A gale1 of wind was blowing from the north-east; not in itself a wild gale, but at short intervals3 a fresh burst of wind brought with it a thicker fall of snow, and during these squalls the force of the storm was terrific. A man, who had waited on the far shore of the river for a quiet interval2, had at last made his way to the Farlingford side. He moored4 his boat and stumbled heavily up the steps.
There was no one on the quay5. The street was deserted6, but the lights within the cottages glowed warmly through red blinds here and there. The majority of windows were, however, secured with a shutter7, screwed tight from within. The man trotted8 steadily9 up the street. He had an unmistakable air of discipline. It was only six o'clock, but night had closed in three hours ago. The coast-guard looked neither to one side nor the other, but ran on at the pace of one who had run far and knows that he cannot afford to lose his breath; for his night's work was only begun.
The coast-guard station stands on the left-hand side of the street, a long, low house in a bare garden. In answer to the loud summons, a red-faced little man opened the door and let out into the night a smell of bloaters and tea—the smell that pervades10 all Farlingford at six o'clock in the evening.
“Something on the Inner Curlo Bank,” shouted the coast-guard in his face, and turning on his heel, he ran with the same slow, organised haste, leaving the red-faced man finishing a mouthful on the mat.
The next place of call was at River Andrew's, the little low cottage with rounded corners, below the church.
“Come out o' that,” said the coast-guard, with a contemptuous glance of snow-rimmed eyes at River Andrew's comfortable tea-table. “Ring yer bell. Something on the Inner Curlo Bank.”
River Andrew had never hurried in his life, and like all his fellows, he looked upon coast-guards as amateurs mindful, as all amateurs are, of their clothes.
“A'm now going,” he answered, rising laboriously11 from his chair. The coast-guard glanced at his feet clad in the bright green carpet-slippers, dear to seafaring men. Then he turned to the side of the mantelpiece and took the church keys from the nail. For everybody knows where everybody else keeps his keys in Farlingford. He forgot to shut the door behind him, and River Andrew, pessimistically getting into his sea-boots, swore at his retreating back.
“Likely as not, he'll getten howld o' the wrong roup,” he muttered; though he knew that every boy in the village could point out the rope of “John Darby,” as that which had a piece of faded scarlet12 flannel13 twisted through the strands14.
In a few minutes the man, who hastened slowly, gave the call, which every man in Farlingford answered with an emotionless, mechanical promptitude. From each fireside some tired worker reached out his hand toward his most precious possession, his sea-boots, as his forefathers15 had done before him for two hundred years at the sound of “John Darby.” The women crammed16 into the pockets of the men's stiff oilskins a piece of bread, a half-filled bottle—knowing that, as often as not, their husbands must pass the night and half the next day on the beach, or out at sea, should the weather permit a launch through the surf.
There was no need of excitement, or even of comment. Did not “John Darby” call them from their firesides or their beds a dozen times every winter, to scramble17 out across the shingle18? As often as not, there was nothing to be done but drag the dead bodies from the surf; but sometimes the dead revived—some fair-haired, mystic foreigner from the northern seas, who came to and said, “T'ank you,” and nothing else. And next day, rigged out in dry clothes and despatched toward Ipswich on the carrier's cart, he would shake hands awkwardly with any standing19 near and bob his head and say “T'ank you” again, and go away, monosyllabic, mystic, never to be heard of more. But the ocean, as it is called at Farlingford, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of such Titans to throw up on the rattling20 shingle winter after winter. And, after all, they were seafaring men, and therefore brothers. Farlingford turned out to a man, each seeking to be first across the river every time “John Darby” called them, as if he had never called them before.
To-night none paused to finish the meal, and many a cup raised half-way was set down again untasted. It is so easy to be too late.
Already the flicker21 of lanterns on the sea-wall showed that the rectory was astir. For Septimus Marvin, vaguely22 recalling some schoolboy instinct of fair-play, knew the place of the gentleman and the man of education among humbler men in moments of danger and hardship, which should, assuredly, never be at the back.
“Yonder's parson,” some one muttered. “His head is clear enow, I'll warrant, when he hears 'John Darby.'”
“'Tis only on Sundays, when 'John' rings slow, 'tis misty,” answered a sharp-voiced woman, with a laugh. For half of Farlingford was already at the quay, and three or four boats were bumping and splashing against the steps. The tide was racing24 out, and the wind, whizzing slantwise across it, pushed it against the wooden piles of the quay, making them throb25 and tremble.
“Not less'n four to the oars26!” shouted a gruff voice, at the foot of the steps, where the salt water, splashing on the snow, had laid bare the green and slimy moss28. Two or three volunteers stumbled down the steps, and the first boat got away, swinging down-stream at once, only to be brought slowly back, head to wind. She hung motionless a few yards from the quay, each dip of the oars stirring the water into a whirl of phosphorescence, and then forged slowly ahead.
Septimus Marvin was not alone, but was accompanied by a bulky man, not unknown in Farlingford—John Turner, of Ipswich, understood to live “foreign,” but to return, after the manner of East Anglians, when occasion offered. The rector was in oilskins and sou'wester, like any one else, and the gleam of his spectacles under the snowy brim of his headgear seemed to strike no one as incongruous. His pockets bulged29 with bottles and bandages. Under his arm he carried a couple of blanket horse-cloths, useful for carrying the injured or the dead.
“The Curlo—the Inner Curlo—yes, yes!” he shouted in response to information volunteered on all sides. “Poor fellows! The Inner Curlo, dear, dear!”
And he groped his way down the steps, into the first boat he saw, with a simple haste. John Turner followed him. He had tied a silk handkerchief over his soft felt hat and under his chin.
“No, no!” he said, as Septimus Marvin made room for him on the after-thwart30. “I'm too heavy for a passenger. Put my weight on an oar27,” and he clambered forward to a vacant thwart.
“Mind you come back for us, River Andrew!” cried little Sep's thin voice, as the boat swirled31 down stream. His wavering bull's-eye lantern followed it, and showed River Andrew and another pulling stroke to John Turner's bow, for the banker had been a famous oar on the Orwell in his boyhood. Then, with a smack32 like a box on the ear, another snow-squall swept in from the sea, and forced all on the quay to turn their backs and crouch33. Many went back to their homes, knowing that nothing could be known for some hours. Others crouched34 on the landward side of an old coal-shed, peeping round the corner.
Miriam and Sep, and a few others, waited on the quay until River Andrew or another should return. It was an understood thing that the helpers, such as could man a boat or carry a drowned man, should go first. In a few minutes the squall was past, and by the light of the moon, now thinly covered by clouds, the black forms of the first to reach the other shore could be seen straggling across the marsh35 toward the great shingle-bank that lies between the river and the sea. Two boats were moored at the far side, another was just making the jetty, while a fourth was returning toward the quay. It was River Andrew, faithful to his own element, who preferred to be first here, rather than obey orders on the open beach.
There were several ready to lend a helping36 hand against tide and wind, and Miriam and Sep were soon struggling across the shingle, in the footsteps of those who had gone before. The north-east wind seared their faces like a hot iron, but the snow had ceased falling. As they reached the summit of the shingle-bank, they could see in front of them the black line of the sea, and on the beach, where the white of the snow and the white of the roaring surf merged37 together, a group of men.
One or two stragglers had left this group to search the beach, north or south; but it was known, from a long and grim experience, that anything floating in from the tail of the Inner Curlo Bank must reach the shore at one particular point. A few lanterns twinkled here and there, but near the group of watchers a bonfire of wreckage39 and tarry fragments and old rope, brought hither for the purpose, had been kindled40.
Two boats, hauled out of reach of a spring tide, were being leisurely41 prepared for launching. There was no hurry; for it had been decided42 by the older men that no boat could be put to sea through the surf then rolling in. At the turn of the tide, in two hours' time, something might be done.
“Us cannot see anything,” a bystander said to Miriam. “It is just there, where I am pointing. Sea Andrew saw something a while back—says it looked like a schooner43.”
The man stood pointing out to sea to the southward. He carried an unlighted torch—a flare44, roughly made, of tarred rope, bound round a stick. At times, one or another would ignite his flare, and go down the beach holding it above his head, while he stood knee deep in the churning foam45 to peer out to sea. He would presently return, without comment, to beat out his flare against his foot and take his place among the silent watchers. No one spoke46; but if any turned his head sharply to one side or other, all the rest wheeled, like one man, in the same direction and after staring at the tumbled sea would turn reproachful glances on the false alarmist.
Suddenly, after a long wait, four men rushed without a word into the surf; their silent fury suggesting oddly the rush of hounds upon a fox. They had simultaneously47 caught sight of something dark, half sunk in the shallow water. In a moment they were struggling up the shingle slope toward the fire, carrying a heavy weight. They laid their burden by the fire, where the snow had melted away, and it was a man. He was in oilskins, and some one cut the tape that tied his sou'wester. His face was covered with blood.
“'Tis warm,” said the man who had cut away the oilskin cap, and with his hand he wiped the blood away from the eyes and mouth. Some one in the background drew a cork48, with his teeth, and a bottle was handed down to those kneeling on the ground.
Suddenly the man sat up—and coughed.
“Shipmets,” he said, with a splutter, and lay down again. Some one held the bottle to his lips and wiped the blood away from his face again.
“My God!” shouted a bystander, gruffly. “'Tis William Brooke, of the Cottages.”
“Yes. 'Tis me,” said the man, sitting up again. “Not that arm, mate; don't ye touch it. 'Tis bruk. Yes; 'tis me. And 'The Last Hope' is on the tail of the Inner Curlo—and the spar that knocked me overboard fell on the old man, and must have half killed him. But Loo Barebone's aboard.”
He rose to his knees, with one arm hanging straight and piteous from his shoulder, then slowly to his feet. He stood wavering for a moment, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spluttered. Then, looking straight in front of him, with that strange air of a whipped dog which humble23 men wear when the hand of Heaven is upon them, he staggered up the beach toward the river and Farlingford.
“Where are ye goin'?” some one asked.
“Over to mine,” was the reply. “A'm going to my old woman, shipmets.”
And he staggered away in the darkness.
CHAPTER XL. FARLINGFORD ONCE MORE
After a hurried consultation49, Septimus Marvin was deputed to follow the injured man and take him home, seeing that he had as yet but half recovered his senses. This good Samaritan had scarcely disappeared when a shout from the beach drew the attention of all in another direction.
One of the outposts was running toward the fire, waving his lantern and shouting incoherently. It was a coastguard.
“There she rides—there she rides!” added Sea Andrew, almost immediately, and he pointed51 to the south.
Quite close in, just outside the line of breakers, a black shadow was rising and falling on the water. It seemed to make scarcely any way at all, and each sea that curled underneath52 the boat and roared toward the beach was a new danger.
“They're going to run her in here,” said Sea Andrew. “There's more left on board; that's what that means, and they're goin' back for 'em. If 'twasn't so they'd run in anywheres and let her break.”
For one sailor will always tell what another is about, however great the distance intervening.
Slowly the boat came on, rolling tremendously on the curve of the breakers, between the broken water of the tideway and the spume of the surf.
“That's Loo at the hellum,” said Sea Andrew—the keenest eyes in Farlingford.
And suddenly Miriam swayed sideways against John Turner, who was perhaps watching her, for he gripped her arm and stood firm. No one spoke. The watchers on the beach stared open-mouthed, making unconscious grimaces53 as the boat rose and fell. All had been ready for some minutes; every preparation made according to the time-honoured use of these coasts: four men with life-lines round them standing knee-deep waiting to dash in deeper, others behind them grouped in two files, some holding the slack of the life-lines, forming a double rank from the shore to the fire, giving the steersman his course. There was no need to wave a torch or shout an order. They were Farlingford men on the shore and Farlingford men in the boat.
At last, after breathless moments of suspense54, the boat turned, and came spinning in on the top of a breaker, with the useless oars sticking out like the legs of some huge insect. For a few seconds it was impossible to distinguish anything. The moment the boat touched ground, the waves beating on it enveloped55 all near it in a whirl of spray, and the black forms seemed to be tumbling over each other in confusion.
“You see,” said Turner to Miriam, “he has come back to you after all.”
She did not answer but stood, her two hands clasped together on her breast, seeking to disentangle the confused group, half in half out of the water.
Then they heard Loo Barebone's voice, cheerful and energetic, almost laughing. Before they could understand what was taking place his voice was audible again, giving a sharp, clear order, and all the black forms rushed together down into the surf. A moment later the boat danced out over the crest56 of a breaker, splashing into the next and throwing up a fan of spray.
“She's through, she's through!” cried some one. And the boat rode for a brief minute head to wind before she turned southward. There were only three on the thwarts—Loo Barebone and two others.
The group now broke up and straggled up toward the fire. One man was being supported, and could scarcely walk. It was Captain Clubbe, hatless, his grey hair plastered across his head by salt water.
He did not heed57 any one, but sat down heavily on the shingle and felt his leg with one hand, the other arm hung limply.
“Leave me here,” he said, gruffly, to two or three who were spreading out a horse-cloth and preparing to carry him. “Here I stay till all are ashore.”
Behind him were several new-comers, one of them a little man talking excitedly to his companion.
“But it is a folly,” he was saying in French, “to go back in such a sea as that.”
It was the Marquis de Gemosac, and no one was taking any notice of him. Dormer Colville, stumbling over the shingle beside him, recognised Miriam in the firelight and turned again to look at her companion as if scarcely believing the evidence of his own eyes.
“Is that you, Turner?” he said. “We are all here,—the Marquis, Barebone, and I. Clubbe took us on board one dark night in the Gironde and brought us home.”
“Oh, no. But Clubbe's collar-bone is broken and his leg is crushed. We had to leave four on board; not room for them in the boat. That fool Barebone has gone back for them. He promised them he would. The sea out there is awful!”
He knelt down and held his shaking hands to the flames. Some one handed him a bottle, but he turned first and gave it the Marquis de Gemosac, who was shaking all over like one far gone in a palsy.
Sea Andrew and the coast-guard captain were persuading Captain Clubbe to quit the beach, but he only answered them roughly in monosyllables.
“My place is here till all are safe,” he said. “Let me lie.”
And with a groan59 of pain he lay back on the beach. Miriam folded a blanket and placed it under his head. He looked round, recognised her and nodded.
“No place for you, miss,” he said, and closed his eyes. After a moment he raised himself on his elbow and looked into the faces peering down at him.
“Loo will beach her anywhere he can. Keep a bright lookout60 for him,” he said. Then he was silent, and all turned their faces toward the sea.
Another snow-squall swept in with a rush from the eastward61, and half of the fire was blown away—a trail of sparks hissing62 on the snow. They built up the fire again and waited, crouching63 low over the embers. They could see nothing out to sea. There was nothing to be done but to wait. Some had gone along the shore to the south, keeping pace with the supposed progress of the boat, ready to help should she be thrown ashore.
Suddenly the Marquis de Gemosac, shivering over the fire, raised his voice querulously. His emotions always found vent64 in speech.
“It is a folly,” he repeated, “that he has committed. I do not understand, gentlemen, how he was permitted to do such a thing—he whose life is of value to millions.”
He turned his head to glance sharply at Captain Clubbe, at Colville, at Turner, who listened with that half-contemptuous silence which Englishmen oppose to unnecessary or inopportune speech.
“Ah!” he said, “you do not understand—you Englishmen—or you do not believe, perhaps, that he is the King. You would demand proofs which you know cannot be produced. I demand no proofs, for I know. I know without any proof at all but his face, his manner, his whole being. I knew at once when I saw him step out of his boat here in this sad village, and I have lived with him almost daily ever since—only to be more sure than at first.”
His hearers made no answer. They listened tolerantly enough, as one listens to a child or to any other incapable65 of keeping to the business in hand.
“Oh, I know more than you suspect,” said the Marquis, suddenly. “There are some even in our own party who have doubts, who are not quite sure. I know that there was a doubt as to that portrait of the Queen,” he half glanced toward Dormer Colville. “Some say one thing, some another. I have been told that, when the child—Monsieur de Bourbon's father—landed here, there were two portraits among his few possessions—the miniature and a larger print, an engraving66. Where is that engraving, one would ask?”
“I have it in my safe in Paris,” said a thick voice in the darkness. “Thought it was better in my possession than anywhere else.”
“Indeed! And now, Monsieur Turner—” the Marquis raised himself on his knees and pointed in his eager way a thin finger in the direction of the banker—“tell me this. Those portraits to which some would attach importance—they are of the Duchess de Guiche. Admitted? Good! If you yourself—who have the reputation of being a man of wit—desired to secure the escape of a child and his nurse, would you content yourself with the mere67 precaution of concealing68 the child's identity? Would you not go farther and provide the nurse with a subterfuge69, a blind, something for the woman to produce and say, 'This is not the little Dauphin. This is so-and-so. See, here is the portrait of his mother?' What so effective, I ask you? What so likely to be believed as a scandal directed against the hated aristocrats70? Can you advance anything against that theory?”
“No, Monsieur,” replied Turner.
“But Monsieur de Bourbon knows of these doubts,” went on the Marquis. “They have even touched his own mind, I know that. But he has continued to fight undaunted. He has made sacrifices—any looking at his face can see that. It was not in France that he looked for happiness, but elsewhere. He was not heart-whole—I who have seen him with the most beautiful women in France paying court to him know that. But this sacrifice, also, he made for the sake of France. Or perhaps some woman of whom we know nothing stepped back and bade him go forward alone, for the sake of his own greatness—who can tell?”
Again no one answered him. He had not perceived Miriam, and John Turner, with that light step which sometimes goes with a vast bulk, had placed himself between her and the firelight. Monsieur de Gemosac rose to his feet and stood looking seaward. The snow-clouds were rolling away to the west, and the moon, breaking through, was beginning to illumine the wild sky.
“Gentlemen,” said the Marquis, “they have been gone a long time?”
Captain Clubbe moved restlessly, but he made no answer. The Marquis had, of course, spoken in French, and the Captain had no use for that language.
The group round the fire had dwindled71 until only half a dozen remained. One after another the watchers had moved away uneasily toward the beach. The Marquis was right—the boat had been gone too long.
At last the moon broke through, and the snowy scene was almost as light as day.
John Turner was looking along the beach to the south, and one after another the watchers by the fire turned their anxious eyes in the same direction. The sea, whipped white, was bare of any wreck38. “The Last Hope” of Farlingford was gone. She had broken up or rolled into deep water.
A number of men were coming up the shingle in silence. Sea Andrew, dragging his feet wearily, approached in advance of them.
“Boat's thrown up on the beach,” he said to Captain Clubbe. “Stove in by a sea. We've found them.”
He stood back and the others, coming slowly into the light, deposited their burdens side by side near the fire. The Marquis, who had understood nothing, took a torch from the hand of a bystander and held it down toward the face of the man they had brought last.
It was Loo Barebone, and the clean-cut, royal features seemed to wear a reflective smile.
Miriam had come forward toward the fire, and by chance or by some vague instinct the bearers had laid their burden at her feet. After all, as John Turner had said, Loo Barebone had come back to her. She had denied him twice, and the third time he would take no denial. The taciturn sailors laid him there and stepped back—as if he was hers and this was the inevitable72 end of his short and stormy voyage.
She looked down at him with tired eyes. She had done the right, and this was the end. There are some who may say that she had done what she thought was right, and this only seemed to be the end. It may be so.
The Marquis de Gemosac was dumb for once. He looked round him with a half-defiant question in his eyes. Then he pointed a lean finger down toward the dead man's face.
“Others may question,” he said, “but I know—I KNOW.”
The End
The End
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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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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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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standing
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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flicker
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vaguely
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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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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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oar
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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swirled
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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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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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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71
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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