Once on the heathery slade, the old man lifted the strap10 over his head and put the satchel down by a tree clump11 at the wood’s edge.
“’Nother rest for you, Bess,” he said, as he knelt to open his bag. “I’m goin’ over the pits pretty close to-day.” He packed his pockets with pill-boxes, a poison bottle, and a battered12, flat tin case; while the child, with a quick rejection13 of the crutch, sat and watched.
The old man stood, slapped one pocket after another, and then, with a playful sweep of the net-gauze across the child’s face, tramped off among the heather. “Good luck, gran’dad!” she cried after him, and settled on her elbow to read.
The book needed a careful separation, being open at back as at front; likewise great heed14 lest the leaves fell into confusion: for, since they were worn into a shape more oval than rectangular, the page numbers had gone, and in places corners of text had gone too. But the main body of the matter, thumbed and rubbed, stood good for many a score more readings; and the story was The Sicilian Romance.
Round about the pits and across the farther ground p. 11of Genesis Slade the old man pushed his chase. Now letting himself cautiously down the side of a pit; now stealing softly among bracken, with outstretched net; and again running his best through the wiry heather. Always working toward sun and wind, and often standing15 watchfully16 still, his eye alert for a fluttering spot amid the flood of colour about him.
Meantime the little cripple conned17 again the familiar periods of the old romance. Few, indeed, of its ragged18 leaves but might have been replaced, if lost, from pure memory; few, indeed, for that matter, of The Pilgrim’s Progress or of Susan Hopley, or of The Scottish Chiefs: worn volumes all, in her grandfather’s little shelf of a dozen or fifteen books. So that now, because of old acquaintance, the tale was best enjoyed with many pauses; pauses filled with the smell of the meadowsweet, and with the fantasy that abode19 in the woods. For the jangle of a herd-bell was the clank of a knight’s armour20, the distant boom of a great gun at Waltham Abbey told of the downfall of enchanted21 castles, and in the sudden plaint of an errant cow she heard the growling22 of an ogre in the forest.
The western hillsides grew more glorious, and the sunlight, peeping under heavy boughs23, flung along the sward, gilt24 the tree-boles whose shadows veined it, and lit nooks under bushes where the wake-robin25 raised its scarlet27 mace28 of berries. The old man had dropped his p. 12net, and for awhile had been searching the herbage. It was late in the day for butterflies, but fox-moth caterpillars29 were plenty among the heather; as well as others. Thus Bessy read and dreamed, and her grandfather rummaged31 the bushes till the sunlight was gathered up from the turf under the trees, and lifted from the tallest spire32 among the agrimony, as the sun went beyond the hill-tops. Then at last the old man returned to his satchel.
“The flies ain’t much,” he observed, as Bessy looked up, “but for trade it’s best not to miss anything: it’s always what you’re shortest of as sells; and the blues33 was out late to-day. But I’ve got luck with caterpillars. If they go all right I ought to have a box-full o’ Rosy34 Marbled out o’ these!”
“Rosy Marbled! It’s a late brood then. And so long since you had any!”
“Two year; and this is the only place for ’em.” The old man packed his bag and slung35 it across his back. “We’ll see about tea now,” he added, as the child rose on her crutch; “but we’ll keep open eyes as we go.”
Over the slade they took their way, where the purple carpet was patterned with round hollows, black with heather-ash and green with star-moss36; by the edges of the old gravel-pits, overhung with bramble and bush; and so into more woods.
A jay flew up before them, scolding angrily. Now p. 13and again a gap among the trees let through red light from beyond Woodredon. Again and again the old man checked his walk, sometimes but to drop once more into his even tramp, sometimes to stop, and sometimes to beat the undergrowth and to shake branches. To any who saw there was always a vaguely37 familiar quality in old May’s walk; ever a patient plod38, and, burdened or not, ever an odd suggestion of something carried over shoulder; matters made plain when it was learned that the old man had been forty years a postman.
Presently as they walked they heard shrieks39, guffaws40, and a discordant42 singing that half-smothered the whine43 of a concertina. The noise was the louder as they went, and when they came where the white of a dusty road backed the tree-stems, they heard it at its fullest. Across the way was an inn, and by its side a space of open ground whereon some threescore beanfeasters sported at large. Many were busy at kiss-in-the-ring, some waved branches torn from trees, others stood up empty bottles and flung more bottles at them; they stood, sat, ran, lay, and rolled, but each made noise of some sort, and most drank. Plainly donkey-riding had palled44, for a man and a boy had gathered their half-dozen donkeys together, and were driving them off.
The people were Londoners, as Bessy knew, for she had often seen others. She had forgotten London herself—all of it but a large drab room with a row of little p. 14beds like her own, each bed with a board on it, for toys; and this, too, she would have forgotten (for she was very little indeed then) but that a large and terrible gentleman had come every day and hurt her bad leg. It was the Shadwell Hospital. But these were Londoners, and Bessy was a little afraid of them, and conceived London to be a very merry and noisy place, very badly broken, everywhere, by reason of the Londoners. Other people, also, came in waggonettes, and were a little quieter, and less gloriously bedecked. She had seen such a party earlier in the day. Probably they were not real Londoners, but folk from parts adjoining. But these—these were Londoners proper, wearing each other’s hats, with paper wreaths on them.
“Wayo, old ’un!” bawled45 one, as the old man, net in hand, crossed toward the wood opposite; “bin26 ketchin’ tiddlers?” And he turned to his companions with a burst of laughter and a jerk of the thumb. “D’year, Bill! ’Ere’s yer ole gran’father ketchin’ tiddlers! Why doncher keep ’im out o’ mischief46?” And every flushed face, doubly reddened by the setting sun, turned and opened its mouth in a guffaw41. “You’ll cop it for gittin’ yer trouseys wet!” screamed a woman. And somebody flung a lump of crust.
Bessy jogged the faster into the wood, and in its shadow her grandfather, smiling doubtfully, said, “They p. 15like their joke, some of ’em, don’t they? But it’s always ’tiddlers’!”
It grew dusk under the trees, and the sky was pale above. They came to where the ground fell away in a glen that was almost a trench47, and a brook48 ran in the ultimate furrow49. On the opposing hill a broad green ride stood like a wall before them, a deep moss of trees clinging at each side. Here they turned, and, where the glen widened, a cottage was to be seen on sloping ground, with a narrow roadway a little beyond it. A whitewashed50 cottage, so small that there seemed scarce a score of tiles on its roof; one of the few scattered51 habitations holding its place in the forest by right of ancient settlement. A little tumult52 of garden tumbled about the cottage—a jostle of cabbages, lavender, onions, wallflowers and hollyhock, confined, as with difficulty, by a precarious53 fence, patched with wood in every form of manufacture and in every stage of decay.
“I expect mother and Johnny finished tea long ago,” Bessy remarked, her eyes fixed54 on the cottage. “Why there’s a light!”
The path they went by grew barer of grass as it neared the cottage, and as they trod it, men’s voices could be heard from within, and a woman’s laughter.
“Sounds like visitors!” the old man exclaimed. “That’s odd. I wonder who . . . ”
“There you are then, father!” came a female voice p. 16from the door. “Here’s Uncle Isaac an’ a gentleman come to see us.” It was Bessy’s mother who spoke—a pleasant, fresh, active woman in a print dress, who stood in the doorway55 as the old man set back the gate.
The door opened into the living-room, where sat two men, while a boy of fourteen squeezed, abashed56 and a trifle sulky, in a corner. There was a smell of bad cigar, which had almost, but not quite, banished57 the wonted smell of the room; a smell in some degree due to camphor, though, perhaps, more to caterpillar30; for the walls were hidden behind boxes and drawers of divers58 shapes and sizes, and before the window and in unexpected places on the floor stood other boxes, covered with muslin, nurseries for larv?, pup?, and doomed59 butterflies. And so many were these things that the room, itself a mere60 box, gave scant61 space to the three people and the little round table that were in it; wherefore Bessy’s mother remained in the doorway, and Uncle Isaac, when he rose, took a very tall hat from the floor and clapped it on his head for lack of other safe place; for the little table sustained a load of cups and saucers. Uncle Isaac was a small man, though with a large face; a face fringed about with grey wisps of whisker, and characterised by wide and glassy eyes and a great tract62 of shaven upper lip.
“Good evenin’, Mr. May, good evenin’!” said Uncle Isaac, shaking hands with the air of a man faithful to a p. 17friend in defiance63 of the world. “This is my friend Mr. Butson.”
Mr. Butson was a tall, rather handsome man of forty or thereabout, with curly hair and whiskers, and he greeted the old man with grum condescension64.
“Mr. Butson,” Uncle Isaac continued, with a wave of the hand, “is a gentleman at present in connection with the steamboat profession, though above it by fam’ly and inclination65. Mr. Butson an’ me ’as bin takin’ a day’s ’olludy with a seleck party by name of beanfeast, in brakes.”
“O yes,” responded old May, divesting66 himself of his bag; “we passed some of ’em by the Dun Cow, an’ very merry they was, too, with concertinas, an’ kiss-in-the-ring, an’ what not—very gay.”
“O damn, no,” growled67 the distinguished68 Butson. “Not that low lot. He means that coster crowd in vans,” he added, for Uncle Isaac’s enlightenment. “I ain’t fell as low as that. Lor, no.” He sucked savagely69 at the butt7 of his cigar, found it extinct, looked vainly for somewhere to fling it, and at last dropped it into a teacup.
“No, Mr. May, no; not them lot,” Uncle Isaac said, with a touch of grave reproof70. “As a man of some little property meself, an’ in company of Mr. Butson, by nature genteel-disposed, I should be far from mixin’ with such. We come down with the shipwrights71 an’ engineers p. 18from Lawsonses. That was prob’ly Mr. May’s little joke, Mr. Butson. Mr. May is a man of property hisself, besides a man of science, as I think I told you. This ’ere land an’ residence bein’ in pint73. If any man was to come an’ say to Mr. May, ‘Git out o’ that property, Mr. May,’ what would the lawr say to that man? Nullavoid. That’s what the lawr ’ud say. It ’ud say, ‘Git out yerself, your claim’s nullavoid.’” Uncle Isaac, checking a solemn thump74 at the table just in time to save the tea-cups, took his hat off instead, and put it on again.
Mr. Butson grunted75 “Ah!” and Mrs. May, taking the net, squeezed in, with Bessy behind her. “I’ll put a few o’ these boxes on the stairs, an’ make more room,” she said. “The kettle’s still boiling in the backhouse, an’ I’ll make some more tea.”
Bessy had a habit of shyness in presence of strangers, and Uncle Isaac ranked as one, for it was two years at least since he had been there before. Indeed, what she remembered of him then made her the shyer. For he had harangued76 her very loudly on the gratitude77 she owed her grandfather, calling her a cripple very often in course of his argument, and sometimes a burden. She knew that she was a cripple and a burden, but to be held tightly by the arm and told so, by a gentleman with such a loud voice and such large eyes as Uncle Isaac, somehow inclined her to cry. So now, as soon as might be, she joined her brother, and the two p. 19retreated into the shadowy corner between the stairfoot and the backhouse door.
The old butterfly-hunter, too, was shy in his more elderly way. Beyond his widowed daughter-in-law and her two children he had scarce an acquaintance, or at least none more familiar than the naturalists78 in London to whom he sold his specimens79. So that now, in presence of this very genteel Mr. Butson, who, he feared, was already disgusted at the humble80 character of the establishment, he made but a hollow meal. A half-forgotten notion afflicted81 him, that it was proper to drink tea in only one of two possible ways; but whether from the cup or from the saucer he could not resolve himself. Mr. Butson had finished his tea, so that his example was lacking: though indeed the lees in his saucer seemed to offer a hint—a hint soon triumphantly82 confirmed by Uncle Isaac, who was nothing averse83 from a supplementary84 cup, and who emptied it straightway into his saucer and gulped85 ardently86, glaring fearfully over the edge. Whereat his host drank from the saucer also, and took heed to remember for the future. Still he was uncomfortable, and a little later he almost blushed at detecting himself inhospitably grateful for signs that Mr. Butson began to tire of the visit. Meanwhile he modestly contributed little to the conversation.
“No,” said Mr. Butson gloomily after a long pause, and in reply to nothing in particular, “I ain’t a man of p. 20property. I wish I was. If people got what they was brought up to—but there!” He stuck his hands lower in his pockets and savagely regarded vacancy87.
“Mr. Butson’s uncle,” said Uncle Isaac, “is a mayor. A mayor. An’ ’is other relations is of almost equal aristocracy. But ’e won’t ’ave nothin’ to say to ’em, not a word. It’s jist blood—pride o’ breedin’. But what I say is, it may be proper self-respeck, but it ain’t proper self-justice. It ain’t self-justice, in my way o’ puttin’ it. Why ’e won’t even name ’em! Won’t name ’em, Mr. May!”
“Won’t he?” the old man answered, rather tamely, “dear, dear!” Mr. Butson laid his head back, jerked his chin, and snorted scorn at the ceiling.
“No—won’t as much as name ’em, such is ’is lawfty contemp’. Otherwise, what ’ud be my path of dooty? My path of dooty on behalf of self-justice to Mr. Butson would be to see ’em an’ put a pint o’ argument. ’Ere, I puts it, is ’im, an’ ’ere is me. ’Ere is Mr. ’Enery Butson, your very dootiful relation of fash’nable instinks, an’ a engineer than which none better though much above it, an’ unsuitably enchained by worldly circumstances in the engine-room of a penny steamer.” (Here Mr. Butson snorted again.) “Likewise ’ere is me, a elderly man of some small property, an’ a shipwright72 of practical experience. Them circumstances bein’ the case, cons’kently, what more nachral an’ proper than a p. 21partnership—with capital. That’s ’ow I’d put the pint; a partnership88 with capital.”
“Jus’ so,” said old May. And seeing that the other still paused, he added “Of course.”
“But ’e’s proud—proud!” said Uncle Isaac, shaking his head plaintively89.
“P’raps I am proud,” Mr. Butson admitted candidly90, “I s’pose I got my faults. But I wouldn’t take a penny from ’em—not if they was to beg me on their knees. Why I’d sooner be be’olding to strangers!”
“Ah, that ’e would,” sighed Uncle Isaac. “But it ain’t self-justice. No, it ain’t self-justice!”
“It’s self-respect, any’ow,” said Mr. Butson sullenly91. “If they like to treat me unnatural92, let ’em.”
“Ah,” observed Uncle Isaac, “some fam’lies is unnachral an’ some is nachral, an’ there’s a deal o’ difference between ’em. Look at Mr. May now. ’E ain’t altogether in my family, though my niece’s father-in-law by marriage. But what nachralness! His son was a engineer in yer own trade, Mr. Butson,—fitter at Maidment’s. ’E left my niece a widder, cons’kence of a coat-tail in a cog wheel. What does Mr. May do? Why ’e shows ’is nachralness. ’E brings ’er an’ ’er children down ’ere on ’is own free’old residence, an’ cons’kently—’ere they are. Look at that!”
It was a principle with Uncle Isaac to neglect no opportunity of reciting at large the excellences93 of any p. 22person of the smallest importance with whom he might be acquainted; or the excellences which that person might be supposed to desire credit for: if in his actual presence, so much the better. Nothing could be cheaper, and on the whole it paid very well. At worst, it advertised an amiable94 character; and there remained off-chances of personal benefit. Moreover the practice solidified95 Uncle Isaac’s reputation among his acquaintances. For here, quoth each in his turn, was plainly a man of sagacious discernment. The old postman, however, was merely uneasy. To his mind it was nothing but a matter of course that when his son died, the widow and children should come under his own roof, and it was as a matter of course that he had brought them there. But Bessy’s mother said simply:—“Yes, gran’dad’s been a good one to us, always.” She, as well as the children, called him “gran’dad.”
“Yes,” proceeded Uncle Isaac, “an’ ’im with as much to think about as a man of edication too—wonderful. Why there’s nothink as ’e don’t know in astronomy an’—an’—an’ insectonomy. Nothink!”
“No, not astronomy,” interjected old May, a little startled by both counts of the imputation96. “Not astronomy, Mr. Mundy.”
“I say yes,” answered Uncle Isaac, with an emphatic97 slap on the knee. “Modesty under a bushel’s all very well, Mr. May, all very well, but I know—I know! p. 23Astronomy, an’ medicamedica an’ all the other classics. I know! Ah, I’d give best part o’ my small property, sich as it is, for ’alf your edication, Mr. May!”
It was generally agreed in the family that Uncle Isaac was very “close” as to this small property of his. Nothing could induce him to speak of it with any particularity of detail, and opinions varied98 as to its character. Still, whatever it was, it sufficed to gain Uncle Isaac much deference99 and consideration—the more, probably, because of its mysterious character; a deference and a consideration which Uncle Isaac could stimulate100 from time to time by cloudy allusions101 to altering his will.
“Well,” observed Mr. Butson rising from his chair, “education never done me much good.”
“No, unforchnately!” commented Uncle Isaac.
“An’ I’d prefer property meself.” Mr. Butson made toward the door, and Uncle Isaac prepared to follow. At this moment a harsh female voice suddenly screamed from the darkness without. “Lor’! I almost fell over a blessed ’ouse!” it said, and there was a shrill102 laugh. “We’ll ask ’em the way back.”
Old May stepped over the threshold at the sound; but the magnificence was stricken from the face of Mr. Butson. His cheeks paled, his mouth and eyes opened together, and he shrank back, even toward the stairfoot. Nobody marked him, however, but the children, for attention was directed without.
p. 24“Djear! which way to the Dun Cow?”
“See the lane?” answered the old postman. “Follow that to the right an’ you’ll come to it. It’s a bit farther than through the wood, but ye can’t go wrong.”
“Right!” There were two women and a man. The screaming woman said something to the others in a quieter tone, in which, however, the word “tiddlers” was plain to hear, and there was a laugh. “Good-night, ole chap,” she bawled back. “Put ’em in a jam-pot with a bit o’ water-creese!”
“Full o’ their games!” remarked the old man with a tolerant smile, as he turned toward the door. “That was the person as said I’d catch it for gettin’ my clothes wet, as we came past the Dun Cow.”
The voices of the beanfeasters abated103 and ceased, and now Mr. Butson left no doubt of his readiness to depart. “Come,” he said, with chap-fallen briskness104, “we’ll ’ave to git back to the others; they’ll be goin’.” He took leave with so much less dignity and so much more haste than accorded with his earlier manner that Mr. May was a trifle puzzled, though he soon forgot it.
“Good-night, Mr. May, I wish you good-night,” said Uncle Isaac, shaking hands impressively. “I’ve greatly enjoyed your flow of conversation, Mr. May.” He made after the impatient Butson, stopped half-way to the gate and called gently:—“Nan!”
p. 25“Yes, uncle,” Mrs. May replied, stepping out to him. “What is it?”
Uncle Isaac whispered gravely in her ear, and she returned and whispered to the old man. “Of course—certainly,” he said, looking mightily105 concerned, as he re-entered the cottage.
Mrs. May reached a cracked cup from a shelf, and, turning over a few coppers106, elicited107 a half-crown. With this she returned to Uncle Isaac.
“I’ll make a note of it,” said Uncle Isaac as he pocketed the money, “and send a postal-order.”
“O, don’t trouble about that, Uncle Isaac!” For Uncle Isaac, with the small property, must not be offended in a matter of a half-crown.
“What? Trouble?” he ejaculated, deeply pained. “To pay my—”
“’Ere—come on!” growled Mr. Butson savagely from the outer gloom. “Come on!” And they went together, taking the lane in the direction opposite to that lately used by the noisy woman.
“Well,” old May observed, “we don’t often have visitors, an’ I was glad to see your Uncle Isaac, Nan. An’ Mr. Butson, too,” he added impartially108.
“Yes,” returned Bessy’s mother innocently. “Such a gentleman, isn’t he?”
“There’s one thing I forgot,” the old man said p. 26suddenly. “I might ha’ asked ’em to take a drop o’ beer ’fore they went.”
“They had some while they was waitin’ for tea. An’—an’ I don’t think there’s much left.” She dragged a large tapped jar from under the breeding-box at the window, and it was empty.
“Ah!” was all the old man’s comment, as he surveyed the jar thoughtfully.
Presently he turned into the back-house and emerged with a tin pot and a brush. “I’m a goin’ treaclin’ a bit,” he said. “Come, Johnny?”
The boy pulled his cap from his pocket, fetched a lantern, and was straightway ready, while Bessy sat to her belated tea.
The last pale light lay in the west, and the evening offered up an oblation109 of sweet smells. All things that feed by night were out, and nests were silent save for once and again a sleepy twitter. Every moment another star peeped, and then one more. The boy and the old man walked up the slope among the trees, pausing now at one, now at another, to daub the bark with the mixture of rum and treacle110 that was in the pot.
“It’s always best to be careful where you treacle when there’s holiday folk about,” said Johnny’s grandfather. “They don’t understand it. Often I’ve treacled a log or a stump111 and found a couple sittin’ on it when p. 27I came back—with new dresses, and sich. It’s no good explainin’—they think it’s all done for practical jokin’. It’s best to go on an’ take no notice. I’ve heard ’em say:—’Don’t the country smell lovely?’—meanin’ the smell o’ the rum an’ treacle they was a-sittin’ on. But when they find it—lor, the language I have heard! Awful! . . . ”
The boy was quiet almost all the round. Presently he said, “Gran’dad, do you really like that likeness112 I made of mother?”
“Like it, my boy? Why o’ course. It’s a nobby picture!”
“Uncle Isaac said it was bad.”
“O!” There was a thoughtful pause while they tramped toward the next tree. “That’s only Uncle Isaac’s little game, Johnny. You mustn’t mind that. It’s a nobby picture.”
“I don’t believe Uncle Isaac knows anything about it,” said the boy vehemently113. “I think he’s ignorant.”
“Here, Johnny, Johnny!” cried his grandfather. “That won’t do, you know. Not at all. You mustn’t say things like that.”
“Well, that’s what I think, gran’dad. An’ I know he says things wrong. When he came before he said that ship I drew was bad—an’ I—I very near cried.” (He did cry, but that was in secret, and not to be confessed.) “But now,” Johnny went on, “I’m fourteen, an’ p. 28I know better. I don’t believe Uncle Isaac knows a bit about things.”
They had come again to the tree first treacled, and, leaving the pot and brush at its foot, the old man, by help of the lantern, took certain of the moths114 that had been attracted. From this he carried the lantern to the next tree in the round and then to the next, filling the intervals115 between his moth-captures with successive chapters of a mild and rather vague lecture on respect for elders.
It was dark night now, and the sky all a-dust with stars. The old man and the boy took their way more by use than by sight amid the spectral116 presences of the trees, whose infinite whispering filled the sharpening air. They emerged on high ground, whence could be seen, here the lights of Loughton and there the lights of Woodford, and others more distant in the flatter country. Here the night wind swept up lustily from all Essex, and away from far on the Robin Hood117 Road came a rumble118 and a murmur119, and presently the glare of hand-lights red and green, the sign and token of homing beanfeasters.
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1
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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9
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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12
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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14
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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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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watchfully
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| 警惕地，留心地 | |
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conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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22
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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23
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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24
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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25
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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26
bin
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| 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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27
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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28
mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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29
caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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30
caterpillar
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| n.毛虫，蝴蝶的幼虫 | |
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31
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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32
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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33
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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34
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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35
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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36
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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37
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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38
plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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39
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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42
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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43
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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44
palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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46
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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47
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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48
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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49
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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50
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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52
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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53
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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54
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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55
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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56
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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59
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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60
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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61
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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62
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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63
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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64
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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65
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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66
divesting
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| v.剥夺( divest的现在分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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67
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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68
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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69
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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70
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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71
shipwrights
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| n.造船者，修船者( shipwright的名词复数 ) | |
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72
shipwright
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| n.造船工人 | |
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73
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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74
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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75
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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76
harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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78
naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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79
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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80
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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81
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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83
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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84
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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85
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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86
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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87
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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88
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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89
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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90
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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91
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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92
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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93
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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94
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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95
solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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96
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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97
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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98
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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99
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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100
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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101
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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102
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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103
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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104
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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105
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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106
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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107
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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109
oblation
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| n.圣餐式；祭品 | |
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110
treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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111
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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112
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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113
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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114
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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115
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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116
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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117
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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118
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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119
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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