked him under the chin, saying: "Show me de color ob de gole an' de 'liance come out all right." Then she retired88, believing that negotiations89 had proceeded far enough for the present.
Jeff went home feeling that he had been forewarned and forearmed. Since her heart responded to a golden key only, he would keep that key and use it judiciously90.
During the early hours of the following night Jeff was very wary91 and soon discovered that he was watched. He coolly slipped the collar from a savage92 dog, and soon there was a stampede from a neighboring grove93. An hour after, when all had become quiet again, he took the dog and, armed with an axe94, started out, fully resolved on breaking the treasure-box which he had been hoarding95.
The late moon had risen, giving to Jeff a gnome-like aspect as he dug at the root of the persimmon-tree. The mysterious box soon gleamed with a pale light in his hand, like the leaden casket that contained Portia's radiant face. Surely, when he struck the "open sesame" blow, that beauty which captivates young and old alike would dazzle his eyes. With heart now devoid96 of all compunction, and exultant97 in anticipation98, he struck the box, shaving off the end he held furthest from him. An "ancient fish-like smell" filled the air; Jeff sank on the ground and stared at sardines99 and rancid oil dropping instead of golden dollars from his treasure-box. They scarcely touched the ground before the dog snapped them all up.
The bewildered negro knew not what to think. Had fish been the original contents of the box, or had the soldier's spook transformed the gold into this horrid100 mess? One thing, however, was clear—he had lost, not only Suky, but prestige. The yellow girl would scorn him, and tell of his preposterous promises. Mandy had been offended beyond hope, and he would become the laughing-stock and byword of all the colored boys for miles around.
"Dar's nuffin lef fer me but ter put out fer freedom," he soliloquized; "ki! I'se a-gwine ter git eben wid dat yallar gal yet. I'll cut stick ter-morrer night and she'll tink I 'sconded alone, totin' de box wid me, and dat she was too sharp in dat 'liance business."
So it turned out; Jeff and his fiddle vanished, leaving nothing to sustain Suky under the gibes101 of her associates except the ring, which she eventually learned was as brazen102 as her own ambition.
Jeff wandered into the service of a union officer whose patience he tried even more than that of his tolerant Southern mistress; but when by the camp-fire he brought out his violin, all his shortcomings were condoned103.
CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE
The August morning was bright and fair, but Herbert Scofield's brow was clouded. He had wandered off to a remote part of the grounds of a summer hotel on the Hudson, and seated in the shade of a tree, had lapsed59 into such deep thought that his cigar had gone out and the birds were becoming bold in the vicinity of his motionless figure.
It was his vacation time and he had come to the country ostensibly for rest. As the result, he found himself in the worst state of unrest that he had ever known. Minnie Madison, a young lady he had long admired, was the magnet that had drawn104 him hither. Her arrival had preceded his by several weeks; and she had smiled a little consciously when in looking at the hotel register late one afternoon his bold chirography met her eye.
"There are so many other places to which he might have gone," she murmured.
Her smile, however, was a doubtful one, not expressive105 of gladness and entire satisfaction. In mirthful, saucy106 fashion her thoughts ran on: "The time has come when he might have a respite107 from business. Does he still mean business by coming here? I'm not sure that I do, although the popular idea seems to be that a girl should have no vacation in the daily effort to find a husband. I continually disappoint the good people by insisting that the husband must find me. I have a presentiment108 that Mr. Scofield is looking for me; but there are some kinds of property which cannot be picked up and carried off, nolens volens, when found."
Scofield had been animated109 by no such clearly defined purpose as he was credited with when he sought the summer resort graced by Miss Madison. His action seemed to him tentative, his motive ill-defined even in his own consciousness, yet it had been strong enough to prevent any hesitancy. He knew he was weary from a long year's work. He purposed to rest and take life very leisurely110, and he had mentally congratulated himself that he was doing a wise thing in securing proximity111 to Miss Madison. She had evoked112 his admiration113 in New York, excited more than a passing interest, but he felt that he did not know her very well. In the unconventional life now in prospect114 he could see her daily and permit his interest to be dissipated or deepened, as the case might be, while he remained, in the strictest sense of the world, uncommitted. It was a very prudent26 scheme and not a bad one. He reasoned justly: "This selecting a wife is no bagatelle115. A man wishes to know something more about a woman than he can learn in a drawing-room or at a theatre party."
But now he was in trouble. He had been unable to maintain this judicial116 aspect. He had been made to understand at the outset that Miss Madison did not regard herself as a proper subject for deliberate investigation117, and that she was not inclined to aid in his researches. So far from meeting him with engaging frankness and revealing her innermost soul for his inspection118, he found her as elusive119 as only a woman of tact120 can be when so minded, even at a place where people meet daily. It was plain to him from the first that he was not the only man who favored her with admiring glances; and he soon discovered that young Merriweather and his friend Hackley had passed beyond the neutral ground of non-committal. He set himself the task of learning how far these suitors had progressed in her good graces; he would not be guilty of the folly121 of giving chase to a prize already virtually captured. This too had proved a failure. Clearly, would he know what Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley were to Miss Madison he must acquire the power of mind reading. Each certainly appeared to be a very good friend of hers—a much better friend than he could claim to be, for in his case she maintained a certain unapproachableness which perplexed122 and nettled123 him.
After a week of rest, observation, and rather futile124 effort to secure a reasonable share of Miss Madison's society and attention, he became assured that he was making no progress whatever so far as she was concerned, but very decided125 progress in a condition of mind and heart anything but agreeable should the affair continue so one-sided. He had hoped to see her daily, and was not disappointed. He had intended to permit his mind to receive such impressions as he should choose; and now his mind asked no permission whatever, but without volition126 occupied itself with her image perpetually. He was not sure whether she satisfied his preconceived ideals of what a wife should be or not, for she maintained such a firm reticence127 in regard to herself that he could put his finger on no affinities128. She left no doubt as to her intelligence, but beyond that she would not reveal herself to him. He was almost satisfied that she discouraged him utterly129 and that it would be wiser to depart before his feelings became more deeply involved. At any rate he had better do this or else make love in dead earnest. Which course should he adopt?
There came a day which brought him to a decision.
A party had been made up for an excursion into the Highlands, Miss Madison being one of the number. She was a good pedestrian and rarely missed a chance for a ramble130 among the hills. Scofield's two rivals occasionally got astray with her in the perplexing wood-roads, but he never succeeded in securing such good-fortune. On this occasion, as they approached a woodchopper's cottage (or rather, hovel), there were sounds of acute distress131 within—the piercing cries of a child evidently in great pain. There was a moment of hesitancy in the party, and then Miss Madison's graceful132 indifference vanished utterly. As she ran hastily to the cabin, Scofield felt that now probably was a chance for more than mere133 observation, and he kept beside her. An ugly cur sought to bar entrance; but his vigorous kick sent it howling away. She gave him a quick pleased look as they entered. A slatternly woman was trying to soothe134 a little boy, who at all her attempts only writhed135 and shrieked136 the more. "I dunno what ails137 the young one," she said. "I found him a moment ago yellin' at the foot of a tree. Suthin's the matter with his leg."
"Yes," cried Miss Madison, delicately feeling of the member—an operation which, even under her gentle touch, caused increased outcry, "it is evidently broken. Let me take him on my lap;" and Scofield saw that her face had softened138 into the tenderest pity.
"I will bring a surgeon at the earliest possible moment," exclaimed
Scofield, turning to go.
Again she gave him an approving glance which warmed his heart. "The ice is broken between us now," he thought, as he broke through the group gathering139 at the open door.
Never before had he made such time down a mountain, for he had a certain kind of consciousness that he was not only going after the doctor, but also after the girl. Securing a stout140 horse and wagon141 at the hotel, he drove furiously for the surgeon, explained the urgency, and then, with the rural healer at his side, almost killed the horse in returning.
He found his two rivals at the cabin door, the rest of the party having gone on. Miss Madison came out quickly. An evanescent smile flitted across her face as she saw his kindled142 eyes and the reeking143 horse, which stood trembling and with bowed head. His ardor145 was a little dampened when she went directly to the poor beast and said, "This horse is a rather severe indictment147 against you, Mr. Scofield. There was need of haste, but—" and she paused significantly.
"Yes," added the doctor, springing out, "I never saw such driving! It's lucky our necks are not broken."
"You are all right, Doctor, and ready for your work," Scofield remarked brusquely. "As for the horse, I'll soon bring him around;" and he rapidly began to unhitch the over-driven animal.
"What are you going to do?" Miss Madison asked curiously148.
"Rub him into as good shape as when he started."
She turned away to hide a smile as she thought, "He has waked up at last."
The boy was rendered unconscious, and his leg speedily put in the way of restoration. "He will do very well now if my directions are carried out strictly149," the physician was saying when Scofield entered.
Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley stood rather helplessly in the background and were evidently giving more thought to the fair nurse than to the patient. The mother was alternating between lamentations and invocations of good on the "young leddy's" head. Finding that he would come in for a share of the latter, Scofield retreated again. Miss Madison walked quietly out, and looking critically at the horse, remarked, "You have kept your word very well, Mr. Scofield. The poor creature does look much improved." She evidently intended to continue her walk with the two men in waiting, for she said demurely150 with an air of dismissal, "You will have the happy consciousness of having done a good deed this morning."
"Yes," replied Scofield, in significant undertone; "you, of all others, Miss Madison, know how inordinately152 happy I shall be in riding back to the village with the doctor."
She raised her eyebrows153 in a little well-feigned surprise at his words, then turned away.
During the remainder of the day he was unable to see her alone for a moment, or to obtain any further reason to believe that the ice was in reality broken between them. But his course was no longer noncommittal, even to the most careless observer. The other guests of the house smiled; and Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley looked askance at one who threw their assiduous attentions quite into the shade. Miss Madison maintained her composure, was oblivious as far as possible, and sometimes when she could not appear blind, looked a little surprised and even offended.
He had determined154 to cast prudence155 and circumlocution156 to the winds. On the morning following the episode in the mountains he was waiting to meet her when she came down to breakfast. "I've seen that boy, Miss Madison, and he's doing well."
"What! so early? You are a very kind-hearted man, Mr. Scofield."
"About as they average. That you are kind-hearted I know—at least to every one except me—for I saw your expression as you examined the little fellow's injury yesterday. You thought only of the child—"
"I hope you did also, Mr. Scofield," she replied with an exasperating157 look of surprise.
"You know well I did not," he answered bluntly. "I thought it would be well worth while to have my leg broken if you would look at me in the same way."
"Truly, Mr. Scofield, I fear you are not as kind-hearted as I supposed you to be;" and then she turned to greet Mr. Merriweather.
"Won't you let me drive you up to see the boy?" interposed Scofield, boldly.
"I'm sorry, but I promised to go up with the doctor this morning."
And so affairs went on. He thought at times her color quickened a little when he approached suddenly; he fancied that he occasionally surprised a half-wistful, half-mirthful glance, but was not sure. He knew that she was as well aware of his intentions and wishes as if he had proclaimed them through a speaking-trumpet. His only assured ground of comfort was that neither Mr. Merriweather nor Mr. Hackley had yet won the coveted158 prize, though they evidently were receiving far greater opportunities to push their suit than he had been favored with.
At last his vacation was virtually at an end. But two more days would elapse before he must be at his desk again in the city. And now we will go back to the time when we found him that early morning brooding over his prospects159, remote from observation. What should he do—propose by letter? "No," he said after much cogitation160. "I can see that little affected72 look of surprise with which she would read my plain declaration of what she knows so well. Shall I force a private interview with her? The very word 'force,' which I have unconsciously used, teaches me the folly of this course. She doesn't care a rap for me, and I should have recognized the truth long ago. I'll go back to the hotel and act toward her precisely161 as she has acted toward me. I can then at least take back to town a little shred162 of dignity."
He appeared not to see her when she came down to breakfast. After the meal was over he sat on the piazza163 engrossed164 in the morning paper. An excursion party for the mountains was forming. He merely bowed politely as she passed him to join it, but he ground his teeth as he saw Merriweather and Hackley escorting her away. When they were out of sight he tossed the paper aside and went down to the river, purposing to row the fever out of his blood. He was already satisfied how difficult his tactics would be should he continue to see her, and he determined to be absent all day, to so tire himself out that exhaustion165 would bring early sleep on his return.
Weary and leaden-spirited enough he was, as late in the afternoon he made his way back, but firm in sudden resolve to depart on an early train in the morning and never voluntarily to see the obdurate166 lady of his affections again.
Just as the sun was about sinking he approached a small wooded island about half a mile from the boat-house, and was surprised to notice a rowboat high and dry upon the beach. "Some one has forgotten that the tide is going out," he thought, as he passed; but it was no affair of his.
A voice called faintly, "Mr. Scofield!"
He started at the familiar tones, and looked again. Surely that was Miss Madison standing167 by the prow168 of the stranded169 skiff! He knew well indeed it was she; and he put his boat about with an energy not in keeping with his former languid strokes. Then, recollecting170 himself, he became pale with the self-control he purposed to maintain, "She is in a scrape," he thought; "and calls upon me as she would upon any one else to get her out of it."
Weariness and discouragement inclined him to be somewhat reckless and brusque in his words and manner. Under the compulsion of circumstances she who would never graciously accord him opportunities must now be alone with him; but as a gentleman, he could not take advantage of her helplessness, to plead his cause, and he felt a sort of rage that he should be mocked with an apparent chance which was in fact no chance at all.
His boat stranded several yards from the shore. Throwing down his oars171, he rose and faced her. Was it the last rays of the setting sun which made her face so rosy172, or was it embarrassment173?
"I'm in a dilemma174, Mr. Scofield," Miss Madison began hesitatingly.
"And you would rather be in your boat," he added.
"That would not help me any, seeing where my boat is. I have done such a stupid thing! I stole away here to finish a book, and—well—I didn't notice that the tide was running out. I'm sure I don't know what I'm going to do."
Scofield put his shoulder to an oar75 and tried to push his craft to what deserved the name of shore, but could make little headway. He was glad to learn by the effort, however, that the black mud was not unfathomable in depth. Hastily reversing his action, he began pushing his boat back in the water.
"Surely, Mr. Scofield, you do not intend to leave me," began Miss
Madison.
"Surely not," he replied; "but then, since you are so averse175 to my company, I must make sure that my boat does not become as fast as yours on this ebb-tide, otherwise we should both have to wait till the flood."
"Oh, beg pardon! I now understand. But how can you reach me?"
"Wade," he replied coolly, proceeding3 to take off his shoes and stockings.
"What! through that horrid black mud?"
"I couldn't leap that distance, Miss Madison."
"It's too bad! I'm so provoked with myself! The mud may be very deep, or there may be a quicksand or something."
"In which case I should merely disappear a little earlier;" and he sprang overboard up to his knees, dragged the boat till it was sufficiently176 fast in the ooze177 to be stationary178, then he waded179 ashore180.
"Well," she said with a little deprecatory laugh, "it's a comfort not to be alone on a desert island."
"Indeed! Can I be welcome under any circumstances?"
"Truly, Mr. Scofield, you know that you were never more welcome. It's very kind of you."
"Any man would be glad to come to your aid. It is merely your misfortune that I happen to be the one."
"I'm not sure that I regard it as a very great misfortune. You proved in the case of that little boy that you can act very energetically."
"And get lectured for my intemperate181 zeal182. Well, Miss Madison, I cannot make a very pleasing spectacle with blackamoor legs, and it's time I put my superfluous183 energy to some use. Suppose you get in your boat, and I'll try to push it off."
She complied with a troubled look in her face. He pushed till the veins184 knotted on his forehead. At this she sprang out, exclaiming, "You'll burst a blood-vessel."
"That's only a phase of a ruptured185 heart, and you are used to such phenomena186."
"It's too bad for you to talk in that way," she cried.
"It certainly is. I will now attend strictly to business."
"I don't see what you can do."
"Carry you out to my boat—that is all I can do."
"Oh, Mr. Scofield!"
"Can you suggest anything else?"
She looked dubiously187 at the intervening black mud, and was silent.
"I could go up to the hotel and bring Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley."
She turned away to hide her tears.
"Or I could go after a brawny188 boatman; but delay is serious, for the tide is running out fast and the stretch of mud growing wider. Can you not imagine me Mike or Tim, or some fellow of that sort."
"No, I can't."
"Then perhaps you wish me to go for Mike or Tim?"
"But the tide is running out so fast, you said."
"Yes, and it will soon be dark."
"Oh, dear!" and there was distress in her tones.
He now said kindly189, "Miss Madison, I wish that like Sir Walter Raleigh I had a mantle190 large enough for you to walk over. You can at least imagine that I am a gentleman, that you may soon be at the hotel, and no one ever be any the wiser that you had to choose between me and the deep—ah, well—mud."
"There is no reason for such an allusion191, Mr. Scofield."
"Well, then, that you had no other choice."
"That's better. But how in the world can you manage it?"
"You will have to put your arm around my neck."
"Oh!"
"You would put your arm around a post, wouldn't you?" he asked with more than his old brusqueness.
"Yes-s; but—"
"But the tide is going out. My own boat will soon be fast. Dinner will grow cold at the hotel, and you are only the longer in dispensing192 with me. You must consider the other dire146 alternatives."
"Ob, I forgot that you were in danger of losing a warm dinner."
"You know I have lost too much to think of that or much else. But there is no need of satire193, Miss Madison. I will do whatever you wish. That truly is carte blanche enough even for this occasion."
"I didn't mean to be satirical. I—I—Well, have your own way."
"Not if you prefer some other way."
"You have shown that practically there isn't any other way. I'm sorry that my misfortune, or fault rather, should also be your misfortune. You don't know how heavy—"
"I soon will, and you must endure it all with such grace as you can. Put your arm round my neck, so—oh, that will never do! Well, you'll hold tight enough when I'm floundering in the mud."
Without further ado he picked her up, and started rapidly for his boat. Stepping on a smooth stone he nearly fell, and her arm did tighten194 decidedly.
"If you try to go so fast," she said, "you will fall."
"I was only seeking to shorten your ordeal195, but for obvious reasons must go slowly;" and he began feeling his way.
"Mr. Scofield, am I not very heavy?" she asked softly.
"Not as heavy as my heart, and you know it."
"I'm sure I—"
"No, you are not to blame. Moths196 have scorched197 their wings before now, and will always continue to do so."
Her head rested slightly against his shoulder; her breath fanned his cheek; her eyes, soft and lustrous198, sought his. But he looked away gloomy and defiant199, and she felt his grasp tighten vise-like around her. "I shall not affect any concealment200 of the feelings which she has recognized so often, nor shall I ask any favors," he thought. "There," he said, as he placed her in his boat, "you are safe enough now. Now go aft while I push off."
When she was seated he exerted himself almost as greatly as before, and the boat gradually slid into the water. He sprang in and took the oars.
"Aren't you going to put on your shoes and stockings?"
"Certainly, when I put you ashore."
"Won't that be a pretty certain way of revealing the plight201 in which you found me?"
"Pardon my stupidity; I was preoccupied202 with the thought of relieving you from the society which you have hitherto avoided so successfully;" and bending over his shoes he tied them almost savagely203.
There was a wonderful degree of mirth and tenderness in her eyes as she watched him. They had floated by a little point; and as he raised his head he saw a form which he recognized as Mr. Merriweather rowing toward them. "There comes one of your shadows," he said mockingly. "Be careful how you exchange boats when he comes along-side. I will give you no help in such a case."
She looked hastily over her shoulder at the approaching oarsman. "I think it will be safer to remain in your boat," she said.
"Oh, it will be entirely204 safe," he replied bitterly.
"Mr. Merriweather must have seen you carrying me."
"That's another thing which I can't help."
"Mr. Scofield," she began softly.
He arrested his oars, and turned wondering eyes to hers. They were sparkling with mirth as she continued, "Are you satisfied that a certain young woman whom you once watched very narrowly is entirely to your mind?"
He caught her mirthful glance and misunderstood her. With dignity he answered, "I'm not the first man who blundered to his cost, though probably it would have made no difference. You must do me the justice, however, to admit that I did not maintain the role of observer very long—that I wooed you so openly that every one was aware of my suit. Is it not a trifle cruel to taunt205 me after I had made such ample amends206?"
"I was thinking of Mr. Merriweather—"
"Undoubtedly207"
"Since he has seen me with my arm around your neck—you know I couldn't help it—perhaps he might row the other way if—if—well, if he saw you—what shall I say—sitting over here—by me—or—Somehow I don't feel very hungry, and I wouldn't mind spending another hour—"
Scofield nearly upset the boat in his precipitous effort to gain a seat beside her—and Mr. Merriweather did row another way.
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES
It was the beginning of a battle. The skirmish line of the union advance was sweeping208 rapidly over a rough mountainous region in the South, and in his place on the extreme left of this line was Private Anson Marlow. Tall trees rising from underbrush, rocks, bowlders, gulches209 worn by spring torrents210, were the characteristics of the field, which was in wild contrast with the parade-grounds on which the combatants had first learned the tactics of war. The majority, however, of those now in the ranks had since been drilled too often under like circumstances, and with lead and iron shotted guns, not to know their duty, and the lines of battle were as regular as the broken country allowed. So far as many obstacles permitted, Marlow kept his proper distance from the others on the line and fired coolly when he caught glimpses of the retreating Confederate skirmishers. They were retiring with ominous211 readiness toward a wooded height which the enemy occupied with a force of unknown strength. That strength was soon manifested in temporary disaster to the union forces, which were driven back with heavy loss.
Neither the battle nor its fortunes are the objects of our present concern, but rather the fate of Private Marlow. The tide of battle drifted away and left the soldier desperately212 wounded in a narrow ravine, through which babbled213 a small stream. Excepting the voices of his wife and children no music had ever sounded so sweetly in his ears. With great difficulty he crawled to a little bubbling pool formed by a tiny cascade214 and encircling stones, and partially215 slaked216 his intolerable thirst.
He believed he was dying—bleeding to death. The very thought blunted his faculties217 for a time; and he was conscious of little beyond a dull wonder. Could it be possible that the tragedy of his death was enacting218 in that peaceful, secluded220 nook? Could Nature be so indifferent or so unconscious if it were true that he was soon to lie there DEAD? He saw the speckled trout221 lying motionless at the bottom of the pool, the gray squirrels sporting in the boughs222 over his head. The sunlight shimmered223 and glinted through the leaves, flecking with light his prostrate224 form. He dipped his hand in the blood that had welled from his side, and it fell in rubies225 from his fingers. Could that be his blood—his life-blood; and would it soon all ooze away? Could it be that death was coming through all the brightness of that summer afternoon?
From a shadowed tree further up the glen, a wood-thrush suddenly began its almost unrivalled song. The familiar melody, heard so often from his cottage-porch in the June twilight226, awoke him to the bitter truth. His wife had then sat beside him, while his little ones played here and there among the trees and shrubbery. They would hear the same song to-day; he would never hear it again. That counted for little; but the thought of their sitting behind the vines and listening to their favorite bird, spring after spring and summer after summer, and he ever absent, overwhelmed him.
"Oh, Gertrude, my wife, my wife! Oh, my children!" he groaned.
His breast heaved with a great sigh; the blood welled afresh from his wound; what seemed a mortal weakness crept over him; and he thought he died.
* * * * * * *
"Say, Eb, is he done gone?"
"'Clar to grashus if I know. 'Pears mighty227 like it." These words were spoken by two stout negroes, who had stolen to the battlefield as the sounds of conflict died away.
"I'm doggoned if I tink dat he's dead. He's only swoonded," asserted the man addressed as Eb. "'Twon't do to lebe 'im here to die, Zack."
"Sartin not; we'd hab bad luck all our days."
"I reckon ole man Pearson will keep him; and his wife's a po'ful nuss."
"Pearson orter; he's a unioner."
"S'pose we try him; 'tain't so bery fur off."
* * * * * * *
On the morning of the 24th of December, Mrs. Anson Marlow sat in the living-room of her cottage, that stood well out in the suburbs of a Northern town. Her eyes were hollow and full of trouble that seemed almost beyond tears, and the bare room, that had been stripped of nearly every appliance and suggestion of comfort, but too plainly indicated one of the causes. Want was stamped on her thin face, that once had been so full and pretty; poverty in its bitter extremity228 was unmistakably shown by the uncarpeted floor, the meagre fire, and scanty229 furniture. It was a period of depression; work had been scarce, and much of the time she had been too ill and feeble to do more than care for her children. Away back in August her resources had been running low; but she had daily expected the long arrears230 of pay which her husband would receive as soon as the exigencies231 of the campaign permitted. Instead of these funds, so greatly needed, came the tidings of a union defeat, with her husband's name down among the missing. Beyond that brief mention, so horrible in its vagueness, she had never heard a word from the one who not only sustained her home, but also her heart. Was he languishing232 in a Southern prison, or, mortally wounded, had he lingered out some terrible hours on that wild battlefield, a brief description of which had been so dwelt upon by her morbid234 fancy that it had become like one of the scenes in Dante's "Inferno"? For a long time she could not and would not believe that such an overwhelming disaster had befallen her and her children, although she knew that similar losses had come to thousands of others. Events that the world regards as not only possible but probable are often so terrible in their personal consequences that we shrink from even the bare thought of their occurrence.
If Mrs. Marlow had been told from the first that her husband was dead, the shock resulting would not have been so injurious as the suspense235 that robbed her of rest for days, weeks, and months. She haunted the post-office, and if a stranger was seen coming up the street toward her cottage she watched feverishly237 for his turning in at her gate with the tidings of her husband's safety. Night after night she Jay awake, hoping, praying that she might hear his step returning on a furlough to which wounds or sickness had entitled him. The natural and inevitable238 result was illness and nervous prostration239.
Practical neighbors had told her that her course was all wrong; that she should be resigned and even cheerful for her children's sake; that she needed to sleep well and live well, in order that she might have strength to provide for them. She would make pathetic attempts to follow this sound and thrifty241 advice, but suddenly when at her work or in her troubled sleep, that awful word "missing" would pierce her heart like an arrow, and she would moan, and at times in the depths of her anguish233 cry out, "Oh, where is he? Shall I ever see him again?"
But the unrelenting demands of life are made as surely upon the breaking as upon the happy heart. She and her children must have food, clothing, and shelter. Her illness and feebleness at last taught her that she must not yield to her grief, except so far as she was unable to suppress it; that for the sake of those now seemingly dependent upon her, she must rally every shattered nerve and every relaxed muscle. With a heroism242 far beyond that of her husband and his comrades in the field, she sought to fight the wolf from the door, or at least to keep him at bay. Although the struggle seemed a hopeless one, she patiently did her best from day to day, eking144 out her scanty earnings243 by the sale or pawning244 of such of her household goods as she could best spare. She felt that she would do anything rather than reveal her poverty or accept charity. Some help was more or less kindly offered, but beyond such aid as one neighbor may receive of another, she had said gently but firmly, "Not yet."
The Marlows were comparative strangers in the city where they had resided. Her husband had been a teacher in one of its public schools, and his salary small. Patriotism245 had been his motive for entering the army, and while it had cost him a mighty struggle to leave his family, he felt that he had no more reason to hold back than thousands of others. He believed that he could still provide for those dependent upon him, and if he fell, those for whom he died would not permit his widow and children to suffer. But the first popular enthusiasm for the war had largely died out; the city was full of widows and orphans246; there was depression of spirit, stagnation247 in business, and a very general disposition248 on the part of those who had means, to take care of themselves, and provide for darker days that might be in the immediate249 future. Sensitive, retiring Mrs. Marlow was not the one to push her claims or reveal her need. Moreover, she could never give up the hope that tidings from her husband might at any time bring relief and safety.
But the crisis had come at last; and on this dreary250 December day she was face to face with absolute want. The wolf, with his gaunt eyes, was crouched251 beside her cold hearth252. A pittance253 owed to her for work had not been paid. The little food left in the house had furnished the children an unsatisfying breakfast; she had eaten nothing. On the table beside her lay a note from the agent of the estate of which her home was a part, bidding her call that morning. She knew why—the rent was two months in arrears. It seemed like death to leave the house in which her husband had placed her, and wherein she had spent her happiest days. It stood well away from the crowded town. The little yard and garden, with their trees, vines, and shrubbery, some of which her husband had planted, were all dear from association. In the rear there was a grove and open fields, which, though not belonging to the cottage, were not forbidden to the children; and they formed a wonderland of delight in spring, summer, and fall. Must she take her active, restless boy Jamie, the image of his father, into a crowded tenement254? Must golden-haired Susie, with her dower of beauty, be imprisoned255 in one close room, or else be exposed to the evil of corrupt256 association just beyond the threshold?
Moreover, her retired home had become a refuge. Here she could hide her sorrow and poverty. Here she could touch what he had touched, and sit during the long winter evenings in his favorite corner by the fire. Around her, within and without, were the little appliances for her comfort which his hands had made, flow could she leave all this and live? Deep in her heart also the hope would linger that he would come again and seek her where he had left her.
"O God!" she cried suddenly. "Thou wouldst not, couldst not permit him to die without one farewell word," and she buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth257, while hard, dry sobs258 shook her slight, famine-pinched form.
The children stopped their play and came and leaned upon her lap.
"Don't cry, mother," said Jamie, a little boy of ten. "I'll soon be big enough to work for you; and I'll get rich, and you shall have the biggest house in town. I'll take care of you if papa don't come back."
Little Sue knew not what to say, but the impulse of her love was her best guide. She threw her arms around her mother's neck with such an impetuous and childlike outburst of affection that the poor woman's bitter and despairing thoughts were banished259 for a time. The deepest chord of her nature, mother love, was touched; and for her children's sake she rose up once more and faced the hard problems of her life. Putting on her bonnet260 and thin shawl (she had parted with much that she now so sorely needed), she went out into the cold December wind. The sky was clouded like her hopes, and the light, even in the morning hours, was dim and leaden-hued.
She first called on Mr. Jackson, the agent from whom she rented her home, and besought261 him to give her a little more time.
"I will beg for work from door to door," she said. "Surely in this Christian262 city there must be those who will give me work; and that is all I ask."
The sleek263, comfortable man, in his well-appointed office, was touched slightly, and said in a voice that was not so gruff as he at first had intended it should be:
"Well, I will wait a week or two longer. If then you cannot pay something on what is already due, my duty to my employers will compel me to take the usual course. You have told me all along that your husband would surely return, and I have hated to say a word to discourage you; but I fear you will have to bring yourself to face the truth and act accordingly, as so many others have done. I know it's very hard for you, but I am held responsible by my employer, and at my intercession he has been lenient264, as you must admit. You could get a room or two in town for half what you must pay where you are. Good-morning."
She went out again into the street, which the shrouded265 sky made sombre in spite of preparations seen on every side for the chief festival of the year. The fear was growing strong that like Him in whose memory the day was honored, she and her little ones might soon not know where to lay their heads. She succeeded in getting the small sum owed to her and payment also for some sewing just finished. More work she could not readily obtain, for every one was busy and preoccupied by the coming day of gladness.
"Call again," some said kindly or carelessly, according to their nature. "After the holidays are over we will try to have or make some work for you."
"But I need—I must have work now," she ventured to say whenever she had the chance.
In response to this appeal there were a few offers of charity, small indeed, but from which she drew back with an instinct so strong that it could not be overcome. On every side she heard the same story. The times were very hard; requests for work and aid had been so frequent that purses and patience were exhausted266. Moreover, people had spent their Christmas money on their households and friends, and were already beginning to feel poor.
At last she obtained a little work, and having made a few purchases of that which was absolutely essential, she was about to drag her weary feet homeward when the thought occurred to her that the children would want to hang up their stockings at night; and she murmured: "It may be the last chance I shall ever have to put a Christmas gift in them. Oh, that I were stronger! Oh, that I could take my sorrow more as others seem to take theirs! But I cannot, I cannot! My burden is greater than I can bear. The cold of this awful day is chilling my very heart, and my grief, as hope dies, is crushing my soul. Oh, he must be dead, he must be dead! That is what they all think. God help my little ones! Oh, what will become of them if I sink, as I fear I shall! If it were not for them I feel as if I would fall and die here in the street. Well, be our fate what it may, they shall owe to me one more gleam of happiness;" and she went into a confectioner's shop and bought a few ornamented267 cakes. These were the only gifts she could afford, and they must be in the form of food.
Before she reached home the snow was whirling in the frosty air, and the shadows of the brief winter day deepening fast. With a smile far more pathetic than tears she greeted the children, who were cold, hungry, and frightened at her long absence; and they, children-like, saw only the smile, and not the grief it masked. They saw also the basket which she had placed on the table, and were quick to note that it seemed a little fuller than of late.
"Jamie," she said, "run to the store down the street for some coal and kindlings that I bought, and then we will have a good fire and a nice supper;" and the boy, at such a prospect, eagerly obeyed.
She was glad to have him gone, that she might hide her weakness. She sank into a chair, so white and faint that even little Susie left off peering into the basket, and came to her with a troubled face.
"It's nothing, dearie," the poor creature said. "Mamma's only a little tired. See," she added, tottering269 to the table, "I have brought you a great piece of gingerbread."
The hungry child grasped it, and was oblivious and happy.
By the time Jamie returned with his first basket of kindling268 and coal, the mother had so far rallied from her exhaustion as to meet him smilingly again and help him replenish270 the dying fire.
"Now you shall rest and have your gingerbread before going for your second load," she said cheerily; and the boy took what was ambrosia271 to him, and danced around the room in joyous272 reaction from the depression of the long weary day, during which, lonely and hungry, he had wondered why his mother did not return.
"So little could make them happy, and yet I cannot seem to obtain even that little," she sighed. "I fear—indeed, I fear—I cannot be with them another Christmas; therefore they shall remember that I tried to make them happy once more, and the recollection may survive the long sad days before them, and become a part of my memory."
The room was now growing dark, and she lighted the lamp. Then she cowered273 shiveringly over the reviving fire, feeling as if she could never be warm again.
The street-lamps were lighted early on that clouded, stormy evening, and they were a signal to Mr. Jackson, the agent, to leave his office. He remembered that he had ordered a holiday dinner, and now found himself in a mood to enjoy it. He had scarcely left his door before a man, coming up the street with great strides and head bent down to the snow-laden blast, brushed roughly against him. The stranger's cap was drawn over his eyes, and the raised collar of his blue army overcoat nearly concealed his face. The man hurriedly begged pardon, and was hastening on when Mr. Jackson's exclamation274 of surprise caused him to stop and look at the person he had jostled.
"Why, Mr. Marlow," the agent began, "I'm glad to see you. It's a pleasure I feared I should never have again."
"My wife," the man almost gasped275, "she's still in the house I rented of you?"
"Oh, certainly," was the hasty reply. "It'll be all right' now."
"What do you mean? Has it not been all right?"
"Well, you see," said Mr. Jackson, apologetically, "we have been very lenient to your wife, but the rent has not been paid for over two months, and—"
"And you were about to turn her and her children out-of-doors in midwinter," broke in the soldier, wrathfully. "That is the way you sleek, comfortable stay-at-home people care for those fighting your battles. After you concluded that I was dead, and that the rent might not be forthcoming, you decided to put my wife into the street. Open your office, sir, and you shall have your rent."
"Now, Mr. Marlow, there's no cause for pitching into me in this way.
You know that I am but an agent, and—"
"Tell your rich employer, then, what I have said, and ask him what he would be worth to-day were there not men like myself, who are willing to risk everything and suffer everything for the union. But I've no time to bandy words. Have you seen my wife lately?"
"Yes," was the hesitating reply; "she was here to-day, and I—"
"How is she? What did you say to her?"
"Well, she doesn't look very strong. I felt sorry for her, and gave her more time, taking the responsibility myself—"
"How much time?"
"I said two weeks, but no doubt I could have had the time extended."
"I have MY doubts. Will you and your employer please accept my humble276 gratitude277 that you had the grace not to turn her out-of-doors during the holiday season? It might have caused remark; but that consideration and some others that I might name are not to be weighed against a few dollars and cents. I shall now remove the strain upon your patriotism at once, and will not only pay arrears, but also for two months in advance."
"Oh, there's no need of that to-day."
"Yes, there is. My wife shall feel to-night that she has a home. She evidently has not received the letter I wrote as soon as I reached our lines, or you would not have been talking to her about two weeks more of shelter."
The agent reopened his office and saw a roll of bills extracted from Marlow's pocket that left no doubt of the soldier's ability to provide for his family. He gave his receipt in silence, feeling that words would not mend matters, and then trudged278 off to his dinner with a nagging279 appetite.
As Marlow strode away he came to a sudden resolution—he would look upon his wife and children before they saw him; he would feast his eyes while they were unconscious of the love that was beaming upon them. The darkness and storm favored his project, and in brief time he saw the light in his window. Unlatching the gate softly, and with his steps muffled280 by the snow that already carpeted the frozen ground, he reached the window, the blinds of which were but partially closed. His children frolicking about the room were the first objects that caught his eye, and he almost laughed aloud in his joy. Then, by turning another blind slightly, he saw his wife shivering over the fire.
"Great God!" he muttered, "how she has suffered!" and he was about to rush in and take her into his arms. On the threshold he restrained himself, paused, and said, "No, not jet; I'll break the news of my return in my own way. The shock of my sudden appearance might be too great for her;" and he went back to the window. The wife's eyes were following her children with such a wistful tenderness that the boy, catching281 her gaze, stopped his sport, came to her side, and began to speak. They were but a few feet away, and Marlow caught every word.
"Mamma," the child said, "you didn't eat any breakfast, and I don't believe you have eaten anything to-day. You are always giving everything to us. Now I declare I won't eat another bit unless you take half of my cake;" and he broke off a piece and laid it in her lap.
"Oh, Jamie," cried the poor woman, "you looked so like your father when you spoke that I could almost see him;" and she caught him in her arms and covered him with kisses.
"I'll soon be big enough to take care of you. I'm going to grow up just like papa and do everything for you," the boy said proudly as she released him.
Little Susie also came and placed what was left of her cake in her mother's lap, saying:
"I'll work for you, too, mamma; and to-morrow I'll sell the doll Santa
Claus gave me last Christmas, and then we'll all have plenty to eat."
Anson Marlow was sobbing282 outside the window as only a man weeps; and his tears in the bitter cold became drops of ice before they reached the ground.
"My darlings!" the mother cried. "Oh, God spare me to you and provide some way for us! Your love should make me rich though I lack all else. There, I won't cry any more, and you shall have as happy a Christmas as I can give you. Perhaps He who knew what it was to be homeless and shelterless will provide for our need; so we'll try to trust Him and keep His birthday. And now, Jamie, go and bring the rest of the coal, and then we will make the dear home that papa gave us cheery and warm once more. If he were only with us we wouldn't mind hunger or cold, would we? Oh, my husband!" she broke out afresh, "if you could only come back, even though crippled and helpless, I feel that I could live and grow strong from simple gladness."
"Don't you think, mamma," Jamie asked, "that God will let papa come down from heaven and spend Christmas with us? He might be here like the angels, and we not see him."
"I'm afraid not," the sad woman replied, shaking her head and speaking more to herself than to the child. "I don't see how he could go back to heaven and be happy if he knew all. No, we must be patient and try to do our best, so that we can go to him. Go now, Jamie, before it gets too late. I'll get supper, and then we'll sing a Christmas hymn283; and you and Susie shall hang up your stockings, just as you did last Christmas, when dear papa was with us. We'll try to do everything he would wish, and then by and by we shall see him again."
As the boy started on his errand his father stepped back out of the light of the window, then followed the child with a great yearning284 in his heart. He would make sure the boy was safe at home again before he carried out his plan. From a distance he saw the little fellow receive the coal and start slowly homeward with the burden, and he followed to a point where the light of the street-lamps ceased, then joined the child, and said in a gruff voice, "Here, little man, I'm going your way. Let me carry your basket;" and he took it and strode on so fast that the boy had to run to keep pace with him. Jamie shuffled285 along through the snow as well as he could, but his little legs were so short in comparison with those of the kindly stranger that he found himself gradually falling behind. So he put on an extra burst of speed and managed to lay hold of the long blue skirt of the army overcoat.
"Please, sir, don't go quite so fast," he panted.
The stranger slackened his pace, and in a constrained286 tone of voice, asked:
"How far are you going, little man?"
"Only to our house—mamma's. She's Mrs. Marlow, you know."
"Yes, I know—that is, I reckon I do. How much further is it?"
"Oh, not much; we're most half-way now. I say, you're a soldier, aren't you?"
"Yes, my boy," said Marlow, with a lump in his throat. "Why?"
"Well, you see, my papa is a soldier, too, and I thought you might know him. We haven't heard from him for a good while, and—" choking a bit—"mamma's afraid he is hurt, or taken prisoner or something." He could not bring himself to say "killed."
Jamie let go the overcoat to draw his sleeve across his eyes, and the big man once more strode on faster than ever, and Jamie began to fear lest the dusky form might disappear in the snow and darkness with both basket and coal; but the apparent stranger so far forgot his part that he put down the basket at Mrs. Marlow's gate, and then passed on so quickly that the panting boy had not time to thank him. Indeed, Anson Marlow knew that if he lingered but a moment he would have the child in his arms.
"Why, Jamie," exclaimed his mother, "how could you get back so soon with that heavy basket? It was too heavy for you, but you will have to be mamma's little man mow287."
"A big man caught up with me and carried it. I don't care if he did have a gruff voice, I'm sure he was a good kind man. He knew where we lived too, for he put the basket down at our gate before I could say a word, I was so out of breath, and then he was out of sight in a minute." Some instinct kept him from saying anything about the army overcoat.
"It's some neighbor that lives further up the street, I suppose, and saw you getting the coal at the store," Mrs. Marlow said, "Yes, Jamie, it was a good, kind act to help a little boy, and I think he'll have a happier Christmas for doing it."
"Do you really think he'll have a happier Christmas, mamma?"
"Yes, I truly think so. We are so made that we cannot do a kind act without feeling the better for it."
"Well, I think he was a queer sort of a man if he was kind. I never knew any one to walk so fast. I spoke to him once, but he did not answer. Perhaps the wind roared so he couldn't hear me."
"No doubt he was hurrying home to his wife and children," she said with a deep sigh.
When his boy disappeared within the door of the cottage, Marlow turned and walked rapidly toward the city, first going to the grocery at which he had been in the habit of purchasing his supplies. The merchant stared for a moment, then stepped forward and greeted his customer warmly.
"Well," he said, after his first exclamations288 of surprise were over, "the snow has made you almost as white as a ghost; but I'm glad you're not one. We scarce ever thought to see you again."
"Has my wife an open account here now?" was the brief response.
"Yes, and it might have been much larger. I've told her so too. She stopped taking credit some time ago, and when she's had a dollar or two to spare she's paid it on the old score. She bought so little that I said to her once that she need not go elsewhere to buy; that I' d sell to her as cheap as any one: that I believed you'd come back all right, and if you didn't she could pay me when she could. What do you think she did? Why, she burst out crying, and said, 'God bless you, sir, for saying my husband will come back! So many have discouraged me.' I declare to you her feeling was so right down genuine that I had to mop my own eyes. But she wouldn't take any more credit, and she bought so little that I've been troubled. I'd have sent her something, but your wife somehow ain't one of them kind that you can give things to, and—"
Marlow interrupted the good-hearted, garrulous289 shopman by saying significantly, "Come with me to your back-office"; for the soldier feared that some one might enter who would recognize him and carry the tidings to his home prematurely290.
"Mr. Wilkins," he said rapidly, "I wanted to find out if you too had thriftily291 shut down on a soldier's wife. You shall not regret your kindness."
"Hang it all!" broke in Wilkins, with compunction, "I haven't been very kind. I ought to have gone and seen your wife and found out how things were; and I meant to, but I've been so confoundedly busy—"
"No matter now; I've not a moment to spare. You must help me to break the news of my return in my own way. I mean they shall have such a Christmas in the little cottage as was never known in this town. You could send a load right over there, couldn't you?"
"Certainly, certainly," said Wilkins, under the impulse of both business thrift240 and goodwill292; and a list of tea, coffee, sugar, flour, bread, cakes, apples, etc., was dashed off rapidly; and Marlow had the satisfaction of seeing the errand-boy, the two clerks, and the proprietor293 himself busily working to fill the order in the shortest possible space of time.
He next went to a restaurant, a little further down the street, where he had taken his meals for a short time before he brought his family to town, and was greeted with almost equal surprise and warmth. Marlow cut short all words by his almost feverish236 haste. A huge turkey had just been roasted for the needs of the coming holiday, and this with a cold ham and a pot of coffee was ordered to be sent in a covered tray within a quarter of an hour. Then a toy-shop was visited, and such a doll purchased! for tears came into Marlow's eyes whenever he thought of his child's offer to sell her dolly for her mother's sake.
After selecting a sled for Jamie, and directing that they should be sent at once, he could restrain his impatience294 no longer, and almost tore back to his station at the cottage window. His wife was placing the meagre little supper on the table, and how poor and scanty it was!
"Is that the best the dear soul can do on Christmas Eve?" he groaned. "Why, there's scarcely enough for little Sue. Thank God, my darling, I will sit down with you to a rather different supper before long!"
He bowed his head reverently295 with his wife as she asked God's blessing296, and wondered at her faith. Then he looked and listened again with a heart-hunger which had been growing for months.
"Do you really think Santa Claus will fill our stockings to-night?" Sue asked.
"I think he'll have something for you," she replied. "There are so many poor little boys and girls in the city that he may not be able to bring very much to you."
"Who is Santa Claus, anyway?" questioned Jamie.
Tears came into the wife's eyes as she thought of the one who had always remembered them so kindly as far as his modest means permitted.
She hesitated in her reply; and before she could decide upon an answer there was a knock at the door. Jamie ran to open it, and started back as a man entered with cap, eyebrows, beard, and shaggy coat all white with the falling snow. He placed two great baskets of provisions on the floor, and said they were for Mrs. Anson Marlow.
"There is some mistake," Mrs. Marlow began; but the children, after staring a moment, shouted, "Santa Claus! Santa Claus!"
The grocer's man took the unexpected cue instantly, and said, "No mistake, ma'am. They are from Santa Claus;" and before another word could be spoken he was gone. The face of the grocer's man was not very familiar to Mrs. Marlow, and the snow had disguised him completely. The children had no misgivings298 and pounced299 upon the baskets and with, exclamations of delight drew out such articles as they could lift.
"I can't understand it," said the mother, bewildered and almost frightened.
"Why, mamma, it's as plain as day," cried Jamie. "Didn't he look just like the pictures of Santa Claus—white beard and white eyebrows? Oh, mamma, mamma, here is a great paper of red-cheeked apples!" and he and Susie tugged300 at it until they dragged it over the side of the basket, when the bottom of the bag came out, and the fruit flecked the floor with red and gold. Oh, the bliss301 of picking up those apples; of comparing one with another; of running to the mother and asking which was the biggest and which the reddest and most beautifully streaked302!
"There must have been some mistake," the poor woman kept murmuring as she examined the baskets and found how liberal and varied303 was the supply, "for who could or would have been so kind?"
"Why, mommie," said little Sue, reproachfully, "Santa Claus brought 'em. Haven't you always told us that Santa Claus liked to make us happy?"
The long-exiled father felt that he could restrain himself but a few moments longer, and he was glad to see that the rest of his purchases were at the door. With a look so intent, and yearning concentration of thought so intense that it was strange that they could not feel his presence, he bent his eyes once more upon a scene that would imprint304 itself upon his memory forever.
But while he stood there, another scene came before his mental vision. Oddly enough his thought went back to that far-off Southern brookside, where he had lain with his hands in the cool water. He leaned against the window-casing, with the Northern snow whirling about his head; but he breathed the balmy breath of a Southern forest, the wood-thrush sang in the trees overhead, and he could—so it seemed to him—actually feel the water-worn pebbles305 under his palms as he watched the life-blood ebbing306 from his side. Then there was a dim consciousness of rough but kindly arms bearing him through the underbrush, and more distinctly the memory of weary weeks of convalescence307 in a mountaineer's cabin. All these scenes of peril308, before he finally reached the union lines, passed before him as he stood in a species of trance beside the window of his home.
The half-grown boys sent from the restaurant and toy-shop could not be mistaken for Santa Claus even by the credulous309 fancy of the children, and Mrs. Marlow stepped forward eagerly and said:
"I am sure there is some mistake. You are certainly leaving these articles at the wrong house." The faces of the children began to grow anxious and troubled also, for even their faith could not accept such marvellous good-fortune. Jamie looked at the sled with a kind of awe310, and saw at a glance that it was handsomer than any in the street "Mr. Lansing, a wealthy man, lives a little further on," Mrs. Marlow began to urge; "and these things must be meant—"
"Isn't your name Mrs. Anson Marlow?" asked the boy from the restaurant.
"Yes."
"Then I must do as I've been told;" and he opened his tray and placed the turkey, the ham, and the coffee on the table.
"If he's right, I'm right too," said he of the toy-shop. "Them was my directions;" and they were both about to depart when the woman sprang forward and gasped: "Stay!"
She clasped her hands and trembled violently.
"Who sent these things?" she faltered311.
"Our bosses, mum," replied the boy from the restaurant, hesitatingly.
She sprang toward him, seized his arm, and looked imploringly312 into his face. "Who ordered them sent?" she asked in a low, passionate313 voice.
The young fellow began to smile, and stammered314 awkwardly, "I don't think I'm to tell."
She released his arm and glanced around with a look of intense expectation.
"Oh, oh!" she gasped with quick short sobs, "can it be—" Then she sprang to the door, opened it, and looked out into the black, stormy night. What seemed a shadow rushed toward her; she felt herself falling, but strong arms caught and bore her, half fainting, to a lounge within the room.
Many have died from sorrow, but few from joy. With her husband's arms around her Mrs. Marlow's weakness soon passed. In response to his deep, earnest tones of soothing315 and entreaty316, she speedily opened her eyes and gave him a smile so full of content and unutterable joy that all anxiety in her behalf began to pass from his mind.
"Yes," she said softly, "I can live now. It seems as if a new and stronger life were coming back with every breath."
The young fellows who had been the bearers of the gifts were so touched that they drew their rough sleeves across their eyes as they hastened away, closing the door on the happiest family in the city.
A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS
A TRADITION OF THE REVOLUTION
Not very far from the Highlands of the Hudson, but at a considerable distance from the river, there stood, one hundred years ago, a farmhouse317 that evidently had been built as much for strength and defence as for comfort. The dwelling was one story and a half in height, and was constructed of hewn logs, fitted closely together, and made impervious318 to the weather by old-fashioned mortar319, which seems to defy the action of time. Two entrances facing each other led to the main or living room, and they were so large that a horse could pass through them, dragging in immense back-logs. These, having been detached from a chain when in the proper position, were rolled into the huge fireplace that yawned like a sooty cavern320 at the farther end of the apartment. A modern housekeeper321, who finds wood too dear an article for even the air-tight stove, would be appalled322 by this fireplace. Stalwart Mr. Reynolds, the master of the house, could easily walk under its stony323 arch without removing his broad-brimmed Quaker hat. From the left side, and at a convenient height from the hearth, a massive crane swung in and out; while high above the centre of the fire was an iron hook, or trammel, from which by chains were suspended the capacious iron pots used in those days for culinary or for stock-feeding purposes. This trammel, which hitherto had suggested only good cheer, was destined324 to have in coming years a terrible significance to the household.
When the blaze was moderate, or the bed of live coals not too ample, the children could sit on either side of the fireplace and watch the stars through its wide flue; and this was a favorite amusement of Phebe Reynolds, the eldest325 daughter of the house.
A door opened from the living-room into the other apartments, furnished in the old massive style that outlasts326 many generations. All the windows were protected by stout oaken shutters328 which, when closed, almost transformed the dwelling into a fortress329, giving security against any ordinary attack. There were no loopholes in the walls through which the muzzle330 of the deadly rifle could be thrust and fired from within. This feature, so common in the primitive331 abodes332 of the country, was not in accordance with John Reynolds's Quaker principles. While indisposed to fight, it was evident that the good man intended to interpose between himself and his enemies all the passive resistance that his stout little domicile could offer.
And he knew that he had enemies of the bitterest and most unscrupulous character. He was a stanch333 Whig, loyal to the American cause, and, above all, resolute334 and active in the maintenance of law and order in those lawless times. He thus had made himself obnoxious335 to his Tory neighbors, and an object of hate and fear to a gang of marauders, who, under the pretence336 of acting219 with the British forces, plundered338 the country far and near. Claudius Smith, the Robin339 Hood340 of the Highlands and the terror of the pastoral low country, had formerly341 been their leader; and the sympathy shown by Mr. Reynolds with all the efforts to bring him to justice which finally resulted in his capture and execution, and awakened342 among his former associates an intense desire for revenge. This fact, well known to the farmer, kept him constantly on his guard, and filled his wife and daughter Phebe with deep apprehension343.
At the time of our story, Phebe was only twelve years of age, but was mature beyond her years. There were several younger children, and she had become almost womanly in aiding her mother in their care. Her stout, plump little body had been developed rather than enfeebled by early toil344, and a pair of resolute and often mirthful blue eyes bespoke345 a spirit not easily daunted346. She was a native growth of the period, vitalized by pure air and out-of-door pursuits, and she abounded347 in the shrewd intelligence and demure151 refinement348 of her sect349 to a degree that led some of their neighbors to speak of her as "a little old woman." When alone with the children, however, or in the woods and fields, she would doff36 her Quaker primness350, and romp82, climb trees, and frolic with the wildest.
But of late, the troublous times and her father's peril had brought unwonted thoughtfulness into her blue eyes, and more than Quaker gravity to the fresh young face, which, in spite of exposure to sun and wind, maintained much of its inherited fairness of complexion351. Of her own accord she was becoming a vigilant352 sentinel, for a rumor353 had reached Mr. Reynolds that sooner or later he would have a visit from the dreaded354 mountain gang of hard riders. Two roads leading to the hills converged355 on the main highway not far from his dwelling; and from an adjacent knoll356 Phebe often watched this place, while her father, with a lad in his employ, completed their work about the barn. When the shadows deepened, all was made as secure as possible without and within, and the sturdy farmer, after committing himself and his household to the Divine protection, slept as only brave men sleep who are clear in conscience and accustomed to danger.
His faith was undoubtedly rewarded; but Providence357 in the execution of its will loves to use vigilant human eyes and ready, loving hands. The guardian358 angel destined to protect the good man was his blooming daughter Phebe, who had never thought of herself as an angel, and indeed rarely thought of herself at all, as is usually the case with those who do most to sweeten and brighten the world. She was a natural, wholesome359, human child, with all a child's unconsciousness of self. She knew she could not protect her father like a great stalwart son, but she could watch and warn him of danger, and as the sequel proved, she could do far more.
The farmer's habits were well known, and the ruffians of the mountains were aware that after he had shut himself in he was much like Noah in his ark. If they attempted to burn him out, the flames would bring down upon them a score of neighbors not hampered360 by Quaker principles. Therefore they resolved upon a sudden onslaught before he had finished the evening labors361 of the farm. This was what the farmer feared; and Phebe, like a vigilant outpost, was now never absent from her place of observation until called in.
One spring evening she saw two mounted men descending362 one of the roads which led from the mountains. Instead of jogging quietly out on the highway, as ordinary travellers would have done, they disappeared among the trees. Soon afterward363 she caught a glimpse of two other horsemen on the second mountain road. One of these soon came into full view, and looked up and down as if to see that all was clear. Apparently364 satisfied, he gave a low whistle, when three men joined him. Phebe waited to see no more, but sped toward the house, her flaxen curls flying from her flushed and excited face.
"They are coming, father! Thee must be quick!" she cried.
But a moment or two elapsed before all were within the dwelling, the doors banged and barred, the heavy shutters closed, and the home-fortress made secure. Phebe's warning had come none too soon, for they had scarcely time to take breath before the tramp of galloping365 horses and the oaths of their baffled foes366 were heard without. The marauders did not dare make much noise, for fear that some passing neighbor might give the alarm. Tying their horses behind the house, where they would be hidden from the road, they tried various expedients367 to gain an entrance, but the logs and heavy planks368 baffled them. At last one of the number suggested that they should ascend369 the roof and climb down the wide flue of the chimney. This plan was easy of execution, and for a few moments the stout farmer thought that his hour had come. With a heroism far beyond that of the man who strikes down his assailant, he prepared to suffer all things rather than take life with his own hands.
But his wife proved equal to this emergency. She had been making over a bed, and a large basket of feathers was within reach. There were live coals on the hearth, but they did not give out enough heat to prevent the ruffians from descending. Two of them were already in the chimney, and were threatening horrible vengeance370 if the least resistance was offered. Upon the coals on the hearth the housewife instantly emptied her basket of feathers; and a great volume of pungent371, stifling372 smoke poured up the chimney. The threats of the men, who by means of ropes were cautiously descending, were transformed into choking, half-suffocated sounds, and it was soon evident that the intruders were scrambling373 out as fast as possible. A hurried consultation374 on the roof ensued, and then, as if something had alarmed them, they galloped375 off. With the exception of the cries of the peepers, or hylas, in an adjacent swamp, the night soon grew quiet around the closed and darkened dwelling. Farmer Reynolds bowed in thanksgiving over their escape, and then after watching a few hours, slept as did thousands of others in those times of anxiety.
But Phebe did not sleep. She grew old by moments that night as do other girls by months and years; as never before she understood that her father's life was in peril. How much that life meant to her and the little brood of which she was the eldest! How much it meant to her dear mother, who was soon again to give birth to a little one that would need a father's protection and support! As the young girl lay in her little attic376 room, with dilated377 eyes and ears intent on the slightest sound, she was ready for any heroic self-sacrifice, without once dreaming that she was heroic.
The news of the night-attack spread fast, and there was a period of increased vigilance which compelled the outlaws378 to lie close in their mountain fastnesses. But Phebe knew that her father's enemies were still at large with their hate only stimulated379 because baffled for a time. Therefore she did not in the least relax her watchfulness380; and she besought their nearest neighbors to come to their assistance should any alarm be given.
When the spring and early summer passed without further trouble, they all began to breathe more freely, but one July night John Reynolds was betrayed by his patriotic381 impulses. He was awakened by a loud knocking at his door. Full of misgiving297, he rose and hastily dressed himself: Phebe, who had slipped on her clothes at the first alarm, joined him and said earnestly:
"Don't thee open the door, father, to anybody, at this time of night;" and his wife, now lying ill and helpless on a bed in the adjoining room, added her entreaty to that of her daughter. In answer, however, to Mr. Reynolds's inquiries382 a voice from without, speaking quietly and seemingly with authority, asserted that they were a squad383 from Washington's forces in search of deserters, and that no harm would ensue unless he denied their lawful384 request. Conscious of innocence385, and aware that detachments were often abroad on such authorized386 quests, Mr. Reynolds unbarred his door. The moment he opened it he saw his terrible error; not soldiers, but the members of the mountain gang, were crouched like wild beasts ready to spring upon him.
"Fly, father!" cried Phebe. "They won't hurt us;" but before the bewildered man could think what to do, the door flew open from the pressure of half a dozen wild-looking desperadoes, and he was powerless in their grasp. They evidently designed murder, but not a quick and merciful "taking off"; they first heaped upon their victim the vilest387 epithets388, seeking in their thirst for revenge to inflict389 all the terrors of death in anticipation. The good man, however, now face to face with his fate, grew calm and resigned. Exasperated390 by his courage, they began to cut and torture him with their swords and knives. Phebe rushed forward to interpose her little form between her father and the ruffians, and was dashed, half stunned391, into a corner of the room. Even for the sake of his sick wife, the brave farmer could not refrain from uttering groans392 of anguish which brought the poor woman with faltering393 steps into his presence. After one glance at the awful scene she sank, half fainting, on a settee near the door.
When the desire for plunder337 got the better of their fiendish cruelty, one of the gang threw a noosed394 rope over Mr. Reynolds's head, and then they hanged him to the trammel or iron hook in the great chimney.
"You can't smoke us out this time," they shouted. "You've now got to settle with the avengers of Claudius Smith; and you and some others will find us ugly customers to settle with."
They then rushed off to rob the house, for the farmer was reputed to have not a little money in his strong box. The moment they were gone Phebe seized a knife and cut her father down. Terror and excitement gave her almost supernatural strength, and with the aid of the boy in her father's service she got the poor man on a bed which he had occupied during his wife's illness. Her reviving mother was beginning to direct her movements when the ruffians again entered; and furious with rage, they again seized and hanged her father, while one, more brutal396 than the others, whipped the poor child with a heavy rope until he thought she was disabled. The girl at first cowered and shivered under the blows, and then sank as if lifeless on the floor. But the moment she was left to herself she darted397 forward and once more cut her father down. The robbers then flew upon the prostrate man and cut and stabbed him until they supposed he was dead. Toward his family they meditated398 a more terrible and devilish cruelty. After sacking the house and taking all the plunder they could carry, they relieved the horror-stricken wife and crying, shrieking399 children of their presence. Their further action, however, soon inspired Phebe with a new and more awful fear, for she found that they had fastened the doors on the outside and were building a fire against one of them.
For a moment an overpowering despair at the prospect of their fate almost paralyzed her. She believed her father was dead. The boy who had aided her at first was now dazed and helpless from terror. If aught could be done in this supreme400 moment of peril she saw that it must be done by her hands. The smoke from the kindling fire without was already curling in through the crevices401 around the door. There was not a moment, not a second to be lost. The ruffians' voices were growing fainter and she heard the sounds of their horses' feet. Would they go away in time for her to extinguish the fire? She ran to her attic room and cautiously opened the shutter327. Yes, they were mounting; and in the faint light of the late-rising moon she saw that they were taking her father's horses. A moment later, as if fearing that the blaze might cause immediate pursuit, they dashed off toward the mountains.
The clatter402 of their horses' hoofs403 had not died away before the intrepid404 girl had opened the shutter of a window nearest the ground, and springing lightly out with a pail in her hand she rushed to the trough near the barn, which she knew was full of water. Back and forth she flew between the fire and the convenient reservoir with all the water that her bruised405 arms and back permitted her to carry. Fortunately the night was a little damp, and the stout thick door had kindled slowly. To her intense joy she soon gained the mastery of the flames, and at last extinguished them.
She did not dare to open the door for fear that the robbers might return, but clambering in at the window, made all secure as had been customary, for now it was her impulse to do just as her father would have done.
She found her mother on her knees beside her father, who would indeed have been a ghastly and awful object to all but the eyes of love.
"Oh, Phebe, I hope—I almost believe thy father lives!" cried the woman. "Is it my throbbing406 palm, or does his heart still beat?"
"I'm sure it beats, mother!" cried the girl, putting her little hand on the gashed407 and mangled408 body.
"Oh, then there's hope! Here, Abner," to the boy, "isn't there any man in thee? Help Phebe get him on the bed, and then we must stop this awful bleeding. Oh, that I were well and strong! Phebe, thee must now take my place. Thee may save thy father's life. I can tell thee what to do if thee has the courage."
Phebe had the courage and with deft409 hands did her mother's bidding. She stanched410 the many gaping411 wounds; she gave spirits at first drop by drop, until at last the man breathed and was conscious. Even before the dawn began to brighten over the dreaded Highlands which their ruthless enemies were already climbing, Phebe was flying, bare-headed, across the fields to their nearest neighbor. The good people heard of the outrage412 with horror and indignation. A half-grown lad sprang on the bare back of a young horse and galloped across the country for a surgeon. A few moments later the farmer, equipped for chase and battle, dashed away at headlong pace to alarm the neighborhood. The news sped from house to house and hamlet to hamlet like fire in prairie grass. The sun had scarcely risen before a dozen bronzed and stern-browed men were riding into John Reynolds's farm-yard under the lead of young Hal June—the best shot that the wars had left in the region. The surgeon had already arrived, and before he ceased from his labors he had dressed thirty wounds.
The story told by Phebe had been as brief as it was terrible—for she was eager to return to her father and sick mother. She had not dreamed of herself as the heroine of the affair, and had not given any such impression, although more than one had remarked that she was "a plucky413 little chick to give the alarm before it was light." But when the proud mother faintly and tearfully related the particulars of the tragedy, and told how Phebe had saved her father's life and probably her mother's—for, "I was too sick to climb out of a window," she said; when she told how the child after a merciless whipping had again cut her father down from the trammel-hook, had extinguished the fire, and had been nursing her father back to life, while all the time in almost agony herself from the cruel blows that had been rained upon her—Phebe was dazed and bewildered at the storm of applause that greeted her. And when the surgeon, in order to intensify414 the general desire for vengeance, showed the great welts and scars on her arms and neck, gray-bearded fathers who had known her from infancy415 took her into their arms and blessed and kissed her. For once in his life young Hal June wished he was a gray-beard, but his course was much more to the mind of Phebe than any number of caresses416 would have been. Springing on his great black horse, and with his dark eyes burning with a fire that only blood could quench417, he shouted:
"Come, neighbors, it's time for deeds. That brave little woman ought to make a man of every mother's son of us;" and he dashed away so furiously that Phebe thought with a strange little tremor418 at her heart that he might in his speed face the robbers all alone. The stout yeomen clattered419 after him; the sound of their pursuit soon died away; and Phebe returned to woman's work of nursing, watching, and praying.
The bandits of the hills, not expecting such prompt retaliation420, were overtaken, and then followed a headlong race over the rough mountain roads—guilty wretches421 flying for life, and stern men almost reckless in the burning desire to avenge395 a terrible wrong. Although the horses of the marauders were tired, their riders were so well acquainted with the fastnesses of the wilderness422 that they led the pursuers through exceedingly difficult and dangerous paths. At last, June ever in the van, caught sight of a man's form, and almost instantly his rifle awoke a hundred echoes among the hills. When they reached the place, stains of blood marked the ground, proving that at least a wound had been given. Just beyond, the gang evidently had dispersed423, each one for himself, leaving behind everything that impeded424 their progress. The region was almost impenetrable in its wildness except by those who knew all its rugged425 paths. The body of the man whom June had wounded, however, was found, clothed in a suit of Quaker drab stolen from Mr. Reynolds. The rest of the band with few exceptions met with fates that accorded with their deeds.
Phebe had the happiness of nursing her father back to health, and although maimed and disfigured, he lived to a ripe old age. If the bud is the promise of the flower, Phebe must have developed a womanhood that was regal in its worth; at the same time I believe that she always remained a modest, demure little Quakeress, and never thought of her virtues426 except when reminded of them in plain English.
NOTE—In the preceding narrative427 I have followed almost literally428 a family tradition of events which actually occurred.
THE END
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7 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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8 tunes | |
n.曲调,曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 );调整;(给收音机、电视等)调谐;使协调 | |
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9 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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10 sniff | |
vi.嗅…味道;抽鼻涕;对嗤之以鼻,蔑视 | |
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11 sniffed | |
v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 );抽鼻子(尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气);抱怨,不以为然地说 | |
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12 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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13 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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14 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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16 fortified | |
adj. 加强的 | |
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17 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
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18 bin | |
n.箱柜;vt.放入箱内;[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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19 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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20 excavation | |
n.挖掘,发掘;被挖掘之地 | |
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21 resounded | |
v.(指声音等)回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 );产生回响;(指某处)回荡着声音 | |
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22 fiddle | |
n.小提琴;vi.拉提琴;不停拨弄,乱动 | |
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23 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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24 inter | |
v.埋葬 | |
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25 prominence | |
n.突出;显著;杰出;重要 | |
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26 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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27 plantation | |
n.种植园,大农场 | |
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28 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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29 gal | |
n.姑娘,少女 | |
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30 culled | |
v.挑选,剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31 earrings | |
n.耳环( earring的名词复数 );耳坠子 | |
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32 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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33 portentous | |
adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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34 shuffle | |
n.拖著脚走,洗纸牌;v.拖曳,慢吞吞地走 | |
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35 lout | |
n.粗鄙的人;举止粗鲁的人 | |
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36 doff | |
v.脱,丢弃,废除 | |
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37 doffed | |
v.脱去,(尤指)脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 bumptious | |
adj.傲慢的 | |
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39 parse | |
v.从语法上分析;n.从语法上分析 | |
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40 stentorian | |
adj.大声的,响亮的 | |
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41 bout | |
n.侵袭,发作;一次(阵,回);拳击等比赛 | |
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42 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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43 exhortation | |
n.劝告,规劝 | |
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44 inciting | |
刺激的,煽动的 | |
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45 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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46 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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47 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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48 surmises | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的第三人称单数 );揣测;猜想 | |
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49 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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50 potent | |
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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51 improvised | |
a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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52 oblivious | |
adj.易忘的,遗忘的,忘却的,健忘的 | |
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53 condescension | |
n.自以为高人一等,贬低(别人) | |
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54 pint | |
n.品脱 | |
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55 complacent | |
adj.自满的;自鸣得意的 | |
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56 gape | |
v.张口,打呵欠,目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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57 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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58 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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59 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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60 adventurous | |
adj.爱冒险的;惊心动魄的,惊险的,刺激的 | |
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61 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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62 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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63 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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64 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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65 allied | |
adj.协约国的;同盟国的 | |
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66 potentate | |
n.统治者;君主 | |
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67 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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68 incited | |
刺激,激励,煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69 arrogance | |
n.傲慢,自大 | |
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70 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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71 disaffected | |
adj.(政治上)不满的,叛离的 | |
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72 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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73 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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74 uproar | |
n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
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75 oar | |
n.桨,橹,划手;v.划行 | |
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76 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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77 dodged | |
v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 );回避 | |
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78 tryst | |
n.约会;v.与…幽会 | |
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79 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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80 semblance | |
n.外貌,外表 | |
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81 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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82 romp | |
n.欢闹;v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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83 succumb | |
v.屈服,屈从;死 | |
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84 chagrin | |
n.懊恼;气愤;委屈 | |
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85 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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86 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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87 aggrieved | |
adj.愤愤不平的,受委屈的;悲痛的;(在合法权利方面)受侵害的v.令委屈,令苦恼,侵害( aggrieve的过去式);令委屈,令苦恼,侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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88 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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89 negotiations | |
协商( negotiation的名词复数 ); 谈判; 完成(难事); 通过 | |
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90 judiciously | |
adv.明断地,明智而审慎地 | |
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91 wary | |
adj.谨慎的,机警的,小心的 | |
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92 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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93 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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94 axe | |
n.斧子;v.用斧头砍,削减 | |
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95 hoarding | |
n.贮藏;积蓄;临时围墙;囤积v.积蓄并储藏(某物)( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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96 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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97 exultant | |
adj.欢腾的,狂欢的,大喜的 | |
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98 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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99 sardines | |
n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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100 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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101 gibes | |
vi.嘲笑,嘲弄(gibe的第三人称单数形式) | |
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102 brazen | |
adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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103 condoned | |
v.容忍,宽恕,原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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105 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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106 saucy | |
adj.无礼的;俊俏的;活泼的 | |
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107 respite | |
n.休息,中止,暂缓 | |
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108 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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109 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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110 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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111 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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112 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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113 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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114 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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115 bagatelle | |
n.琐事;小曲儿 | |
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116 judicial | |
adj.司法的,法庭的,审判的,明断的,公正的 | |
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117 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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118 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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119 elusive | |
adj.难以表达(捉摸)的;令人困惑的;逃避的 | |
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120 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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121 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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122 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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123 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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124 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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125 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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126 volition | |
n.意志;决意 | |
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127 reticence | |
n.沉默,含蓄 | |
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128 affinities | |
n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 );亲近;(生性)喜爱;类同 | |
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129 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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130 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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131 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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132 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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133 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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134 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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135 writhed | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136 shrieked | |
v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137 ails | |
v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 );感到不舒服;处境困难;境况不佳 | |
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138 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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139 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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141 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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142 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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143 reeking | |
v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 );散发臭气;发出难闻的气味 (of sth);明显带有(令人不快或生疑的跡象) | |
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144 eking | |
v.(靠节省用量)使…的供应持久( eke的现在分词 );节约使用;竭力维持生计;勉强度日 | |
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145 ardor | |
n.热情,狂热 | |
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146 dire | |
adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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147 indictment | |
n.起诉;诉状 | |
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148 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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149 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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150 demurely | |
adv.装成端庄地,认真地 | |
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151 demure | |
adj.严肃的;端庄的 | |
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152 inordinately | |
adv.无度地,非常地 | |
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153 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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154 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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155 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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156 circumlocution | |
n. 绕圈子的话,迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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157 exasperating | |
adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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158 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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159 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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160 cogitation | |
n.仔细思考,计划,设计 | |
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161 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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162 shred | |
v.撕成碎片,变成碎片;n.碎布条,细片,些少 | |
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163 piazza | |
n.广场;走廊 | |
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164 engrossed | |
adj.全神贯注的 | |
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165 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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166 obdurate | |
adj.固执的,顽固的 | |
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167 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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168 prow | |
n.(飞机)机头,船头 | |
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169 stranded | |
a.搁浅的,进退两难的 | |
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170 recollecting | |
v.记起,想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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171 oars | |
n.桨,橹( oar的名词复数 );划手v.划(行)( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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172 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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173 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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174 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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175 averse | |
adj.厌恶的;反对的,不乐意的 | |
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176 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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177 ooze | |
n.软泥,渗出物;vi.渗出,泄漏;vt.慢慢渗出,流露 | |
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178 stationary | |
adj.固定的,静止不动的 | |
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179 waded | |
(从水、泥等)蹚,走过,跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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181 intemperate | |
adj.无节制的,放纵的 | |
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182 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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183 superfluous | |
adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
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184 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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185 ruptured | |
v.(使)破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 );(使体内组织等)断裂;使(友好关系)破裂;使绝交 | |
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186 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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187 dubiously | |
adv.可疑地,怀疑地 | |
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188 brawny | |
adj.强壮的 | |
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189 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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190 mantle | |
n.斗篷,覆罩之物,罩子;v.罩住,覆盖,脸红 | |
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191 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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192 dispensing | |
v.分配( dispense的现在分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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193 satire | |
n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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194 tighten | |
v.(使)变紧;(使)绷紧 | |
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195 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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196 moths | |
n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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197 scorched | |
烧焦,烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(植物)枯萎,把…晒枯; 高速行驶; 枯焦 | |
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198 lustrous | |
adj.有光泽的;光辉的 | |
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199 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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200 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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201 plight | |
n.困境,境况,誓约,艰难;vt.宣誓,保证,约定 | |
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202 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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203 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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204 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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205 taunt | |
n.辱骂,嘲弄;v.嘲弄 | |
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206 amends | |
n. 赔偿 | |
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207 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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208 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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209 gulches | |
n.峡谷( gulch的名词复数 ) | |
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210 torrents | |
n.倾注;奔流( torrent的名词复数 );急流;爆发;连续不断 | |
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211 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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212 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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213 babbled | |
v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 );作潺潺声(如流水);含糊不清地说话;泄漏秘密 | |
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214 cascade | |
n.小瀑布,喷流;层叠;vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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215 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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216 slaked | |
v.满足( slake的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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217 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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218 enacting | |
制定(法律),通过(法案)( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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219 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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220 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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221 trout | |
n.鳟鱼;鲑鱼(属) | |
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222 boughs | |
大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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223 shimmered | |
v.闪闪发光,发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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224 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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225 rubies | |
红宝石( ruby的名词复数 ); 红宝石色,深红色 | |
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226 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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227 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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228 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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229 scanty | |
adj.缺乏的,仅有的,节省的,狭小的,不够的 | |
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230 arrears | |
n.到期未付之债,拖欠的款项;待做的工作 | |
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231 exigencies | |
n.急切需要 | |
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232 languishing | |
a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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233 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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234 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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235 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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236 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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237 feverishly | |
adv. 兴奋地 | |
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238 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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239 prostration | |
n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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240 thrift | |
adj.节约,节俭;n.节俭,节约 | |
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241 thrifty | |
adj.节俭的;兴旺的;健壮的 | |
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242 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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243 earnings | |
n.工资收人;利润,利益,所得 | |
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244 pawning | |
v.典当,抵押( pawn的现在分词 );以(某事物)担保 | |
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245 patriotism | |
n.爱国精神,爱国心,爱国主义 | |
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246 orphans | |
孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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247 stagnation | |
n. 停滞 | |
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248 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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249 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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250 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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251 crouched | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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253 pittance | |
n.微薄的薪水,少量 | |
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254 tenement | |
n.公寓;房屋 | |
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255 imprisoned | |
下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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257 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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258 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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259 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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260 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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261 besought | |
v.恳求,乞求(某事物)( beseech的过去式和过去分词 );(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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262 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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263 sleek | |
adj.光滑的,井然有序的;v.使光滑,梳拢 | |
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264 lenient | |
adj.宽大的,仁慈的 | |
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265 shrouded | |
v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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266 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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267 ornamented | |
adj.花式字体的v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268 kindling | |
n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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269 tottering | |
adj.蹒跚的,动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 );踉跄;蹒跚;摇摇欲坠 | |
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270 replenish | |
vt.补充;(把…)装满;(再)填满 | |
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271 ambrosia | |
n.神的食物;蜂食 | |
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272 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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273 cowered | |
v.畏缩,抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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274 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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275 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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276 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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277 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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278 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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279 nagging | |
adj.唠叨的,挑剔的;使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的现在分词 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责 | |
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280 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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281 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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282 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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283 hymn | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌 | |
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284 yearning | |
a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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285 shuffled | |
v.洗(纸牌)( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 );拖着脚步走;粗心地做;摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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286 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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287 mow | |
v.割(草、麦等),扫射,皱眉;n.草堆,谷物堆 | |
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288 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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289 garrulous | |
adj.唠叨的,多话的 | |
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290 prematurely | |
adv.过早地,贸然地 | |
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291 thriftily | |
节俭地; 繁茂地; 繁荣的 | |
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292 goodwill | |
n.善意,亲善,信誉,声誉 | |
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293 proprietor | |
n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
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294 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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295 reverently | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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296 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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297 misgiving | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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298 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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299 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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300 tugged | |
v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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301 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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302 streaked | |
adj.有条斑纹的,不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 );使布满条纹 | |
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303 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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304 imprint | |
n.印痕,痕迹;深刻的印象;vt.压印,牢记 | |
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305 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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306 ebbing | |
(指潮水)退( ebb的现在分词 ); 落; 减少; 衰落 | |
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307 convalescence | |
n.病后康复期 | |
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308 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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309 credulous | |
adj.轻信的,易信的 | |
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310 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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311 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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312 imploringly | |
adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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313 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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314 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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315 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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316 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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317 farmhouse | |
n.农场住宅(尤指主要住房) | |
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318 impervious | |
adj.不能渗透的,不能穿过的,不易伤害的 | |
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319 mortar | |
n.灰浆,灰泥;迫击炮;v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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320 cavern | |
n.洞穴,大山洞 | |
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321 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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322 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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323 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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324 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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325 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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326 outlasts | |
v.比…长久,比…活得长( outlast的第三人称单数 ) | |
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327 shutter | |
n.百叶窗;(照相机)快门;关闭装置 | |
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328 shutters | |
百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 ); (照相机的)快门 | |
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329 fortress | |
n.堡垒,防御工事 | |
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330 muzzle | |
n.鼻口部;口套;枪(炮)口;vt.使缄默 | |
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331 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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332 abodes | |
住所( abode的名词复数 ); 公寓; (在某地的)暂住; 逗留 | |
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333 stanch | |
v.止住(血等);adj.坚固的;坚定的 | |
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334 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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335 obnoxious | |
adj.极恼人的,讨人厌的,可憎的 | |
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336 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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337 plunder | |
vt.劫掠财物,掠夺;n.劫掠物,赃物;劫掠 | |
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338 plundered | |
掠夺,抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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339 robin | |
n.知更鸟,红襟鸟 | |
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340 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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341 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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342 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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343 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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344 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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345 bespoke | |
adj.(产品)订做的;专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 );订(货);证明;预先请求 | |
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346 daunted | |
使(某人)气馁,威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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347 abounded | |
v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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348 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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349 sect | |
n.派别,宗教,学派,派系 | |
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350 primness | |
n.循规蹈矩,整洁 | |
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351 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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352 vigilant | |
adj.警觉的,警戒的,警惕的 | |
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353 rumor | |
n.谣言,谣传,传说 | |
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354 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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355 converged | |
v.(线条、运动的物体等)会于一点( converge的过去式 );(趋于)相似或相同;人或车辆汇集;聚集 | |
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356 knoll | |
n.小山,小丘 | |
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357 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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358 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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359 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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360 hampered | |
妨碍,束缚,限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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361 labors | |
v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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362 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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363 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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364 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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365 galloping | |
adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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366 foes | |
敌人,仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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367 expedients | |
n.应急有效的,权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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368 planks | |
(厚)木板( plank的名词复数 ); 政纲条目,政策要点 | |
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369 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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370 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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371 pungent | |
adj.(气味、味道)刺激性的,辛辣的;尖锐的 | |
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372 stifling | |
a.令人窒息的 | |
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373 scrambling | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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374 consultation | |
n.咨询;商量;商议;会议 | |
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375 galloped | |
(使马)飞奔,奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 ); 快速做[说]某事 | |
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376 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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377 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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378 outlaws | |
歹徒,亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 ); 逃犯 | |
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379 stimulated | |
a.刺激的 | |
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380 watchfulness | |
警惕,留心; 警觉(性) | |
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381 patriotic | |
adj.爱国的,有爱国心的 | |
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382 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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383 squad | |
n.班,小队,小团体;vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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384 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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385 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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386 authorized | |
a.委任的,许可的 | |
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387 vilest | |
adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 );可耻的;极坏的;非常讨厌的 | |
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388 epithets | |
n.(表示性质、特征等的)词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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389 inflict | |
vt.(on)把…强加给,使遭受,使承担 | |
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390 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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391 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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392 groans | |
n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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393 faltering | |
犹豫的,支吾的,蹒跚的 | |
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394 noosed | |
v.绞索,套索( noose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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395 avenge | |
v.为...复仇,为...报仇 | |
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396 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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397 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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398 meditated | |
深思,沉思,冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 ); 内心策划,考虑 | |
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399 shrieking | |
v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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400 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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401 crevices | |
n.(尤指岩石的)裂缝,缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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402 clatter | |
v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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403 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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404 intrepid | |
adj.无畏的,刚毅的 | |
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405 bruised | |
[医]青肿的,瘀紫的 | |
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406 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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407 gashed | |
v.划伤,割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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408 mangled | |
vt.乱砍(mangle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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409 deft | |
adj.灵巧的,熟练的(a deft hand 能手) | |
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410 stanched | |
v.使(伤口)止血( stanch的过去式 );止(血);使不漏;使不流失 | |
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411 gaping | |
adj.口的;张口的;敞口的;多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 );张开,张大 | |
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412 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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413 plucky | |
adj.勇敢的 | |
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414 intensify | |
vt.加强;变强;加剧 | |
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415 infancy | |
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
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416 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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417 quench | |
vt.熄灭,扑灭;压制 | |
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418 tremor | |
n.震动,颤动,战栗,兴奋,地震 | |
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419 clattered | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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420 retaliation | |
n.报复,反击 | |
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421 wretches | |
n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 );可怜的人;恶棍;坏蛋 | |
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422 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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423 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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424 impeded | |
阻碍,妨碍,阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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425 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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426 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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427 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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428 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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