While he was still little more than a boy he became the most honoured member of the Hopewell community; long before his hair was grey he began to be spoken of as one of the great men of the Colony. What Master Simon had been to his own little town, Stephen was beginning to be to all New England. Governors and King’s officers sought his advice, merchants and ship-masters and labouring men of every kind and degree laid their perplexities before him. That he was esteemed3 the wisest man in all Massachusetts was denied by no one save Stephen himself. With honest sincerity4 he laughed at all allusions5 to his greatness and thought of himself only as a humble6 man of law.
“If I have had good fortune,” he used to say, “it is because of the shoemaker’s luck-penny. If people come to me it is only because they know that I am a hampered7 fellow and cannot well go to them. It is kindness of heart and that alone that brings a portion of the great world past my doors.”
It was a strange and motley procession that went in and out of the great house, for half of his guests were dressed in frieze8 and homespun, while the other half came clad in satins and velvets and gold-laced scarlet10 coats.
Gone now were the old times of rigid11 economy and stern simplicity12 among the Puritans. Men wore bright-coloured uniforms, lace ruffles13 and great powdered wigs14, while the women, with their jewels, their patches, their high, red heels and long brocaded trains, were as gorgeously arrayed as the ladies of the English court. There used to be noble gatherings15 in Stephen’s big dining-room, when the greatest men in the land sat about his board and the tall wax tapers16 shone upon the officers’ red coats and jewelled orders, upon the ladies’ powdered hair and diamonds and upon the more soberly rich garb17 of the wealthy Massachusetts citizens. A throng18 of black-faced servants, themselves decked out in livery and powdered wigs, would wait upon the company and later conduct them into the long white-panelled drawing-room whose open windows looked out across the garden to the sea. Or, if it were winter, the guests would gather about the fireplace which, although much of the house was new, was the same rough stone one built by Master Simon’s hands. Amid this gay crowd of friends moved Stephen, quiet-mannered and simply clad, the only ornament20 upon his dark coat a diamond star given him by the King of France.
That was a time, also, when the garden bloomed in greater glory than it had ever known before. Those to whom Stephen had done good, and these were a countless21 legion, could give him nothing in return in the way of money or high office, for such rewards he did not want. But the royal Governors could send him costly22 fruit-trees from their English estates, poor sailors could bring him rare plants from foreign lands and his good friends of Hopewell could offer him the best they had of flower or fruit. The gardener used to say that Master Sheffield gave away so many plants and flowers that soon there would be nothing left, but that is the usual talk of gardeners. This one, with his acres of many coloured blossoms could not say, generous as Stephen was, that the danger of stripping the garden was a great or an immediate23 one.
One portion was left unaltered, that planted by Master Simon; for beehives still stood in a row beneath the old, old apple trees, and daffodils in Spring and hollyhocks in summer still bloomed in a riot of colour beside the white gate. The Queen’s garden, too, was untouched by any change and here Stephen came often to sit on the bench under the linden tree and to ponder upon the more and more grave problems that must be solved by those who had the welfare of New England at heart. Troubled times were these, with greater difficulties plainly still to come. It was here that he was sitting, one summer day, knitting his brows over a letter with a great, red seal, when there came an interruption that was to mean much to all his after life.
The creak of the opening gate announced a visitor, its hurried bang as it closed again told plainly that the newcomer was in haste. Looking up from his letter, Stephen saw before him the town constable24, his good-natured face clouded with perplexity, his brass-tipped staff, the badge of his office, held stiffly before him, a sure sign that public duty was weighing the good man down. He was followed by a middle-aged25 woman whose dark, weatherbeaten countenance26 was lined with grief and whose hair, under her odd, close-fitting starched27 cap was threaded with grey. She bore in her arms a bundle of what seemed to be nothing but delicately embroidered28 garments but which, suddenly beginning to stir and turn, revealed itself as a dark-eyed baby of possibly a year old. The woman dropped a deep curtsey and then stood waiting in silence.
“Please, Master Sheffield,” began the distressed29 constable, “this woman is one of the exiles from Acadia, who, as we all have heard, were landed seven days ago in Boston and who have been wandering all through the Colony. She has somehow come this far, but there is no one in the town who can tell what to do with her. She understands no word we say and, when I speak to her, only curtseys, weeps or breaks into some foreign jargon30 of her own.”
“From Acadia?” repeated Stephen. His clear eyes clouded at the name, for he knew and bitterly regretted the policy that had led British troops into occupying the French-speaking province of Acadia, and into driving all the peaceable inhabitants into exile. Hurrying them on board ship, they had sent them off anywhere and everywhere, in wild haste to be rid of them, little caring whether families were separated or children and their parents were lost to each other forever. Stephen, very gently and kindly31, spoke2 to the woman in her own tongue.
Such a flash of joy as lighted up her poor worn face when she heard speech that she could at last understand, and such a flood of voluble French as she poured out when Stephen had finished! The constable looked on in amazement32 and finally heaved a long sigh of relief.
“I might have known enough to come to Master Sheffield in the first place,” he exclaimed. “He always knows what is best to do!”
Stephen, after talking a few minutes with the woman, turned to him.
“I will take the poor creature into my service,” he said, “there is need of another helper in the kitchen and there seems naught33 else to do with her. She can live, with the baby, in the cottage across the field yonder, it has been empty this year past. Take her up to the house, if you please, good Master Constable, and tell the servants to give her a meal and something for the baby. And bid Jason, who was with me in France and can speak a few words of her tongue, to go with her and show her where she is to abide34. It is a good child you have,” he added in French to the woman, “is it a granddaughter or a grandson?”
“The baby is a girl, Monsieur,” she answered, “but not mine. Indeed I have no way of knowing to whom she belongs, for, just as I was being taken on board ship to be torn forever from my dear native land, I found this little one wailing36 on the beach, left behind, in the confusion, by the boat that must have carried away her parents. And I, who had lost all those belonging to me in the same way, gathered her into my arms and kept her with me through all the long, dreadful voyage. A good child she is indeed, and I have named her Clotilde, after my own little daughter that died twenty years ago. May Heaven bless you for taking pity on us and letting us bide35 where we can hear our own speech again.”
She was led by the constable up toward the house while Stephen returned to his letter. It had to do with a mission to England that all the worthies37 of Massachusetts were begging him to undertake. Once before this, he had gone to France on a weighty errand for the people of the province. He had come back with the mission well performed, with the good will of the French people and with the diamond star that the French King’s own hands had pinned upon his coat. And now his comrades were asking him to take up a still more difficult task, to do what he could toward healing the growing breach38 between the Colonies and the Mother Country.
Even as Sergeant Branderby had said, Kings and Queens had grown to be of less value now, so that, with the fading loyalty39 to the crown, there had diminished the regard of the New World for the Old. The dashing Stuart Kings had been beloved in a way, so had the simple-hearted, good Queen Anne, but these German princes who sat on the British throne, who possessed40 little power and who were half the time in Hanover, what bond had they with the Colonies? It was hard to be loyal to political governors, to the constantly changing ministers in London and to the Parliament that was ever piling up new laws that bore heavily on America. It was, therefore, to mend these difficult matters that Stephen Sheffield was begged to go to England.
“Ah, well,” he said at last, coming to the end of a long argument with himself, “my strength is not much, but if it is of any worth to my Colony I may as well give it while I can.”
So it happened that the little cottage that had once been Samuel Skerry’s had scarcely received its new French tenants41 before the great mansion42 on the hill was closed and its master had sailed away to England. Madame Jeanne Lamotte, or Mother Lamotte, as the Acadian woman came to be called in Hopewell, kept a watchful43 eye upon Stephen’s house and the negro servants who had been left to care for it. For the rest of the time, she was busy scrubbing and polishing in the shoemaker’s dilapidated cottage, and tending the rapidly-growing Clotilde. A merry, active little girl she soon grew to be, with yellow hair and great dark eyes, quick and dainty in her ways and looking, so the people of the village said, more like an infant angel than a foundling French child.
Slow-sailing ships and slow-dragging politics kept Stephen long away, so that it was more than two years before he returned to America. He brought with him, when at last he came, a priceless document, signed by His Majesty44 King George the Second, and, what was of far greater worth, by the new and powerful Prime Minister, William Pitt, assuring the Colonies of their rights and privileges for a time at least. But even now his travelling was not at an end, for he made long journeys up and down the seacoast, preaching a new political doctrine46 of which he had begun to see the desperate need, namely union for all of America. If the colonists47 were to guard their freedom, they must learn to act together, to band themselves into a nation of their own.
Friends remonstrated49 when they saw how much more frail50 and ill he began to look, how hollow his gay blue eyes were becoming and how grey his hair. But Stephen laughed like a boy at all they said, and put their warnings aside.
“Grudge me not my share of the game,” he would say. “If the fighting comes, you that are staunchly built and mighty51 of limb will then have your turn and mine will be over. Let me do my part while the time allows.”
It was only once during this long period that he saw the little Clotilde. The meeting occurred one late afternoon when he was abiding52 for a day or two in his own house and had walked out into the garden to enjoy the coolness, peace and quiet beauty. Guests were coming later among whom there would be much weighty discussion of urgent affairs, but now, for a little, there was rest and stillness.
As he passed down one of the grass-covered walks, he heard, behind the hawthorn53 bush, a sweet clear little voice singing an old French song. He turned the corner of the path and came upon the little Acadian girl, sitting beside a bed of white and yellow flowers and looking not unlike them herself, so fair and dainty was she with her fresh white kerchief, her snowy apron54 and her bright golden hair. Seeing Stephen, she jumped up, quite unabashed, and dropped him a prim45 little curtsey.
“Tell me, what are you doing here and what was it you were singing?” he asked with a smile.
“It was a French song that Mère Jeanne taught me,” was her reply, “and I come here often to sit by the flowers and sing to them.”
“You sing to the flowers?” he repeated, puzzled. “What leads you to do that and why to these especial ones?”
“The gardener told me that they came from our land,” she answered gravely, “and that the name men give them is ‘fair maids of France.’ So, since they are in exile as well as we, I come and sing my French songs to them, lest they grow lonely and weep as Mère Jeanne so often does.”
Stephen held out his hand and took her tiny one into it.
“You are a very little maid to be so loyal to your country, and to your fellow exiles,” he said, “and you are young indeed to know the sorrows of banishment55. Suppose you lead me to that Mère Jeanne of yours, so that we may try to comfort her a little.”
That night Master Sheffield’s guests, although they were many and of high importance, had to wait in the long drawing-room, while their host, yonder across the misty56 field, sat on the bench before the shoemaker’s cottage and talked in French to Mother Jeanne Lamotte. She, poor soul, had learned but little English and found black Jason’s few halting words of French, very small comfort indeed. Now that she could pour her heart out to one who could understand her native speech, it seemed as though she would never have done. Stephen duly admired the neatness and strict order of her little dwelling57 but finally declared that it had grown too old and tumble-down for comfort and that she and Clotilde must come to abide in the great house, where, since his sisters’ marriages and the death of his parents he lived alone save for the black servants.
“There is room in abundance,” he said, “and the little maid will help to brighten a place where all of us, master and men, are growing dreary58 and old together. Would you like to dwell there, Mademoiselle Clotilde?”
“Indeed I would,” she cried with joy, “for there are great wide rooms to play in and here are only four walls and a smoky chimney.”
Mother Jeanne reproached her severely59 for this criticism of their dwelling but Stephen, laughing, insisted that she was right and that the change must be made at once. But when next day Mother Jeanne and Clotilde gathered up their few possessions and carried them to the big house, they found the master gone again and for several months they saw his face no more.
He went and came much in the years that followed so that he and Clotilde caught only fleeting60 glimpses of each other, yet learned, for all that, to be close friends. Sometimes he found her racing61 about the garden walks with her boon62 companion, Miles Atherton, a sturdy, slow-spoken lad of Hopewell, sometimes he found her going about her work in the big house, for she was nimble-fingered and industrious63 and began early to be a great help to her dear Mère Jeanne. There was one cosy64 winter evening when she sat on his knee before the blazing fire and heard the tale of King James’ Tree and of Sergeant Branderby and learned how his two great pistols came to hang above the chimney-piece. Upon another occasion, a warm summer morning when the linden tree was in bloom, he and she and Miles Atherton sat upon the bench in the Queen’s Garden while Stephen told the two eager children the story of Master Simon and Queen Elizabeth, and of how Margeret Radpath and Roger Bardwell had, on that very spot, witnessed the French priest’s forbidden mass.
Stephen told them too, one rainy day as they sat in his study, of Jeremiah Macrae and his still unfulfilled prophecy of the destruction of the garden. He even got down the great family Bible and turned the pages to find that same picture that had struck terror to the heart of little Margeret Radpath, the figure of one of the prophets of old, standing65 by the city gate and crying forth66 a warning of the ruin and desolation that would come to the land. The tale laid such hold upon Clotilde’s imagination that she dreamed that night of the ominous67 Master Macrae and thought for many a day thereafter of what he had foretold68. So dearly did she love Master Simon’s garden and all that grew in it, that the very thought of harm coming to that dear place was more than she could bear. One day, some weeks after, Miles came upon her with the great Bible open on the table while she stared in terrified fascination69 at the picture of the prophet.
“Surely you are not thinking of that story still!” exclaimed Miles. “Why the man has been dead and his words forgotten for nearly a hundred years. You do not think that what he said could really come true, Clotilde?”
“N-no,” she faltered70, closing the book with a great sigh, “I do not think his words could come true—but they might. I do not know what to think, yet I cannot put the tale out of my mind. When Master Sheffield comes home I will ask him whether I should believe it or not.”
“We will ask him,” returned Miles sturdily, “but I will not credit such a dismal71 prophecy unless I must.”
Clotilde would have given much to feel as he did, but could not put aside the secret misgiving72 hidden in her heart. She never let Miles see her looking at the picture again, but she peeped at it more than once, none the less. Quaint73 and rude as was the old woodcut, there was still something very earnest and very terrible about the face and figure that were supposed to resemble Jeremiah Macrae’s.
Before Stephen returned, however, the affair had very nearly drifted from her mind. There were long, long months now when the master of the house was from home, when she missed him sorely and when Mother Jeanne would shake her head and say:
“Our good Monsieur has not too strong a hold upon health. It will cost him his life if he does not give up these endless journeyings.”
There came an evening when Stephen, after a long absence, drew rein74 before the door and dismounted, almost too weary to climb the wide, stone steps. It was to a nearly empty house that he came, for the servants had all gone to some festival in the village and only Clotilde came running out to welcome him with a shout of joy, while Mère Jeanne stood smiling and curtseying in the doorway75.
“There will be three men to sup with me,” said Stephen, “so have all in readiness as soon as you can. And let my man Michael, when he has carried in the saddle bags, eat and go to bed at once, for he is worn out with our long riding.”
“But yourself, Monsieur!” Mother Jeanne ventured to remonstrate48.
“No, no, woman,” he replied quickly, “I am not weary and have much work to do.”
The guests arrived presently, all three riding up to the door together. There was Doctor Thorndyke of Hopewell in his shabby plum-coloured coat and muddy boots, and with him two strangers, one from Boston, so Clotilde gathered from their talk, and one from Salem.
“We came in company,” said Doctor Thorndyke as he dismounted at the steps, “for our friend here tells me that a man rode after him half way from the last inn and that he fears some rascal76 may have got wind of the money that we carry.” He unstrapped his saddle bags and carried them into the house. “My faith,” he said, “but I am not often so valuable a man as I find myself to-night. I fairly jingle77 as I walk!”
Mère Jeanne, who was a famous cook, had prepared a supper fit for King George himself. Clotilde waited on the company and received a nod and smile from Doctor Thorndyke who was her old and well-loved friend. When the meal was ended and she came to carry the plates away, she found that the dishes had been pushed back and that each man had produced a leather bag and had poured out on the table a stream of gold, silver and copper78 money. Every kind of coin was there, clumsy pennies, silver shillings, Spanish gold pieces of eight. When all was counted and piled in a heap together it made a sum that caused Clotilde’s eyes to open wide and quite took her breath away. It was a strange sight, the pile of coins shining in the candlelight, the three eager faces lit by the yellow flame, with Stephen’s white and weary one resting against the back of his big armchair.
“Here, then,” she heard Doctor Thorndyke say as she was carrying away the last of the dishes, “is the money for our first fighting-ship, the gift of Massachusetts to the United Colonies. The sum has been generously given by rich and poor alike, for people are beginning to look a little into the future and to see that there will be need for such a ship and many others. It would have been a misfortune surely had we been robbed upon the way.”
“I can scarcely believe,” observed Stephen, “that there is any one in the colony capable of such a deed.”
“We boast some precious rascals79 in our midst,” said the man from Salem, “men who, if they would not do it of their own will, could easily be persuaded to the task by some one above them. I think that the authorities have got wind of our plan and, not daring to take so bold a step as to confiscate80 the money openly, would be glad to lay hold of it in some such way. However, the whole matter is a mere81 guess; there may have been no harm in the fellow who followed us. At any rate, we have arrived safely and the money for our ship lies here upon the table.” He filled his glass and held it up:
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I give you the American navy.”
“I have a further gift to add,” said Stephen as he rose with the others to drink the toast standing, “for I can see now that the great pine tree at the corner of my garden can be of better service than as a shelter to travellers on the King’s highway. It shall form the mast of our new vessel82 and shall put to sea flying the flag—of a new nation.”
A shout and a clinking together of glasses followed his words, but Clotilde heard no more for she had gone out with her tray and the door had swung to behind her.
The night was warm and the long windows of the hall stood open into the garden, letting in the scent83 of heliotrope84 and wallflowers and the far-off sound of the sea. Clotilde, a little weary with the bustle85 of unexpected preparations, set down her tray upon the sill and leaned her hot forehead against the cool pane19. Outside there was only starlight, but so clear was the night that she could make out the lines of the garden hedges and the narrow, winding86 walks. How strange, she seemed to see a darker shadow moving toward her among the flower beds, then another, and another! Could it be the servants coming home?
In the dining room, Stephen and his guests were leisurely87 returning the money to the leather bags and discussing as to the safest and quickest method of sending it to Boston, when they were startled by the sudden crash of the window’s swinging back upon its hinges. A tall, dark-clad man climbed over the sill, levelling toward them the long barrel of a pistol. Behind him, three more scrambled88 up and, similarly armed and similarly threatening, stood in a sinister89 row against the wall.
“Hold up your hands, good masters,” ordered the first one, with an easy insolence90 that had almost the air of official authority. “You are dead men otherwise, so you may as well obey!”
The three guests did as they were told instantly, the doctor sputtering91 with rage and threatening the robbers with dire92 punishment. But Stephen’s hands did not move.
“Quick, sir,” commanded the robber. “Have you no regard for your life?”
“I have,” replied Stephen quietly, “but I have a greater regard for the people’s money that has been entrusted93 to my care. Were it my own, I admit that I might give it up to avoid bloodshed, but as it is—”
There was a burst of flame from the robber’s pistol and a loud report. The ball cut through Stephen’s coat sleeve and grazed his arm so that the warm blood came trickling94 down into his hand.
“Now will you give up the money?” cried the thief as Stephen reeled and caught at the back of the chair.
“No!” was his defiant95 answer. His only weapon was the ebony cane96 that was always near his hand, but with this upraised, he advanced upon his enemy. The masked robber lifted his pistol again.
“Come, men,” he was saying.
“Bang,” came a deafening97 crash from beyond the door. Had a cannon98 been discharged within the house it could not have sounded louder. The thieves drew back and looked at each other dismayed.
“Bang,” came a second explosion more terrific than the first. It shook the walls of the whole dwelling and was followed by the tinkle99 of breaking glass.
“It is the town watch!” cried one of the robbers.
Out through the window they plunged100, stumbling and jostling and falling over one another in their haste to escape. Doctor Thorndyke sprang forward in pursuit unarmed as he was, the man from Salem was about to follow, but Stephen held up his hand.
“Let them go for the moment,” he said, “should they turn upon you in the garden you were surely a dead man. I will have my servant carry the alarm to the village and call out the town watch.” He sank into the big chair and his friends hastened to support his bleeding arm.
“Open the door,” Stephen directed weakly. “Let us see to whom we owe our rescue. I am well-nigh certain that it was not the watch.”
It was Doctor Thorndyke who did his bidding, threw open the door and started back in amazement at what he saw. Upon the threshold stood a dainty little maiden101 with golden hair and neat, white frilled apron. In either hand she held a great, smoking, horse-pistol.
“Clotilde!” cried Stephen. “Where, in Heaven’s name, got you such weapons?”
“They were Sergeant Branderby’s,” she replied simply. “There seemed naught else to do, so it occurred to me to climb up and see if by chance, they were still loaded. I regret that I broke a window and blew two great holes in the frame.”
“You are a brave lass,” exclaimed Doctor Thorndyke. Stephen put out his unwounded arm and drew her to him.
“Child, child,” he said, “the pistols might have burst and killed you where you stood!”
“That were no matter,” maintained the little girl stoutly102, “so only you and the public money were safe. Oh, oh, you are hurt!”
“It is nothing,” Stephen assured her, although his face was growing whiter every moment. “Here,” he continued, turning to the others, “is a generous enemy. Although she is a prisoner of war and an exile from her own land, still she risks her life to preserve us from our foes103. What say you to such a maid of France?”
“I say that her banishment should be at an end,” said the man who stood nearest, “and that she should be given, with all honour, a safe-conduct back to her own country.”
Stephen had been fumbling104 in his pocket and now drew forth a key.
“Unlock yonder cupboard, Clotilde,” he said, “and bring me the velvet9 case that you will find therein.”
When the box was set upon the table before him, he opened it and showed the diamond star that, on great occasions, he wore pinned to his coat. He took it up and awkwardly, with his one hand, fastened it to Clotilde’s dress.
“The gift of the French King,” he said, “finds its true place over a brave French heart!”
The three men bowed to the little girl who stood in awed105 and bewildered silence.
“Clotilde, my child,” went on Stephen, his voice growing suddenly strangely faint, “will you accept what this gentleman offers and can give you, a safe-conduct with Mère Jeanne back to your own country?”
“No, no,” she cried, finding her voice at last. “I do not wish to go. I want to stay here, with you, always!”
And springing forward she was just in time to fling her supporting arms about him as he fell back, unconscious, in his chair.
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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spoke
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| 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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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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27
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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29
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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30
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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31
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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32
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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33
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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34
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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35
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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36
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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37
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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38
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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39
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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40
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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41
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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42
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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43
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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44
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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45
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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46
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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48
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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51
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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52
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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53
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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54
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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55
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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56
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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57
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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60
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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61
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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62
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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68
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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71
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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73
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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75
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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76
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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77
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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78
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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79
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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80
confiscate
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| v.没收(私人财产)，把…充公 | |
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81
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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82
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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83
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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84
heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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85
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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86
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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87
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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88
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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89
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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90
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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91
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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92
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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93
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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95
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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96
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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97
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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98
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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99
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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100
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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101
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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102
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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103
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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104
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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105
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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