Mr. Horner, who had fallen sadly out of health since his wife’s death, had attached himself greatly to Harry Gregson. Now, Mr. Horner had a cold manner to every one, and never spoke3 more than was necessary, at the best of times. And, latterly, it had not been the best of times with him. I dare say, he had had some causes for anxiety (of which I knew nothing) about my lady’s affairs; and he was evidently annoyed by my lady’s whim4 (as he once inadvertently called it) of placing Miss Galindo under him in the position of a clerk. Yet he had always been friends, in his quiet way, with Miss Galindo, and she devoted5 herself to her new occupation with diligence and punctuality, although more than once she had moaned to me over the orders{242} for needlework which had been sent to her, and which, owing to her occupation in the service of Lady Ludlow, she had been unable to fulfil.
The only living creature to whom the staid Mr. Horner could be said to be attached, was Harry Gregson. To my lady he was a faithful and devoted servant, looking keenly after her interests, and anxious to forward them at any cost of trouble to himself. But the more shrewd Mr. Horner was, the more probability was there of his being annoyed at certain peculiarities6 of opinion which my lady held with a quiet, gentle pertinacity7; against which no arguments, based on mere8 worldly and business calculations, made any way. This frequent opposition9 to views which Mr. Horner entertained, although it did not interfere10 with the sincere respect which the lady and the steward11 felt for each other, yet prevented any warmer feeling of affection from coming in. It seems strange to say it, but I must repeat it—the only person for whom, since his wife’s death, Mr. Horner seemed to feel any love, was the little imp12 Harry Gregson, with his bright, watchful13 eyes, his tangled14 hair hanging right down to his eyebrows15, for all the world like a Skye terrier. This lad, half gipsy and whole poacher, as many people esteemed17 him, hung about the silent, respectable, staid Mr. Horner, and followed his steps with{243} something of the affectionate fidelity18 of the dog which he resembled. I suspect, this demonstration19 of attachment20 to his person on Harry Gregson’s part was what won Mr. Horner’s regard. In the first instance, the steward had only chosen the lad out as the cleverest instrument he could find for his purpose; and I don’t mean to say that, if Harry had not been almost as shrewd as Mr. Horner himself was, both by original disposition21 and subsequent experience, the steward would have taken to him as he did, let the lad have shown ever so much affection for him.
But even to Harry Mr. Horner was silent. Still, it was pleasant to find himself in many ways so readily understood; to perceive that the crumbs22 of knowledge he let fall were picked up by his little follower24, and hoarded25 like gold; that here was one to hate the persons and things whom Mr. Horner coldly disliked, and to reverence26 and admire all those for whom he had any regard. Mr. Horner had never had a child, and unconsciously, I suppose, something of the paternal27 feeling had begun to develop itself in him towards Harry Gregson. I heard one or two things from different people, which have always made me fancy that Mr. Horner secretly and almost unconsciously hoped that Harry Gregson might be trained so as to be first his clerk, and next his assist{244}ant, and finally his successor in his stewardship28 to the Hanbury estates.
Harry’s disgrace with my lady, in consequence of his reading the letter, was a deeper blow to Mr. Horner than his quiet manner would ever have led any one to suppose, or than Lady Ludlow ever dreamed of inflicting29, I am sure.
Probably Harry had a short, stern, rebuke30 from Mr. Horner at the time, for his manner was always hard even to those he cared for the most. But Harry’s love was not to be daunted31 or quelled32 by a few sharp words. I dare say, from what I heard of them afterwards, that Harry accompanied Mr. Horner in his walk over the farm the very day of the rebuke; his presence apparently33 unnoticed by the agent, by whom his absence would have been painfully felt nevertheless. That was the way of it, as I have been told. Mr. Horner never bade Harry go with him; never thanked him for going, or being at his heels ready to run on any errands, straight as the crows flies to his point, and back to heel in as short a time as possible. Yet, if Harry were away, Mr. Horner never inquired the reason from any of the men who might be supposed to know whether he was detained by his father, or otherwise engaged; he never asked Harry himself where he had been. But Miss Galindo said that those labourers{245} who knew Mr. Horner well, told her that he was always more quick-eyed to short-comings, more savage-like in fault-finding, on those days when the lad was absent.
Miss Galindo, indeed, was my great authority for most of the village news which I heard. She it was who gave me the particulars of poor Harry’s accident.
“You see, my dear,” she said, “the little poacher has taken some unaccountable fancy to my master.” (This was the name by which Miss Galindo always spoke of Mr. Horner to me, ever since she had been, as she called it, appointed his clerk.)
“Now, if I had twenty hearts to lose, I never could spare a bit of one of them for that good, grey, square severe man. But different people have different tastes, and here is that little imp of a gipsy-tinker ready to turn slave for my master; and, odd enough, my master,—who, I should have said before-hand, would have made short work of imp, and imp’s family, and have sent Hall, the Bang-beggar, after them in no time—my master, as they tell me, is in his way quite fond of the lad, and if he could, without vexing34 my lady too much, he would have made him what the folks here call a Latiner. However, last night, it seems that there was a letter of some importance forgotten (I can’t tell you what it was about, my dear, though I{246} know perfectly35 well, but ‘service oblige,’ as well as ‘noblesse,’ and you must take my word for it that it was important, and one that I am surprised my master could forget), till too late for the post. (The poor, good, orderly man is not what he was before his wife’s death.) Well, it seems that he was sore annoyed by his forgetfulness, and well he might be. And it was all the more vexatious, as he had no one to blame but himself. As for that matter, I always scold somebody else when I’m in fault; but I suppose my master would never think of doing that, else it’s a mighty37 relief. However, he could eat no tea, and was altogether put out and gloomy. And the little faithful imp-lad, perceiving all this, I suppose, got up like a page in an old ballad38, and said he would run for his life across country to Comberford, and see if he could not get there before the bags were made up. So my master gave him the letter, and nothing more was heard of the poor fellow till this morning, for the father thought his son was sleeping in Mr. Horner’s barn, as he does occasionally it seems, and my master, as was very natural, that he had gone to his father’s.”
“And he had fallen down the old stone quarry39, had he not?”
“Yes, sure enough. Mr. Gray had been up here fretting40 my lady with some of his new-fangled schemes,{247} and because the young man could not have it all his own way, from what I understand, he was put out, and thought he would go home by the back lane, instead of through the village, where the folks would notice if the parson looked glum41. But, however, it was a mercy, and I don’t mind saying so, ay, and meaning it too, though it may be like methodism, for, as Mr. Gray walked by the quarry, he heard a groan42, and at first he thought it was a lamb fallen down; and he stood still, and then he heard it again; and then, I suppose, he looked down and saw Harry. So he let himself down by the boughs43 of the trees to the ledge23 where Harry lay half-dead, and with his poor thigh broken. There he had lain ever since the night before: he had been returning to tell the master that he had safely posted the letter, and the first words he said, when they recovered him from the exhausted44 state he was in, were” (Miss Galindo tried hard not to whimper, as she said it), “‘It was in time, sir. I see’d it put in the bag with my own eyes.’”
“But where is he?” asked I. “How did Mr. Gray get him out?”
“Ay! there it is, you see. Why the old gentleman (I daren’t say Devil in Lady Ludlow’s house) is not so black as he is painted; and Mr. Gray must have a deal of good in him, as I say at times; and then at{248} others, when he has gone against me, I can’t bear him, and think hanging too good for him. But he lifted the poor lad, as if he had been a baby, I suppose, and carried him up the great ledges45 that were formerly46 used for steps; and laid him soft and easy on the wayside grass, and ran home and got help and a door, and had him carried to his house, and laid on his bed; and then somehow, for the first time either he or any one else perceived it, he himself was all over blood—his own blood—he had broken a blood-vessel; and there he lies in the little dressing-room, as white and as still as if he were dead; and the little imp in Mr. Gray’s own bed, sound asleep, now his leg is set, just as if linen47 sheets and a feather bed were his native element, as one may say. Really, now he is doing so well, I’ve no patience with him, lying there where Mr. Gray ought to be. It is just what my lady always prophesied48 would come to pass, if there was any confusion of ranks.”
“Poor Mr. Gray!” said I, thinking of his flushed face, and his feverish49, restless ways, when he had been calling on my lady not an hour before his exertions50 on Harry’s behalf. And I told Miss Galindo how ill I had thought him.
“Yes,” said she. “And that was the reason my lady had sent for Doctor Trevor. Well, it has fallen{249} out admirably, for he looked well after that old donkey of a Prince, and saw that he made no blunders.”
Now “that old donkey of a Prince” meant the village surgeon, Mr. Prince, between whom and Miss Galindo there was war to the knife, as they often met in the cottages, when there was illness, and she had her queer, odd recipes, which he, with his grand pharmacop?ia, held in infinite contempt, and the consequence of their squabbling had been, not long before this very time, that he had established a kind of rule, that into whatever sick-room Miss Galindo was admitted, there he refused to visit. But Miss Galindo’s prescriptions51 and visits cost nothing, and were often backed by kitchen-physic; so, though it was true that she never came but she scolded about something or other, she was generally preferred as medical attendant to Mr. Prince.
“Yes, the old donkey is obliged to tolerate me, and be civil to me; for, you see, I got there first, and had possession, as it were, and yet my lord the donkey likes the credit of attending the parson, and being in consultation52 with so grand a county-town doctor as Doctor Trevor. And Doctor Trevor is an old friend of mine” (she sighed a little, some time I may tell you why), “and treats me with infinite bowing and respect; so the donkey, not to be out of medical fashion, bows too, though it is sadly against the grain: and he pulled a{250} face as if he had heard a slate53-pencil gritting54 against a slate, when I told Doctor Trevor I meant to sit up with the two lads, for I call Mr. Gray little more than a lad, and a pretty conceited55 one, too, at times.”
“But why should you sit up, Miss Galindo? It will tire you sadly.”
“Not it. You see, there is Gregson’s mother to keep quiet; for she sits by her lad, fretting and sobbing56, so that I’m afraid of her disturbing Mr. Gray; and there’s Mr. Gray to keep quiet, for Doctor Trevor says his life depends on it; and there is medicine to be given to the one, and bandages to be attended to for the other; and the wild horde57 of gipsy brothers and sisters to be turned out, and the father to be held in from showing too much gratitude58 to Mr. Gray, who can’t bear it,—and who is to do it all but me? The only servant is old lame36 Betty, who once lived with me, and would leave me because she said I was always bothering—(there was a good deal of truth in what she said, I grant, but she need not have said it; a good deal of truth is best let alone at the bottom of the well), and what can she do,—deaf as ever she can be, too?”
So Miss Galindo went her ways; but not the less was she at her post in the morning; a little crosser and more silent than usual; but the first was not to be wondered at, and the last was rather a blessing59.{251}
Lady Ludlow had been extremely anxious both about Mr. Gray and Harry Gregson. Kind and thoughtful in any case of illness and accident, she always was; but somehow, in this, the feeling that she was not quite—what shall I call it?—“friends” seems hardly the right word to use, as to the possible feeling between the Countess Ludlow and the little vagabond messenger, who had only once been in her presence,—that she had hardly parted from either as she could have wished to do, had death been near, made her more than usually anxious. Doctor Trevor was not to spare obtaining the best medical advice the county could afford; whatever he ordered in the way of diet, was to be prepared under Mrs. Medlicott’s own eye, and sent down from the Hall to the Parsonage. As Mr. Horner had given somewhat similar directions, in the case of Harry Gregson at least, there was rather a multiplicity of counsellors and dainties, than any lack of them. And, the second night, Mr. Horner insisted on taking the superintendence of the nursing himself, and sat and snored by Harry’s bedside, while the poor, exhausted mother lay by her child,—thinking that she watched him, but in reality fast asleep, as Miss Galindo told us; for, distrusting any one’s powers of watching and nursing but her own, she had stolen across the quiet village street in cloak and dressing-gown, and{252} found Mr. Gray in vain trying to reach the cup of barley-water which Mr. Horner had placed just beyond his reach.
In consequence of Mr. Gray’s illness, we had to have a strange curate to do duty; a man who dropped his h’s, and hurried through the service, and yet had time enough to stand in my lady’s way, bowing to her as she came out of church, and so subservient60 in manner, that I believe that sooner than remain unnoticed by a countess, he would have preferred being scolded, or even cuffed61. Now I found out, that great as was my lady’s liking62 and approval of respect, nay63, even reverence, being paid to her as a person of quality,—a sort of tribute to her Order, which she had no individual right to remit64, or, indeed, not to exact,—yet she, being personally simple, sincere, and holding herself in low esteem16, could not endure anything like the servility of Mr. Crosse, the temporary curate. She grew absolutely to loathe65 his perpetual smiling and bowing; his instant agreement with the slightest opinion she uttered; his veering66 round as she blew the wind. I have often said that my lady did not talk much, as she might have done had she lived among her equals. But we all loved her so much, that we had learnt to interpret all her little ways pretty truly; and I knew what particular turns of her head, and{253} contractions67 of her delicate fingers meant, as well as if she had expressed herself in words. I began to suspect that my lady would be very thankful to have Mr. Gray about again, and doing his duty even with a conscientiousness68 that might amount to worrying himself, and fidgeting others; and although Mr. Gray might hold her opinions in as little esteem as those of any simple gentlewoman, she was too sensible not to feel how much flavour there was in his conversation, compared to that of Mr. Crosse, who was only her tasteless echo.
As for Miss Galindo, she was utterly69 and entirely70 a partisan71 of Mr. Gray’s, almost ever since she had begun to nurse him during his illness.
“You know, I never set up for reasonableness, my lady. So I don’t pretend to say, as I might do if I were a sensible woman and all that,—that I am convinced by Mr. Gray’s arguments of this thing or t’other. For one thing, you see, poor fellow! he has never been able to argue, or hardly indeed to speak, for Doctor Trevor has been very peremptory72. So there’s been no scope for arguing! But what I mean is this:—When I see a sick man thinking always of others, and never of himself; patient, humble—a trifle too much at times, for I’ve caught him praying to be forgiven for having neglected his work as a parish priest,” (Miss{254} Galindo was making horrible faces, to keep back tears, squeezing up her eyes in a way which would have amused me at any other time, but when she was speaking of Mr. Gray); “when I see a downright good, religious man, I’m apt to think he’s got hold of the right clue, and that I can do no better than hold on by the tails of his coat and shut my eyes, if we’ve got to go over doubtful places on our road to Heaven. So, my lady, you must excuse me, if, when he gets about again, he is all agog73 about a Sunday-school, for if he is, I shall be agog too, and perhaps twice as bad as him, for, you see, I’ve a strong constitution compared to his, and strong ways of speaking and acting74. And I tell your ladyship this now, because I think from your rank—and still more, if I may say so, for all your kindness to me long ago, down to this very day—you’ve a right to be first told of anything about me. Change of opinion I can’t exactly call it, for I don’t see the good of schools and teaching A B C, any more than I did before, only Mr. Gray does, so I’m to shut my eyes, and leap over the ditch to the side of education. I’ve told Sally already, that if she does not mind her work, but stands gossiping with Nelly Mather, I’ll teach her her lessons; and I’ve never caught her with old Nelly since.”
I think Miss Galindo’s desertion to Mr. Gra{255}y’s opinions in this matter hurt my lady just a little bit; but she only said:
“Of course, if the parishioners wish for it, Mr. Gray must have his Sunday-school. I shall, in that case, withdraw my opposition. I am sorry I cannot change my opinions as easily as you.”
My lady made herself smile as she said this. Miss Galindo saw it was an effort to do so. She thought a minute before she spoke again.
“Your ladyship has not seen Mr. Gray as intimately as I have done. That’s one thing. But, as for the parishioners, they will follow your ladyship’s lead in everything; so there is no chance of their wishing for a Sunday-school.”
“I have never done anything to make them follow my lead, as you call it, Miss Galindo,” said my lady, gravely.
“Yes, you have,” replied Miss Galindo, bluntly. And then, correcting herself, she said, “Begging your ladyship’s pardon, you have. Your ancestors have lived here time out of mind, and have owned the land on which their forefathers75 have lived ever since there were forefathers. You yourself were born amongst them, and have been like a little queen to them ever since, I might say, and they’ve never known your ladyship do anything but what was kind and gentle;{256} but I’ll leave fine speeches about your ladyship to Mr. Crosse. Only you, my lady, lead the thoughts of the parish; and save some of them a world of trouble, for they could never tell what was right if they had to think for themselves. It’s all quite right that they should be guided by you, my lady,—if only you would agree with Mr. Gray.”
“Well,” said my lady, “I told him only the last day that he was here, that I would think about it. I do believe I could make up my mind on certain subjects better if I were left alone, than while being constantly talked to about them.”
My lady said this in her usual soft tones; but the words had a tinge76 of impatience77 about them; indeed, she was more ruffled78 than I had often seen her; but, checking herself in an instant, she said:
“You don’t know how Mr. Horner drags in this subject of education apropos79 of everything. Not that he says much about it at any time: it is not his way. But he cannot let the thing alone.”
“I know why, my lady,” said Miss Galindo. “That poor lad, Harry Gregson, will never be able to earn his livelihood80 in any active way, but will be lame for life. Now, Mr. Horner thinks more of Harry than of any one else in the world,—except, perhaps, your ladyship.” Was it not a pretty companionship for my{257} lady? “And he has schemes of his own for teaching Harry; and if Mr. Gray could but have his school, Mr. Horner and he think Harry might be schoolmaster, as your ladyship would not like to have him coming to you as steward’s clerk. I wish your ladyship would fall into this plan; Mr. Gray has it so at heart.”
Miss Galindo looked wistfully at my lady, as she said this. But my lady only said, drily, and rising at the same time, as if to end the conversation:
“So! Mr. Hornet and Mr. Gray seem to have gone a long way in advance of my consent to their plans.”
“There!” exclaimed Miss Galindo, as my lady left the room, with an apology for going away; “I have gone and done mischief81 with my long, stupid tongue. To be sure, people plan a long way ahead of to-day; more especially when one is a sick man, lying all through the weary day on a sofa.”
“My lady will soon get over her annoyance82,” said I, as it were apologetically. I only stopped Miss Galindo’s self-reproaches to draw down her wrath83 upon myself.
“And has not she a right to be annoyed with me, if she likes, and to keep annoyed as long as she likes? Am I complaining of her, that you need tell me that? Let me tell you, I have known my lady these thirty{258} years; and if she were to take me by the shoulders, and turn me out of the house, I should only love her the more. So don’t you think to come between us with any little mincing84, peace-making speeches. I have been a mischief-making parrot, and I like her the better for being vexed85 with me. So good-bye to you, Miss; and wait till you know Lady Ludlow as well as I do, before you next think of telling me she will soon get over her annoyance!” And off Miss Galindo went.
I could not exactly tell what I had done wrong; but I took care never again to come in between my lady and her by any remark about the one to the other; for I saw that some most powerful bond of grateful affection made Miss Galindo almost worship my lady.
Meanwhile, Harry Gregson was limping a little about in the village, still finding his home in Mr. Gray’s house; for there he could most conveniently be kept under the doctor’s eye, and receive the requisite86 care, and enjoy the requisite nourishment87. As soon as he was a little better, he was to go to Mr. Horner’s house; but, as the steward lived some distance out of the way, and was much from home, he had agreed to leave Harry at the house to which he had first been taken, until he was quite strong again; and the more willingly, I suspect, from what I heard afterwards, because Mr. Gray gave up all the little strength of speaking which he had, to{259} eaching Harry in the very manner which Mr. Horner most desired.
As for Gregson the father—he—wild man of the woods, poacher, tinker, jack-of-all-trades—was getting tamed by this kindness to his child. Hitherto his hand had been against every man, as every man’s had been against him. That affair before the justice, which I told you about, when Mr. Gray and even my lady had interested themselves to get him released from unjust imprisonment88, was the first bit of justice he had ever met with; it attracted him to the people, and attached him to the spot on which he had but squatted89 for a time. I am not sure if any of the villagers were grateful to him for remaining in their neighbourhood, instead of decamping as he had often done before, for good reasons, doubtless, of personal safely. Harry was only one out of a brood of ten or twelve children, some of whom had earned for themselves no good character in service: one, indeed, had been actually transported, for a robbery committed in a distant part of the county; and the tale was yet told in the village of how Gregson the father came back from the trial in a state of wild rage, striding through the place, and uttering oaths of vengeance90 to himself, his great black eyes gleaming out of his matted hair, and his arms working by his side, and now and then tossed up in his{260} impotent despair. As I heard the account, his wife followed him, child-laden and weeping. After this, they had vanished from the country for a time, leaving their mud hovel locked up, and the door-key, as the neighbours said, buried in a hedge bank. The Gregsons had reappeared much about the same time that Mr. Gray came to Hanbury. He had either never heard of their evil character, or considered that it gave them all the more claims upon his Christian91 care, and the end of it was that this rough, untamed, strong giant of a heathen was loyal slave to the weak, hectic92, nervous, self-distrustful parson. Gregson had also a kind of grumbling93 respect for Mr. Horner: he did not quite like the steward’s monopoly of his Harry: the mother submitted to that with a better grace, swallowing down her maternal94 jealousy95 in the prospect96 of her child’s advancement97 to a better and more respectable position than that in which his parents had struggled through life. But Mr. Horner, the steward, and Gregson, the poacher and squatter98, had come into disagreeable contact too often in former days for them to be perfectly cordial at any future time. Even now, when there was no immediate99 cause for anything but gratitude for his child’s sake on Gregson’s part, he would skulk100 out of Mr. Horner’s way, if he saw him coming; and it took all Mr. Horner’s natural reserve{261} and acquired self-restraint to keep him from occasionally holding up his father’s life as a warning to Harry. Now Gregson had nothing of this desire for avoidance with regard to Mr. Gray. The poacher had a feeling of physical protection towards the parson; while the latter had shown the moral courage, without which Gregson would never have respected him, in coming right down upon him more than once in the exercise of unlawful pursuits, and simply and boldly telling him he was doing wrong, with such a quiet reliance upon Gregson’s better feeling, at the same time, that the strong poacher could not have lifted a finger against Mr. Gray, though it had been to save himself from being apprehended101 and taken to the lockups the very next hour. He had rather listened to the parson’s bold words with an approving smile, much as Mr. Gulliver might have hearkened to a lecture from a Lilliputian. But when brave words passed into kind deeds, Gregson’s heart mutely acknowledged its master and keeper. And the beauty of it all was, that Mr. Gray knew nothing of the good work he had done, or recognised himself as the instrument which God had employed. He thanked God, it is true, fervently102 and often, that the work was done; and loved the wild man for his rough gratitude; but it never occurred to the poor young clergyman, lying on his sick-bed, and{262} praying, as Miss Galindo had told us he did, to be forgiven for his unprofitable life, to think of Gregson’s reclaimed103 soul as anything with which he had had to do. It was now more than three months since Mr. Gray had been at Hanbury Court. During all that time, he had been confined to his house, if not to his sick-bed, and he and my lady had never met since their last discussion and difference about Farmer Hale’s barn.
This was not my dear lady’s fault; no one could have been more attentive104 in every way to the slightest possible want of either of the invalids105, especially of Mr. Gray. And he would have gone to see him at his own house, as she sent him word, but that her foot had slipped upon the polished oak staircase, and her ancle had been sprained106.
So we had never seen Mr. Gray since his illness, when one November day he was announced as wishing to speak to my lady. She was sitting in her room—the room in which I lay now pretty constantly—and I remember she looked startled, when word was brought to her of Mr. Gray’s being at the Hall.
She could not go to him, she was too lame for that, so she bade him be shown into where she sat.
“Such a day for him to go out!” she exclaimed, looking at the fog which had crept up to the windows, and was sapping the little remaining life in the brilliant{263} Virginian creeper leaves that draperied the house on the terrace side.
He came in white, trembling, his large eyes wild and dilated107. He hastened up to Lady Ludlow’s chair, and, to my surprise, took one of her hands and kissed it, without speaking, yet shaking all over.
“Mr. Gray!” said she, quickly, with sharp, tremulous apprehension108 of some unknown evil. “What is it? There is something unusual about you.”
“Something unusual has occurred,” replied he, forcing his words to be calm, as with a great effort. “A gentleman came to my house, not half-an-hour ago—a Mr. Howard. He came straight from Vienna.”
“My son!” said my dear lady, stretching out her arms in dumb questioning attitude.
“The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
But my poor lady could not echo the words. He was the last remaining child. And once she had been the joyful109 mother of nine.
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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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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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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peculiarities
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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mere
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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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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18
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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19
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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20
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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21
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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22
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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23
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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24
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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25
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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27
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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28
stewardship
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| n. n. 管理工作；管事人的职位及职责 | |
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29
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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30
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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31
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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34
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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35
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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36
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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37
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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38
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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39
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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40
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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41
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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42
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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43
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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44
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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45
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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46
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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47
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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48
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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50
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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51
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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52
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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53
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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54
gritting
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的现在分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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56
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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57
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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58
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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59
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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60
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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61
cuffed
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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63
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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64
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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65
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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66
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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67
contractions
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| n.收缩( contraction的名词复数 )；缩减；缩略词；（分娩时）子宫收缩 | |
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68
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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69
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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70
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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71
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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72
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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73
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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74
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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75
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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76
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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77
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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78
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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79
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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80
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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81
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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82
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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83
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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84
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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85
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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86
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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87
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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88
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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89
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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90
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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91
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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92
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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93
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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94
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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95
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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96
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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97
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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98
squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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99
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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100
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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101
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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102
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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103
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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104
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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105
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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106
sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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107
dilated
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| 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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108
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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109
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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