Never had the gracious eastward1 face of Shonts looked more beautiful than it did on the morning of the Lord Chancellor’s visit. It glowed as translucent2 as amber3 lit by flames, its two towers were pillars of pale gold. It looked over its slopes and parapets upon a great valley of mist-barred freshness through which the distant river shone like a snake of light. The south-west fa?ade was still in the shadow, and the ivy4 hung from it darkly greener than the greenest green. The stained-glass windows of the old chapel5 reflected the sunrise as though lamps were burning inside. Along the terrace a pensive6 peacock trailed his sheathed7 splendours through the dew.
Amidst the ivy was a fuss of birds.
And presently there was pushed out from amidst the ivy at the foot of the eastward tower a little brownish buff thing, that seemed as natural there as a squirrel or a rabbit. It was a head,—a ruffled8 human head. It remained still for a moment contemplating9 the calm spaciousness10 of terrace and garden and countryside. Then it emerged further and rotated and surveyed the 57house above it. Its expression was one of alert caution. Its natural freshness and innocence11 were a little marred12 by an enormous transverse smudge, a bar-sinister of smut, and the elfin delicacy13 of the left ear was festooned with a cobweb—probably a genuine antique. It was the face of Bealby.
He was considering the advisability of leaving Shonts—for good.
Presently his decision was made. His hands and shoulders appeared following his head, and then a dusty but undamaged Bealby was running swiftly towards the corner of the shrubbery. He crouched14 lest at any moment that pursuing pack of butlers should see him and give tongue. In another moment he was hidden from the house altogether, and rustling15 his way through a thicket16 of budding rhododendra. After those dirty passages the morning air was wonderfully sweet—but just a trifle hungry.
Grazing deer saw Bealby fly across the park, stared at him for a time with great gentle unintelligent eyes, and went on feeding.
They saw him stop ever and again. He was snatching at mushrooms, that he devoured18 forthwith as he sped on.
On the edge of the beech-woods he paused and glanced back at Shonts.
Then his eyes rested for a moment on the clump19 of trees through which one saw a scrap20 of the head gardener’s cottage, a bit of the garden wall....
A physiognomist might have detected a certain lack of self-confidence in Bealby’s eyes.
58But his spirit was not to be quelled21. Slowly, joylessly perhaps, but with a grave determination, he raised his hand in that prehistoric22 gesture of the hand and face by which youth, since ever there was youth, has asserted the integrity of its soul against established and predominant things.
“Ketch me!” said Bealby.
§ 2
Bealby left Shonts about half-past four in the morning. He went westward23 because he liked the company of his shadow and was amused at first by its vast length. By half-past eight he had covered ten miles, and he was rather bored by his shadow. He had eaten nine raw mushrooms, two green apples and a quantity of unripe24 blackberries. None of these things seemed quite at home in him. And he had discovered himself to be wearing slippers25. They were stout26 carpet slippers, but still they were slippers,—and the road was telling on them. At the ninth mile the left one began to give on the outer seam. He got over a stile into a path that ran through the corner of a wood, and there he met a smell of frying bacon that turned his very soul to gastric27 juice.
“Oh, Krikey,” said Bealby, manifestly to the Spirit of the World. “This is a bit too strong. I wasn’t thinking much before.”
Then he saw something bright yellow and bulky just over the hedge.
59From this it was that the sound of frying came.
He went to the hedge, making no effort to conceal29 himself. Outside a great yellow caravan30 with dainty little windows stood a largish dark woman in a deerstalker hat, a short brown skirt, a large white apron31 and spatterdashes (among other things), frying bacon and potatoes in a frying pan. She was very red in the face, and the frying pan was spitting at her as frying pans do at a timid cook....
Quite mechanically Bealby scrambled33 through the hedge and drew nearer this divine smell. The woman scrutinized34 him for a moment, and then blinking and averting35 her face went on with her cookery.
Bealby came quite close to her and remained, noting the bits of potato that swam about in the pan, the jolly curling of the rashers, the dancing of the bubbles, the hymning splash and splutter of the happy fat....
(If it should ever fall to my lot to be cooked, may I be fried in potatoes and butter. May I be fried with potatoes and good butter made from the milk of the cow. God send I am spared boiling; the prison of the pot, the rattling36 lid, the evil darkness, the greasy37 water....)
“I suppose,” said the lady prodding38 with her fork at the bacon, “I suppose you call yourself a Boy.”
“Yes, miss,” said Bealby.
“Have you ever fried?”
“I could, miss.”
“Like this?”
60“Better”
“Just lay hold of this handle—for it’s scorching39 the skin off my face I am.” She seemed to think for a moment and added, “entirely40.”
In silence Bealby grasped that exquisite41 smell by the handle, he took the fork from her hand and put his hungry eager nose over the seething42 mess. It wasn’t only bacon; there were onions, onions giving it—an edge! It cut to the quick of appetite. He could have wept with the intensity43 of his sensations.
A voice almost as delicious as the smell came out of the caravan window behind Bealby’s head.
“Ju-dy!” cried the voice.
“Here!—I mean,—it’s here I am,” said the lady in the deerstalker.
“Judy—you didn’t take my stockings for your own by any chance?”
The lady in the deerstalker gave way to delighted horror. “Sssh, Mavourneen!” she cried—she was one of that large class of amiable44 women who are more Irish than they need be—“there’s a Boy here!”
§ 3
There was indeed an almost obsequiously45 industrious46 and obliging Boy. An hour later he was no longer a Boy but the Boy, and three friendly women were regarding him with a merited approval.
He had done the frying, renewed a waning47 fire with remarkable48 skill and dispatch, reboiled a neglected kettle in the shortest possible time, laid almost without direction a simple meal, very 61exactly set out campstools and cleaned the frying pan marvellously. Hardly had they taken their portions of that appetizing savouriness, than he had whipped off with that implement49, gone behind the caravan, busied himself there, and returned with the pan—glittering bright. Himself if possible brighter. One cheek indeed shone with an animated50 glow.
“But wasn’t there some of the bacon and stuff left?” asked the lady in the deerstalker.
“I didn’t think it was wanted, Miss,” said Bealby. “So I cleared it up.”
He met understanding in her eye. He questioned her expression.
“Mayn’t I wash up for you, miss?” he asked to relieve the tension.
He washed up, swiftly and cleanly. He had never been able to wash up to Mr. Mergleson’s satisfaction before, but now he did everything Mr. Mergleson had ever told him. He asked where to put the things away and he put them away. Then he asked politely if there was anything else he could do for them. Questioned, he said he liked doing things. “You haven’t,” said the lady in the deerstalker, “a taste for cleaning boots?”
Bealby declared he had.
“Surely,” said a voice that Bealby adored, “’tis an angel from heaven.”
He had a taste for cleaning boots! This was an extraordinary thing for Bealby to say. But a great change had come to him in the last half-hour. He was violently anxious to do things, 62any sort of things, servile things, for a particular person. He was in love.
The owner of the beautiful voice had come out of the caravan, she had stood for a moment in the doorway52 before descending53 the steps to the ground and the soul of Bealby had bowed down before her in instant submission54. Never had he seen anything so lovely. Her straight slender body was sheathed in blue; fair hair, a little tinged55 with red, poured gloriously back from her broad forehead, and she had the sweetest eyes in the world. One hand lifted her dress from her feet; the other rested on the lintel of the caravan door. She looked at him and smiled.
So for two years she had looked and smiled across the footlights to the Bealby in mankind. She had smiled now on her entrance out of habit. She took the effect upon Bealby as a foregone conclusion.
“How good it smells, Judy!” she had said.
That time the blue-eyed lady had smiled at him quite definitely....
The third member of the party had appeared unobserved; the irradiations of the beautiful lady had obscured her. Bealby discovered her about. She was bareheaded; she wore a simple grey dress with a Norfolk jacket, and she had a pretty clear white profile under black hair. She answered to the name of “Winnie.” The beautiful lady 63was Madeleine. They made little obscure jokes with each other and praised the morning ardently58. “This is the best place of all,” said Madeleine.
“All night,” said Winnie, “not a single mosquito.”
None of these three ladies made any attempt to conceal the sincerity59 of their hunger or their appreciation60 of Bealby’s assistance. How good a thing is appreciation! Here he was doing, with joy and pride and an eager excellence61, the very services he had done so badly under the cuffings of Mergleson and Thomas....
§ 4
And now Bealby, having been regarded with approval for some moments and discussed in tantalizing62 undertones, was called upon to explain himself.
“Boy,” said the lady in the deerstalker, who was evidently the leader and still more evidently the spokeswoman of the party, “come here.”
“Yes, miss.” He put down the boot he was cleaning on the caravan step.
“In the first place, know by these presents, I am a married woman.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And miss is not a seemly mode of address for me.”
“No, miss. I mean—” Bealby hung for a moment and by the happiest of accidents, a scrap of his instruction at Shonts came up in his mind. “No,” he said, “your—ladyship.”
64A great light shone on the spokeswoman’s face. “Not yet, my child,” she said, “not yet. He hasn’t done his duty by me. I am—a simple Mum.”
Bealby was intelligently silent.
“Say—Yes, Mum.”
“Yes, Mum,” said Bealby and everybody laughed very agreeably.
“And now,” said the lady, taking pleasure in her words, “know by these presents—By the bye, what is your name?”
Bealby scarcely hesitated. “Dick Mal-travers, Mum,” he said and almost added, “The Dauntless Daredevil of the Diamond-fields Horse,” which was the second title.
“Dick will do,” said the lady who was called Judy, and added suddenly and very amusingly: “You may keep the rest.”
(These were the sort of people Bealby liked. The right sort.)
“Well, Dick, we want to know, have you ever been in service?”
It was sudden. But Bealby was equal to it. “Only for a day or two, miss—I mean, Mum,—just to be useful.”
“Were you useful?”
Bealby tried to think whether he had been, and could recall nothing but the face of Thomas with the fork hanging from it. “I did my best, Mum,” he said impartially65.
“And all that is over?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“And you’re at home again and out of employment?”
65“Yes, Mum.”
“Do you live near here?”
“No—leastways, not very far.”
“With your father.”
“Stepfather, Mum. I’m a Norfan.”
“Well, how would you like to come with us for a few days and help with things? Seven-and-sixpence a week.”
“Would your stepfather object?”
Bealby considered. “I don’t think he would,” he said.
“You’d better go round and ask him.”
“I—suppose—yes,” he said.
“And get a few things.”
“Things, Mum?”
“Collars and things. You needn’t bring a great box for such a little while.”
“Yes, Mum....”
“Better run along now. Our man and horse will be coming presently. We shan’t be able to wait for you long....”
At the gate of the field he hesitated almost imperceptibly and then directed his face to the Sabbath stillness of the village.
Perplexity corrugated71 his features. The stepfather’s permission presented no difficulties, but it was more difficult about the luggage.
A voice called after him.
“You’ll want Boots. You’ll have to walk by the caravan, you know. You’ll want some good stout Boots.”
“All right, Mum,” he said with a sorrowful break in his voice. He waited a few moments but nothing more came. He went on—very slowly. He had forgotten about the boots.
That defeated him....
It is hard to be refused admission to Paradise for the want of a hand-bag and a pair of walking-boots....
§ 5
Bealby was by no means certain that he was going back to that caravan. He wanted to do so quite painfully, but—
He’d just look a fool going back without boots and—nothing on earth would reconcile him to the idea of looking a fool in the eyes of that beautiful woman in blue.
“Dick,” he whispered to himself despondently73, “Daredevil Dick!” (A more miserable-looking face you never set eyes on.) “It’s all up with your little schemes, Dick, my boy. You must get a bag—and nothing on earth will get you a bag.”
He paid little heed74 to the village through which he wandered. He knew there were no bags there. Chance rather than any volition75 of his own guided him down a side path that led to the nearly dry bed of a little rivulet76, and there he sat down on some weedy grass under a group of 67willows. It was an untidy place that needed all the sunshine of the morning to be tolerable; one of those places where stinging nettles77 take heart and people throw old kettles, broken gallipots, jaded78 gravel79, grass cuttings, rusty80 rubbish, old boots—.
For a time Bealby’s eyes rested on the objects with an entire lack of interest.
Then he was reminded of his not so very remote childhood when he had found an old boot and made it into a castle....
Presently he got up and walked across to the rubbish heap and surveyed its treasures with a quickened intelligence. He picked up a widowed boot and weighed it in his hand.
He had ideas, two ideas, one for the luggage and one for the boots.... If only he could manage it. Hope beat his great pinions82 in the heart of Bealby.
Sunday! The shops were shut. Yes, that was a fresh obstacle. He’d forgotten that.
The public-house stood bashfully open, the shy uninviting openness of Sunday morning before closing time, but public-houses, alas83! at all hours are forbidden to little boys. And besides he wasn’t likely to get what he wanted in a public-house; he wanted a shop, a general shop. And here before him was the general shop—and its door ajar! His desire carried him over the threshold. The Sabbatical shutters84 made the place dark and cool, and the smell of bacon and cheese 68and chandleries, the very spirit of grocery, calm and unhurried, was cool and Sabbatical, too, as if it sat there for the day in its best clothes. And a pleasant woman was talking over the counter to a thin and worried one who carried a bundle.
Their intercourse85 had a flavour of emergency, and they both stopped abruptly at the appearance of Bealby.
His desire, his craving86 was now so great that it had altogether subdued87 the natural wiriness of his appearance. He looked meek88, he looked good, he was swimming in propitiation and tender with respect. He produced an effect of being much smaller. He had got nice eyes. His movements were refined and his manners perfect.
“Not doing business to-day, my boy,” said the pleasant woman.
“Oh, please ’m,” he said from his heart.
“Sunday, you know.”
“Oh, please ’m. If you could just give me a nold sheet of paper ’m, please.”
“What for?” asked the pleasant woman.
“Just to wrap something up ’m.”
She reflected, and natural goodness had its way with her.
“A nice big bit?” said the woman.
“Please ’m.”
“Would you like it brown?”
“Oh, please ’m.”
“And you got some string??
“Only cottony stuff,” said Bealby, disembowelling a trouser pocket. “Wiv knots. But I dessay I can manage.”
69“You’d better have a bit of good string with it, my dear,” said the pleasant woman, whose generosity89 was now fairly on the run, “Then you can do your parcel up nice and tidy....”
§ 6
The white horse was already in the shafts91 of the caravan, and William, a deaf and clumsy man of uncertain age and a vast sharp nosiness92, was lifting in the basket of breakfast gear and grumbling93 in undertones at the wickedness and unfairness of travelling on Sunday, when Bealby returned to gladden three waiting women.
“Ah!” said the inconspicuous lady, “I knew he’d come.”
“Look at his poor little precious parsivel,” said the actress.
Regarded as luggage it was rather pitiful; a knobby, brown paper parcel about the size—to be perfectly94 frank—of a tin can, two old boots and some grass, very carefully folded and tied up,—and carried gingerly.
“But—” the lady in the deerstalker began, and then paused.
“Dick,” she said, as he came nearer, “where’s your boots?”
“Oh please, Mum,” said the dauntless one, “they was away being mended. My stepfather thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I didn’t have boots. He said perhaps I might be able to get some more boots out of my salary....”
The lady in the deerstalker looked alarmingly 70uncertain and Bealby controlled infinite distresses95.
“Haven’t you got a mother, Dick?” asked the beautiful voice suddenly. Its owner abounded96 in such spasmodic curiosities.
“She—last year....” Matricide is a painful business at any time. And just as you see, in spite of every effort you have made, the jolliest lark97 in the world slipping out of your reach. And the sweet voice so sorry for him! So sorry! Bealby suddenly veiled his face with his elbow and gave way to honourable98 tears....
“That’ll be all right, Dick,” said the lady in the deerstalker, patting his shoulder. “We’ll get you some boots to-morrow. And to-day you must sit up beside William and spare your feet. You’ll have to go to the inns with him....”
“It’s wonderful, the elasticity100 of youth,” said the inconspicuous lady five minutes later. “To see that boy now, you’d never imagine he’d had a sorrow in the world.”
“Now get up there,” said the lady who was the leader. “We shall walk across the fields and join you later. You understand where you are to wait for us, William?”
She came nearer and shouted, “You understand, William?”
William nodded ambiguously. “’Ent a Vool,” he said.
71He sat up where he had been put, trying to look as Orphan102 Dick as possible after all that had occurred.
§ 7
“Do you know the wind on the heath—have you lived the Gypsy life? Have you spoken, wanderers yourselves, with ‘Romany chi and Romany chal’ on the wind-swept moors103 at home or abroad? Have you tramped the broad highways, and, at close of day, pitched your tent near a running stream and cooked your supper by starlight over a fire of pinewood? Do you know the dreamless sleep of the wanderer at peace with himself and all the world?”
For most of us the answer to these questions of the Amateur Camping Club is in the negative.
Yet every year the call of the road, the Borrovian glamour104, draws away a certain small number of the imaginative from the grosser comforts of a complex civilization, takes them out into tents and caravans105 and intimate communion with nature, and, incidentally, with various ingenious appliances designed to meet the needs of cooking in a breeze. It is an adventure to which high spirits and great expectations must be brought, it is an experience in proximity106 which few friendships survive—and altogether very great fun.
The life of breezy freedom resolves itself in practice chiefly into washing up and an anxious search for permission to camp. One learns how rich and fruitful our world can be in bystanders, 72and how easy it is to forget essential groceries....
The heart of the joy of it lies in its perfect detachment. There you are in the morning sunlight under the trees that overhang the road, going whither you will. Everything you need you have. Your van creaks along at your side. You are outside inns, outside houses, a home, a community, an imperium in imperio. At any moment you may draw out of the traffic upon the wayside grass and say, “Here—until the owner catches us at it—is home!” At any time—subject to the complaisance107 of William and your being able to find him—you may inspan and go onward108. The world is all before you. You taste the complete yet leisurely109 insouciance110 of the snail111.
And two of those three ladies had other satisfactions to supplement their pleasures. They both adored Madeleine Philips. She was not only perfectly sweet and lovely, but she was known to be so; she had that most potent112 charm for women, prestige. They had got her all to themselves. They could show now how false is the old idea that there is no friendship nor conversation among women. They were full of wit and pretty things for one another and snatches of song in between. And they were free too from their “menfolk.” They were doing without them. Dr. Bowles, the husband of the lady in the deerstalker, was away in Ireland, and Mr. Geedge, the lord of the inconspicuous woman, was golfing at Sandwich. And Madeleine Philips, it was understood, was only too glad to shake herself 73free from the crowd of admirers that hovered about her like wasps113 about honey....
Yet after three days each one had thoughts about the need of helpfulness and more particularly about washing-up, that were better left unspoken, that were indeed conspicuously114 unspoken beneath their merry give and take, like a black and silent river flowing beneath a bridge of ivory. And each of them had a curious feeling in the midst of all this fresh free behaviour, as though the others were not listening sufficiently115, as though something of the effect of them was being wasted. Madeleine’s smiles became rarer; at times she was almost impassive, and Judy preserved nearly all her wit and verbal fireworks for the times when they passed through villages.... Mrs. Geedge was less visibly affected116. She had thoughts of writing a book about it all, telling in the gayest, most provocative117 way, full of the quietest quaintest119 humour, just how jolly they had been. Menfolk would read it. This kept a little thin smile upon her lips....
As an audience William was tough stuff. He pretended deafness; he never looked. He did not want to look. He seemed always to be holding his nose in front of his face to prevent his observation—as men pray into their hats at church. But once Judy Bowles overheard a phrase or so in his private soliloquy. “Pack o’ wimmin,” William was saying. “Dratted petticoats. Dang ’em. That’s what I say to ’um. Dang ’em!”
As a matter of fact, he just fell short of saying it to them. But his manner said it....
74You begin to see how acceptable an addition was young Bealby to this company. He was not only helpful, immensely helpful, in things material, a vigorous and at first a careful washer-up, an energetic boot-polisher, a most serviceable cleaner and tidier of things, but he was also belief and support. Undisguisedly he thought the caravan the loveliest thing going, and its three mistresses the most wonderful of people. His alert eyes followed them about full of an unstinted admiration120 and interest; he pricked121 his ears when Judy opened her mouth, he handed things to Mrs. Geedge. He made no secret about Madeleine. When she spoke63 to him, he lost his breath, he reddened and was embarrassed....
They went across the fields saying that he was the luckiest of finds. It was fortunate his people had been so ready to spare him. Judy said boys were a race very cruelly maligned122; see how willing he was! Mrs. Geedge said there was something elfin about Bealby’s little face; Madeleine smiled at the thought of his quaint118 artlessness. She knew quite clearly that he’d die for her....
§ 8
There was a little pause as the ladies moved away.
“Brasted Voolery,” said William, and then loudly and fiercely, “Cam up, y’ode Runt you.”
At these words the white horse started into 75a convulsive irregular redistribution of its feet, the caravan strained and quivered into motion and Bealby’s wanderings as a caravanner began.
For a time William spoke no more, and Bealby scarcely regarded him. The light of strange fortunes and deep enthusiasm was in Bealby’s eyes....
“One Thing,” said William, “they don’t ’ave the Sense to lock anythink up—whatever.”
Bealby’s attention was recalled to the existence of his companion.
William’s face was one of those faces that give one at first the impression of a solitary124 and very conceited125 nose. The other features are entirely subordinated to that salient effect. One sees them later. His eyes were small and uneven126, his mouth apparently127 toothless, thin-lipped and crumpled128, with the upper lip falling over the other in a manner suggestive of a meagre firmness mixed with appetite. When he spoke he made a faint slobbering sound. “Everyfink,” he said, “behind there.”
“They got some choc’late,” he said, lusciously131. “Oo Fine!”
“All sorts of Fings.”
He did not seem to expect any reply from Bealby.
“We going far before we meet ’em?” asked Bealby.
William’s deafness became apparent.
His mind was preoccupied132 by other ideas. One 76wicked eye came close to Bealby’s face. “We going to ’ave a bit of choc’late,” he said in a wet desirous voice.
He pointed133 his thumb over his shoulder at the door. “You get it,” said William with reassuring134 nods and the mouth much pursed and very oblique135.
Bealby shook his head.
“It’s in a little dror, under ’er place where she sleeps.”
“Yus, I tell you,” said William.
“No,” said Bealby.
“Choc’late, I tell you,” said William, and ran the tongue of appetite round the rim137 of his toothless mouth.
“Don’t want choc’late,” said Bealby, thinking of a large lump of it.
“Go on,” said William. “Nobody won’t see you....”
“Go it!” said William....
“You’re afraid,” said William....
Bealby took the reins. William got up and opened the door of the caravan. Then Bealby realized his moral responsibility—and, leaving the reins, clutched William firmly by his baggy139 nether140 garments. They were elderly garments, much sat upon. “Don’t be a Vool,” said William struggling. “Leago my slack.”
77“What you mean pullin’ my cloes orf me?”
“That,”—he investigated. “Take me a Nour to sew up.”
“I ain’t going to steal,” shouted Bealby into the ear of William.
“Nobody arst you to steal—”
“Nor you neither,” said Bealby.
The caravan bumped heavily against a low garden wall, skidded141 a little and came to rest. William sat down suddenly. The white horse, after a period of confusion with its legs, tried the flavour of some overhanging lilac branches and was content.
“Gimme those reins,” said William. “You be the Brastedest Young Vool....”
“Sittin’ ’ere,” said William presently, “chewin’ our teeth, when we might be eatin’ choc’late....”
“I ’ent got no use for you,” said William, “blowed if I ’ave....”
Then the thought of his injuries returned to him.
“I’d make you sew ’em up yourself, darned if I wount—on’y you’d go running the brasted needle into me.... Nour’s work there is—by the feel of it.... Mor’n nour.... Goddobe done, too.... All I got....”
“I’ll give you Sumpfin, you little Beace, ’fore I done wi’ you.”
“I wouldn’t steal ’er choc’lates,” said young Bealby, “not if I was starving.”
“Eh?” shouted William.
“Steal!” shouted Bealby.
78“I’ll steal ye, ’fore I done with ye,” said William. “Tearin’ my cloes for me.... Oh! Cam up, y’old Runt. We don’t want you to stop and lissen. Cam up, I tell you!”
§ 8
They found the ladies rather, it seemed, by accident than design, waiting upon a sandy common rich with purple heather and bordered by woods of fir and spruce. They had been waiting some time, and it was clear that the sight of the yellow caravan relieved an accumulated anxiety. Bealby rejoiced to see them. His soul glowed with the pride of chocolate resisted and William overcome. He resolved to distinguish himself over the preparation of the midday meal. It was a pleasant little island of green they chose for their midday pitch, a little patch of emerald turf amidst the purple, a patch already doomed142 to removal, as a bare oblong and a pile of rolled-up turfs witnessed. This pile and a little bank of heather and bramble promised shelter from the breeze, and down the hill a hundred yards away was a spring and a built-up pool. This spot lay perhaps fifty yards away from the high road and one reached it along a rutty track which had been made by the turf cutters. And overhead was the glorious sky of an English summer, with great clouds like sunlit, white-sailed ships, the Constable143 sky. The white horse was hobbled and turned out to pasture among the heather, and William was sent off to get congenial provender144 79at the nearest public house. “William!” shouted Mrs. Bowles as he departed, shouting confidentially145 into his ear, “Get your clothes mended.”
“Eh?” said William.
“Mend your clothes.”
“Yah! ’E did that,” said William viciously with a movement of self-protection, and so went.
Nobody watched him go. Almost sternly they set to work upon the luncheon146 preparation as William receded147. “William,” Mrs. Bowles remarked, as she bustled148 with the patent cooker, putting it up wrong way round so that afterwards it collapsed149, “William—takes offence. Sometimes I think he takes offence almost too often.... Did you have any difficulty with him, Dick?”
Bealby was wonderful with the firelighting, and except that he cracked a plate in warming it, quite admirable as a cook. He burnt his fingers twice—and liked doing it; he ate his portion with instinctive152 modesty153 on the other side of the caravan and he washed up—as Mr. Mergleson had always instructed him to do. Mrs. Bowles showed him how to clean knives and forks by sticking them into the turf. A little to his surprise these ladies lit and smoked cigarettes. They sat about and talked perplexingly. Clever stuff. Then he had to get water from the neighbouring brook154 and boil the kettle for an early tea. Madeleine produced a charmingly bound little book and read in it, the other two professed155 themselves anxious for the view from a neighbouring 80hill. They produced their sensible spiked156 walking sticks such as one does not see in England; they seemed full of energy. “You go,” Madeleine had said, “while I and Dick stay here and make tea. I’ve walked enough to-day....”
So Bealby, happy to the pitch of ecstacy, first explored the wonderful interior of the caravan,—there was a dresser, a stove, let-down chairs and tables and all manner of things,—and then nursed the kettle to the singing stage on the patent cooker while the beautiful lady reclined close at hand on a rug.
“Dick!” she said.
He had forgotten he was Dick.
“Dick!”
He remembered his personality with a start. “Yes, miss!” He knelt up, with a handful of twigs157 in his hand and regarded her.
“Well, Dick,” she said.
He remained in flushed adoration158. There was a little pause and the lady smiled at him an unaffected smile.
“What are you going to be, Dick, when you grow up?”
“I don’t know, miss. I’ve wondered.”
“What would you like to be?”
“Something abroad. Something—so that you could see things.”
“A soldier?”
“Or a sailor, miss.”
“A sailor sees nothing but the sea.”
“I’d rather be a sailor than a common soldier, miss.”
81“You’d like to be an officer?”
“Yes, miss—only—”
“One of my very best friends is an officer,” she said, a little irrelevantly159 it seemed to Bealby.
“I’d be a Norficer like a shot,” said Bealby, “if I ’ad ’arf a chance, miss.”
“Officers nowadays,” she said, “have to be very brave, able men.”
“I know, miss,” said Bealby modestly....
The fire required attention for a little while....
The lady turned over on her elbow. “What do you think you are likely to be, Dick!” she asked.
He didn’t know.
“What sort of man is your stepfather?”
Bealby looked at her. “He isn’t much,” he said.
“What is he?”
Bealby hadn’t the slightest intention of being the son of a gardener. “’E’s a law-writer.”
“What! in that village.”
“’E ’as to stay there for ’is ’ealth, miss,” he said. “Every summer. ’Is ’ealth is very pre-precocious, miss....”
He fed his fire with a few judiciously160 administered twigs.
“What was your own father, Dick?”
With that she opened a secret door in Bealby’s imagination. All stepchildren have those dreams. With him they were so frequent and vivid that they had long since become a kind of second truth. He coloured a little and answered with 82scarcely an interval161 for reflection. “’E passed as Mal-travers,” he said.
“Wasn’t that his name?”
“I don’t rightly know, miss. There was always something kep’ from me. My mother used to say, ‘Artie,’ she used to say: ‘there’s things that some day you must know, things that concern you. Things about your farver. But poor as we are now and struggling.... Not yet.... Some day you shall know truly—who you are.’ That was ’ow she said it, miss.”
“And she died before she told you?”
He had almost forgotten that he had killed his mother that very morning. “Yes, miss,” he said.
She smiled at him and something in her smile made him blush hotly. For a moment he could have believed she understood. And indeed, she did understand, and it amused her to find this boy doing—what she herself had done at times—what indeed she felt it was still in her to do. She felt that most delicate of sympathies, the sympathy of one rather over-imaginative person for another. But her next question dispelled162 his doubt of her though it left him red and hot. She asked it with a convincing simplicity163.
“Have you any idea, Dick, have you any guess or suspicion, I mean, who it is you really are?”
“I wish I had, miss,” he said. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, really—but one can’t help wondering....”
How often he had wondered in his lonely wanderings 83through that dear city of day-dreams where all the people one knows look out of windows as one passes and the roads are paved with pride! How often had he decided69 and changed and decided again!
§ 9
Now suddenly a realization164 of intrusion shattered this conversation. A third person stood over the little encampment, smiling mysteriously and waving a cleek in a slow hieratic manner through the air.
“De licious lill’ corn’,” said the newcomer in tones of benediction165.
He met their enquiring166 eyes with a luxurious167 smile, “Licious,” he said, and remained swaying insecurely and failing to express some imperfectly apprehended168 deep meaning by short peculiar169 movements of the cleek.
He was obviously a golfer astray from some adjacent course—and he had lunched.
“Mighty170 Join you,” he said, and then very distinctly in a full large voice, “Miss Malleleine Philps.” There are the penalties of a public and popular life.
“He’s drunk,” the lady whispered. “Get him to go away, Dick. I can’t endure drunken men.”
She stood up and Bealby stood up. He advanced in front of her, slowly with his nose in the air, extraordinarily171 like a small terrier smelling at a strange dog.
“I said Mighty Join you,” the golfer repeated. His voice was richly excessive. He was a big 84heavy man with a short-cropped moustache, a great deal of neck and dewlap and a solemn expression.
“Prup. Be’r. Introzuze m’self,” he remarked. He tried to indicate himself by waving his hand towards himself, but finally abandoned the attempt as impossible. “Ma’ Goo’ Soch’l Poshishun,” he said.
Bealby had a disconcerting sense of retreating footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Miss Philips standing51 at the foot of the steps that led up to the fastnesses of the caravan. “Dick,” she cried with a sharp note of alarm in her voice, “get rid of that man.”
A moment after Bealby heard the door shut and a sound of a key in its lock. He concealed172 his true feelings by putting his arms akimbo, sticking his legs wider apart and contemplating the task before him with his head a little on one side. He was upheld by the thought that the yellow caravan had a window looking upon him....
The newcomer seemed to consider the ceremony of introduction completed. “I done care for goff,” he said, almost vaingloriously.
He waved his cleek to express his preference. “Natua,” he said with a satisfaction that bordered on fatuity173.
“’Ere!” said Bealby. “This is Private.”
The golfer indicated by solemn movements of the cleek that this was understood but that other considerations overrode175 it.
The golfer waved an arm as who should say, “You do not understand, but I forgive you,” and continued to advance towards the fire. And then Bealby, at the end of his tact177, commenced hostilities178.
He did so because he felt he had to do something, and he did not know what else to do.
“Wan’ nothin’ but frenly conversation sushus custm’ry webred peel,” the golfer was saying, and then a large fragment of turf hit him in the neck, burst all about him and stopped him abruptly.
He remained for some lengthy179 moments too astonished for words. He was not only greatly surprised, but he chose to appear even more surprised than he was. In spite of the brown-black mould upon his cheek and brow and a slight displacement180 of his cap, he achieved a sort of dignity. He came slowly to a focus upon Bealby, who stood by the turf pile grasping a second missile. The cleek was extended sceptre-wise.
“replace the—Divot.”
“You go orf,” said Bealby. “I’ll chuck it if you don’t. I tell you fair.”
“replace the—Divot,” roared the golfer again in a voice of extraordinary power.
“You—you go!” said Bealby.
“Am I t’ask you. Third time. Reshpect—Roos.... replace the Divot.”
He seemed to emerge through the mould. He 86was blinking but still dignified181. “Tha’—was intentional,” he said.
He seemed to gather himself together....
Then suddenly and with a surprising nimbleness he discharged himself at Bealby. He came with astonishing swiftness. He got within a foot of him. Well, it was for Bealby that he had learnt to dodge182 in the village playground. He went down under the golfer’s arm and away round the end of the stack, and the golfer with his force spent in concussion183 remained for a time clinging to the turf pile and apparently trying to remember how he got there. Then he was reminded of recent occurrences by a shrill184 small voice from the other side of the stack.
“You gow away!” said the voice. “Can’t you see you’re annoying a lady? You gow away.”
“Nowish—’noy anyone. Pease wall wirl.”
But this was subterfuge185. He meant to catch that boy. Suddenly and rather brilliantly he turned the flank of the turf pile and only a couple of loose turfs at the foot of the heap upset his calculations. He found himself on all fours on ground from which it was difficult to rise. But he did not lose heart. “Boy—hic—scow,” he said, and became for a second rush a nimble quadruped.
Again he got quite astonishingly near to Bealby, and then in an instant was on his feet and running across the encampment after him. He succeeded in kicking over the kettle, and the patent cooker, without any injury to himself or loss of pace, and succumbed186 only to the sharp turn behind the end of the caravan and the steps. He hadn’t 87somehow thought of the steps. So he went down rather heavily. But now the spirit of a fine man was roused. Regardless of the scream from inside that had followed his collapse150, he was up and in pursuit almost instantly. Bealby only escaped the swiftness of his rush by jumping the shafts and going away across the front of the caravan to the turf pile again. The golfer tried to jump the shafts too, but he was not equal to that. He did in a manner jump. But it was almost as much diving as jumping. And there was something in it almost like the curvetting of a Great Horse....
When Bealby turned at the crash, the golfer was already on all fours again and trying very busily to crawl out between the shaft90 and the front wheel. He would have been more successful in doing this if he had not begun by putting his arm through the wheel. As it was, he was trying to do too much; he was trying to crawl out at two points at once and getting very rapidly annoyed at his inability to do so. The caravan was shifting slowly forward....
It was manifest to Bealby that getting this man to go was likely to be a much more lengthy business than he had supposed.
He surveyed the situation for a moment, and then realizing the entanglement187 of his opponent, he seized a camp-stool by one leg, went round by the steps and attacked the prostrate188 enemy from the rear with effectual but inconclusive fury. He hammered....
“Steady on, young man,” said a voice, and he 88was seized from behind. He turned—to discover himself in the grip of a second golfer....
Another! Bealby fought in a fury of fear....
He bit an arm—rather too tweedy to feel much—and got in a couple of shinners—alas! that they were only slippered189 shinners!—before he was overpowered....
A cuffed190, crumpled, disarmed191 and panting Bealby found himself watching the careful extraction of the first golfer from the front wheel. Two friends assisted that gentleman with a reproachful gentleness, and his repeated statements that he was all right seemed to reassure192 them greatly. Altogether there were now four golfers in the field, counting the pioneer.
“He was after this devil of a boy,” said the one who held Bealby.
“Yes, but how did he get here?” asked the man who was gripping Bealby.
“Feel better now?” said the third, helping193 the first comer to his uncertain feet. “Let me have your cleek o, man.... You won’t want your cleek....”
Across the heather, lifting their heads a little, came Mrs. Bowles and Mrs. Geedge, returning from their walk. They were wondering whoever their visitors could be.
And then like music after a dispute came Madeleine Philips, a beautiful blue-robed thing, coming slowly with a kind of wonder on her face, out of the caravan and down the steps. Instinctively194 everybody turned to her. The drunkard with a gesture released himself from his 89supporter and stood erect195. His cap was replaced upon him—obliquely. His cleek had been secured.
“I heard a noise,” said Madeleine, lifting her pretty chin and speaking in her sweetest tones. She looked her enquiries....
She surveyed the three sober men with a practised eye. She chose the tallest, a fair, serious-looking young man standing conveniently at the drunkard’s elbow.
“Will you please take your friend away,” she said, indicating the offender196 with her beautiful white hand.
“Simly,” he said in a slightly subdued voice, “simly coring.”
Everybody tried for a moment to understand him.
“Look here, old man, you’ve got no business here,” said the fair young man. “You’d better come back to the club house.”
The drunken man stuck to his statement. “Simly coring,” he said a little louder.
“I think,” said a little bright-eyed man with a very cheerful yellow vest, “I think he’s apologizing. I hope so.”
The drunken man nodded his head. That among other matters.
The tall young man took his arm, but he insisted on his point. “Simly coring,” he said with emphasis. “If—if—done wan’ me to cor. Notome. Nottot.... Mean’ say. Nottot tat-tome. Nottotome. Orny way—sayin’ not-ome. No wish ’trude. No wish ’all.”
90“Well, then, you see, you’d better come away.”
“I ars’ you—are you tome? Miss—Miss Pips.” He appealed to Miss Philips.
“If you’d answer him—” said the tall young man.
“No, sir,” she said with great dignity and the pretty chin higher than ever. “I am not at home.”
“Nuthin’ more t’ say then,” said the drunken man, and with a sudden stoicism he turned away.
“Come,” he said, submitting to support.
“Simly orny arfnoon cor,” he said generally and permitted himself to be led off.
“Orny frenly cor....”
For some time he was audible as he receded, explaining in a rather condescending197 voice the extreme social correctness of his behaviour. Just for a moment or so there was a slight tussle198, due to his desire to return and leave cards....
He was afterwards seen to be distributing a small handful of visiting cards amidst the heather with his free arm, rather in the manner of a paper chase—but much more gracefully199....
Then decently and in order he was taken out of sight....
§ 10
Bealby had been unostentatiously released by his captor as soon as Miss Philips appeared, and the two remaining golfers now addressed themselves to the three ladies in regret and explanation.
The man who had held Bealby was an aquiline200 grey-clad person with a cascade201 moustache and 91wrinkled eyes, and for some obscure reason he seemed to be amused; the little man in the yellow vest, however, was quite earnest and serious enough to make up for him. He was one of those little fresh-coloured men whose faces stick forward openly. He had open projecting eyes, an open mouth, his cheeks were frank to the pitch of ostentation202, his cap was thrust back from his exceptionally open forehead. He had a chest and a stomach. There, too, he held out. He would have held out anything. His legs leant forward from the feet. It was evidently impossible for a man of his nature to be anything but clean shaved....
“Our fault entirely,” he said. “Ought to have looked after him. Can’t say how sorry and ashamed we are. Can’t say how sorry we are he caused you any inconvenience.”
“Well, anyhow our friend ought not to have been off his chain. It was our affair to look after him and we didn’t....
“You see,” the open young man went on, with the air of lucid205 explanation, “he’s our worst player. And he got round in a hundred and twenty-seven. And beat—somebody. And—it’s upset him. It’s not a bit of good disguising that we’ve been letting him drink.... We have. To begin with, we encouraged him.... We oughtn’t to have let him go. But 92we thought a walk alone might do him good. And some of us were a bit off him. Fed up rather. You see he’d been singing, would go on singing....”
He went on to propitiations. “Anything the club can do to show how we regret.... If you would like to pitch—later on in our rough beyond the pinewoods.... You’d find it safe and secluded206.... Custodian—most civil man. Get you water or anything you wanted. Especially after all that has happened....”
Bealby took no further part in these concluding politenesses. He had a curious feeling in his mind that perhaps he had not managed this affair quite so well as he might have done. He ought to have been more tactful like, more persuasive207. He was a fool to have started chucking.... Well, well. He picked up the overturned kettle and went off down the hill to get water....
What had she thought of him?...
In the meantime one can at least boil kettles.
§ 11
One consequence of this little incident of the rejoicing golfer was that the three ladies were no longer content to dismiss William and Bealby at nightfall and sleep unprotected in the caravan. And this time their pitch was a lonely one with only the golf club house within call. They were inclined even to distrust the golf club. So it was decided, to his great satisfaction, that Bealby 93should have a certain sleeping sack Mrs. Bowles had brought with her and that he should sleep therein between the wheels.
This sleeping sack was to have been a great feature of the expedition, but when it came to the test Judy could not use it. She had not anticipated that feeling of extreme publicity208 the open air gives one at first. It was like having all the world in one’s bedroom. Every night she had relapsed into the caravan.
Bealby did not mind what they did with him so long as it meant sleeping. He had had a long day of it. He undressed sketchily209 and wriggled210 into the nice woolly bag and lay for a moment listening to the soft bumpings that were going on overhead. She was there. He had the instinctive confidence of our sex in women, and here were three of them. He had a vague idea of getting out of his bag again and kissing the underside of the van that held this dear beautiful creature....
He didn’t....
Such a lot of things had happened that day—and the day before. He had been going without intermission, it seemed now for endless hours. He thought of trees, roads, dew-wet grass, frying-pans, pursuing packs of gigantic butlers hopelessly at fault,—no doubt they were hunting now—chinks and crannies, tactless missiles flying, bursting, missiles it was vain to recall. He stared for a few seconds through the wheel spokes64 at the dancing, crackling fire of pine-cones which it had been his last duty to replenish211, stared and 94blinked much as a little dog might do and then he had slipped away altogether into the world of dreams....
§ 12
In the morning he was extraordinarily hard to wake....
“Is it after sleeping all day ye’d be?” cried Judy Bowles, who was always at her most Irish about breakfast time.
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收听单词发音
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1
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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3
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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4
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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6
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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7
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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8
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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9
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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10
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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14
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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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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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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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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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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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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unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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gastric
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| adj.胃的 | |
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28
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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36
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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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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38
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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39
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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44
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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obsequiously
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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47
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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48
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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49
implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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50
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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51
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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52
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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53
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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54
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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55
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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57
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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58
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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59
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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60
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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61
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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62
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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63
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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64
spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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65
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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66
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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67
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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68
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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69
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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70
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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71
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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72
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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73
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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74
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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75
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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76
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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77
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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78
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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79
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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80
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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81
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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82
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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84
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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85
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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86
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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87
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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88
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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89
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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90
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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91
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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92
nosiness
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| 好打听，爱管闲事 | |
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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
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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95
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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96
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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98
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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99
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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100
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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101
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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102
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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103
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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105
caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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106
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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107
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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108
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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109
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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110
insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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111
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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112
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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113
wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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114
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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115
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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116
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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117
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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118
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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119
quaintest
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的最高级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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120
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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121
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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122
maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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123
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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124
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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125
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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126
uneven
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|
| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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127
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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128
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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129
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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130
larked
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| v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的过去式和过去分词 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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131
lusciously
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132
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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133
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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134
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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135
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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136
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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137
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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138
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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139
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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140
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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141
skidded
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| v.（通常指车辆） 侧滑( skid的过去式和过去分词 )；打滑；滑行；（住在）贫民区 | |
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142
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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143
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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144
provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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145
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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146
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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147
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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148
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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149
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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150
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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151
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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152
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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153
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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154
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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155
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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156
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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157
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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158
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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159
irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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160
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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161
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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162
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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164
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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165
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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166
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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167
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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168
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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169
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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170
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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171
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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172
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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173
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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174
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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175
overrode
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| 越控( override的过去式 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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176
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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177
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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178
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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179
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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180
displacement
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| n.移置，取代，位移，排水量 | |
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181
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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182
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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183
concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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184
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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185
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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186
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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187
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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188
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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189
slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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190
cuffed
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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192
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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193
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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194
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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195
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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196
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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197
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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198
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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199
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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200
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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201
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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202
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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203
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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204
pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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206
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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207
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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208
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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209
sketchily
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| adv.写生风格地，大略地 | |
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210
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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211
replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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