"Poor little child," she whispered. "Poor little life-mocked child! That is the bitter fate which women fear, to be sucked dry of their fresh sweetness, of their life, and then be tossed aside. Oh, I have seen it many times. We give our all, and it is wasted because men—"
"They are all alike," cried the priestess of Lal vehemently2. "In their hearts they are all alike, lighter3 than air, unstabler than water, more fickle4 than nectar-seeking butterflies. They love our beauty, and when that is gone— Look you," she cried. "This is the tragedy of a woman, to be beautiful, to be loved, and to grow old. Look," she said. "I will show you."
Once again the light of the silver lamps was quenched5, and silent, side by side, the priestess of Lal and I looked far down the weary path which Eastern women travel not knowing where an end shall be.
In all the ride from Segovia along the beach, Hazlitt met only three living things, three women staring at him out of the folds of dingy6 calico which shielded their faces from the glare of sun and sea. One was young and very graceful7; another was not so young, a comely8, ox-like thing, laden9 with comfortable fat. The third was old and bent10, with a hideously11 wrinkled, hopeless face, the mask of that impatient death which shrivels away the women of the hot Eastern world, outside and in. For a moment they startled him. They were like phantoms12 risen to confront him on the lifeless beach, for the youngest was but a memory of what the eldest13 had been a little time before, and the eldest only a prophecy of what the youngest soon would be. As they stood and watched him passing by, shifting their worn feet uneasily on the blistering14 sand, Hazlitt felt a mild stirring of pity at the familiar sight.
"Hoy, friends," he hailed them. "Can one of you tell me the way to the plantation15 of Don Raymundo?"
The girl looked at him shyly under lowered lids; the grandmother, squatting17 on her haunches, puffed18 at a ragged19 fragment of cigar she carried and gazed out to sea; but the mother clutched volubly at the opportunity of speech.
"Go on till you come to the mango which blew down in the typhoon of ten years ago," she said, "and the road is there. It is called the 'Trail that has no Turning.' Don Raymundo is a Castilian of the noblest, and he is the richest haciendero in the world. Each year he loads a hundred ships with sugar. The plantation is called the 'Hacienda without a Name.' Don Raymundo has a daughter whose name is Se?orita Dolores. She is the most beautiful woman in the world. His wife is Do?a Ceferina." For a moment a look of dislike crossed the broad, good-natured face. "They call her Do?a, and she is very proud, but after all she is just a mestizo, almost a Filipina like us. She—"
Hazlitt broke into her chatter20 with his thanks, flipped21 a coin in the air, and jogged on till he had left them far behind, three moving dots on the waste, plodding22 the way of Malay womenfolk.
Hidden in the green-shrouded wilderness23 of the lower hills, the Hacienda without a Name lay under the sunset enchanting24 as a lost fragment of some old world, where labor25 next the soil was the happiest thing in life. And up in the sala of the great house on the hill, the mistress of the hacienda stared at Hazlitt over her cup. She was a beautiful woman, but under the Caucasian mold of her features another face was beginning to show dimly, the face of a race whose very heat and strength of life fuses all lines down to mere26 shapelessness of flesh. A part of Do?a Ceferina had been overtaken by the unrelenting advance of middle age.
"You say my husband is a prince, Se?or?" Do?a Ceferina echoed doubtfully over her cup, and her soft forehead wrinkled in bewilderment. This strange young visitor had puzzling notions of what constitutes conversation, a diversion of which Do?a Ceferina was extremely fond. "Without doubt," she said, "I think that is a mistake."
Hazlitt looked at her in mingled27 amusement and vexation. In all his wonderful day of discovery, this talkative, commonplace woman had been the sole jarring note. But Do?a Ceferina, oblivious28 to his emotions, sat in the cool twilight29 of the big room and poised30 her cup, like some hybrid31 goddess of justice about to render a decision.
"Beyond doubt, it is a mistake," said Do?a Ceferina. "Don Raymundo's family is one of the oldest in Spain, but it has never married with royalty32. There are few princes in Spain not of the royal blood; it is not like Russia." The word gave her a clue to a topic of real interest, and she brightened. "When I was a girl, back at school, I met a Russian prince, one summer at Biarritz—"
Over his cup, Don Raymundo's tiny Mephistophelian moustache lifted slightly in the mocking smile which was his extremest expression of emotion, and Hazlitt rushed to the righting of his false lead.
"Of course I did not mean that Don Raymundo was a prince in name," he explained, "but in fact, you know."
"The startling, the wonderful thing to an American like me is that he is not only a prince in power, but a prince of another age. The people here on the plantation are his, belong to him personally. Take that thing we saw just now, for example, all those hundreds of people coming in to the plantation kitchen for their suppers—"
Do?a Ceferina rose to her opportunity. "If you only knew," she said, "how much rice it takes to feed five thousand people—"
Hazlitt, brimming with the enthusiasm the day had brought him, swept on. "Think of having a jail of your own, and putting people in it when you like, being their law! Why, I dare say they'd follow him to war if he told them to, and—and sack the next plantation. It's—it's positively35 feudal36, you know. That's the only word; all this doesn't belong to our day at all. And yet they say there's no romance left in trade!"
He stopped abruptly37, for Do?a Ceferina was gazing at him with round eyes. If one could picture the eyes of a ruminative38 cow, watching with mild curiosity a serpent which sought to charm her, one would have seen the eyes of Do?a Ceferina just then. Don Raymundo smiled inscrutably, and the pause grew awkward.
Suddenly a soft voice came to Hazlitt's relief. "You remember 'feudal,' mama," it said reassuringly39. "Ever so long ago, when they had knights40 and squires41 and—and gens-d'armes, and people lived in castles, and they had the Inquisition in Spain, and the friars, and—and everything. That was 'feudal.'"
Do?a Ceferina sighed with relief and sipped: "Dolores has just come back from school, so she remembers all those things," she explained to Hazlitt. "I learned them once, of course, but one forgets, out here. And so you think we're feudal? I don't know, I'm sure. Of course there aren't any knights any more, or castles, but we do have the friars. Listen, se?or," and she set her cup on a little table, to give freedom to her hands, and plunged42 into the story of the latest exaction44 by the local representative of the hierarchy45 of the Philippines.
No one minded her much. Her husband sat with half-closed eyes and puffed at his cigarette, Dolores turned to her window and gazed down on her little world as it went to sleep, and Hazlitt's eyes persisted in wandering to the girlish figure, glowing in a belated, ruddy shaft46 of light. Decidedly, the talkative woman on the beach had shown some discrimination in placing Se?orita Dolores on the pinnacle47 of beauty. Suddenly Hazlitt became aware that Do?a Ceferina's tale was told, and that her talk had taken a more personal turn.
"Dolores gazed down on her little world as it went to sleep."
"Dolores gazed down on her little world as it went to sleep."
"It's so good to have one from our own world to talk to again," she said enthusiastically. "One gets lonely here, with only natives for neighbors. I tremble to think what my existence would have been, after I came back from school, if Don Raymundo had not been here to rescue me." She smiled radiantly at her black and white spouse48, as if to include him in the conversation, but he only drew long on his cigarette and puffed the smoke very deliberately49 toward the ceiling. Hazlitt's eyes wandered to the window again, and Do?a Ceferina's followed them.
"Isn't she beautiful?" she whispered.
"Yes," said Hazlitt, half to himself. "She's like a Madonna, a Madonna whom some great man dreamed of painting and gave up in despair."
"Exactly," Do?a Ceferina agreed hastily. "That's just it. She's beautiful as the Virgin50 herself, and good! Poor child, after three years of Paris and Madrid, to come back to this!" She swept an over-jeweled hand at the great, simple, dignified51 room. "No wonder she's lonely, poor little dear. Go and talk to her, Se?or Hasleet."
Hazlitt accepted his permission with alacrity52. As he approached, Do?a Dolores glanced timidly at him across the gulf53 of sex, which tradition and training had fixed54 between her and all male things not of her blood, and retreated into herself. Her shyness was part of her attraction, Hazlitt thought, and did not find the silence awkward as he stood beside her and looked down with her on the hacienda.
In the shaggy village clustered about the squat16 stone chimney of the mill, groups of girls and young men were laughing and splashing about the wells; from the little groves55 which embowered the houses, the evening fires glowed red; the light breeze carried, even to that distance, a hint of the pungent56 wood-smoke. As Hazlitt watched the peaceful scene, all the love of the open which had led him wandering through life rolled over him in a wave.
"Jove, it's a good old world, after all," he said.
The girl glanced up at him quickly. "After all?" she echoed plaintively57. "Tell me, se?or. The Sisters always said that the world was bad, and we must be afraid of it. When you speak so, saying that it is good, I wonder if you also do not think it is bad. Why isn't it good, if we are happy in it?"
Hazlitt smiled down into her puzzled eyes. Decidedly they were matter-of-fact, these women of the hacienda. "It is good," he assured her, with the calm philosophy of his thirty years behind him. "Of course it's good." Still she looked up at him, forgetting her shyness, and a gust58 of protectiveness and elder-brotherly affection for this tender, budding woman-thing took hold of him. "It's good," he urged, "and you will always be happy in it."
Back in the dimness Do?a Ceferina was sipping59 her third cup of chocolate, while Raymundo smoked with half shut eyes and smiled inscrutably.
Like Dorcas or Abigail or whoever she was of old, Do?a Ceferina sat among her maidens60. There were half a dozen of them on the floor, sewing and spinning and chattering61 in subdued62 voices, while the mistress of the hacienda sat enthroned in the midst of them. But unlike whoever she was of old, Do?a Ceferina had a card-table before her, and on the other side of the table Hazlitt sat, and the two smiled companionably across at each other as they sorted fat bundles of cards.
They were playing panguingui. One plays panguingui with six packs of cards and much patience. Do?a Ceferina and Hazlitt had played a good deal of it since they first met, six months before, and Hazlitt's patience had never wearied. Neither had the patience of Se?orita Dolores, which is more to the point, for she had to stand behind Hazlitt's chair and help him with the unfamiliar63 cards. She was standing64 there now.
"Hazleet, it is your lead," said Do?a Ceferina, gathering65 up her hand. It was a sign of the fellowship established between them that she called him Hazlitt in the good, round, Spanish way, without any fuss over titles. It was a stronger sign that she sat with her feet tucked up in her chair, native-fashion. "One gets used to it," she had explained, the first time she ventured it in his presence, "and it's much more comfortable."
"Hazleet, I shall beat you again," said Do?a Ceferina. "Lead!"
Hazlitt laid his finger inquiringly on a card, and looked back over his shoulder, where a pair of interested eyes signalled approval. Suddenly he spied a forgotten card down in the corner of his fistful. Se?orita Dolores gave a small wail66 of dismay as he played it, and Do?a Ceferina smiled in pleasant derision.
"I mistook it for a King," said Hazlitt in apology.
"It is a mistake," said the remorseless Do?a Ceferina, "which costs you a media peseta. Now play again."
Hazlitt played again and again, and lost each time, and enjoyed Do?a Ceferina's little triumph almost as much as she did. She wasn't half bad, if she was not exciting, this plump good-natured Do?a Ceferina, with her eternal cigarette and her cards or novel or conversation. Hazlitt smiled whimsically at that last thought. "What are you laughing at, Hazleet?" his opponent demanded.
He had been thinking of the Frenchwoman who was famed for having such a marvellous gift for conversation, and none at all for dialogue, but he couldn't very well tell Do?a Ceferina that. "At the way I'm playing," he replied.
"You couldn't well play worse," said Do?a Ceferina good-humoredly, taking toll67 of her bit of silver. "Lead again."
Hazlitt could play worse, and promptly68 did it. There are infinite possibilities of badness, even in panguingui. Not at all a bad person to share a secret with, this simple, matter-of-fact Do?a Ceferina. And he believed they were sharing one. In Do?a Ceferina's placidly69 romantic bosom70, he guessed, had grown a vision of a young prince come out of the West to rescue her imprisoned71 princess from this tropical Castle of Indolence. A vision had come to him, too, a vision which made him lean back and forget his cards. Six months ago a beach-comber, gilded72 and respectable, of course, but still a beach-comber, an adventurer, without a country; and now, perhaps, a man whom many a petty prince might envy. Fancy ruling undisputed with Se?orita Dolores over the quiet domain73 of the "Hacienda without a Name!" Jove, what a queen she'd make.
A hand stole down over his and pityingly pointed74 out the proper card, and Hazlitt sternly repressed an impulse to fling away the cards and take the hand, and keep it. The time was drawing near when he must put his fortune to the test.
The cards ran out, and Do?a Ceferina glowed triumphant75. "Another game, Hazleet?" she asked.
Hazlitt laughingly turned his pocket out to show that the modest sum allotted76 for the stakes of the day was exhausted77, and Do?a Ceferina swept up her little heap of silver. "You play worse than ever, I think," she said frankly78.
"Still, I may learn panguingui before I die," said Hazlitt. A sudden impulse seized him. He leaned forward and fixed the mistress of the hacienda with his eye. "I rather think, Do?a Ceferina," he said, with slow emphasis, "that I shall have to stay out here till I die. There seems to be no escape. I shall have to stay and—learn to play panguingui. What do you think?"
In the heavy eyes of Do?a Ceferina a small glow kindled79, as of the surviving remnants of a very tiny fire. Hazlitt had seen them light that way before, when Do?a Ceferina reached the climax80 of a novel. The glow deepened, and she looked at his understandingly. Her hand trembled a little on the table. "Why not, Hazleet?" she said. "It—it would be very pleasant for all of us. I—" She rose hastily. "I shall have to leave you for a minute. I hope you and Dolores can amuse yourselves till luncheon," she said with elaborate innocence81, and went away.
Hazlitt followed poor unsuspecting Dolores, thus left as a ewe lamb to the wolf, over to the window, and stood looking down with her, while the half-dozen maidens let needle and spindle fall, and exchanged knowing glances.
The rains had come and gone, and the tropical world was thrilling with the swift rush of its springtime. The black fields were mistily82 green with the new-set spikes83 of cane84, the sky was fleecy with white banks of cloud, the very air was sweet and full of life. Hazlitt drew a deep breath of it. "God!" he said, "what a good old place this old world is to live in."
Dolores glanced up at him. No one would have called her a Madonna now. The spring-tide had entered into her, and she was vibrant85 with a thrill of living of which no monkish86 painter ever dreamed. "Why do you talk like that?" she demanded. "Of course it's a good world."
Hazlitt gazed down into the upturned eyes. "And you are happy in it, Dolores?" he asked.
At his tone Dolores flushed rosy87 and turned away, and her hand gripped the edge of the broad sill with little, helpless, useless fingers. Hazlitt laid his hand over it protectingly, and it did not draw away. "You are happy, Dolores?" he repeated.
"Of course," said Dolores faintly. "Why shouldn't I be, when everything is—so beautiful and—and good?"
"Happy Dolores," said Hazlitt. And then Don Raymundo rode round the turn in the shrubbery below and swung from the saddle. Dolores shrank back, but Don Raymundo only smiled up inscrutably. If he had seen the little comedy, he gave no sign. "I'll join you in a minute," he called to them.
A flash of anger swept over Hazlitt at this man whose mere approach took all the witchery from life. He pressed Dolores' hand before he released it. "She shall be happy," he muttered defiantly88, to Don Raymundo and the world. "She shall be happy always."
"There seems to be a great deal of unnecessary time in the world," Don Raymundo observed with his perverse89 triviality. He and Hazlitt had run across each other in the sala after their siesta90, and now they were sitting with their long chairs drawn91 up before a window, waiting for the end of the day.
"Perhaps there is," Hazlitt agreed, slowly gathering resolution for his plunge43. "And yet, with agreeable companionship, and perhaps a wife—Don Raymundo, we Americans are blunt. I want to marry Do?a Dolores."
Don Raymundo smoked placidly for a moment. "I have been expecting this," he said at last. "I have—shall I be blunt?—been fearing this."
Hazlitt flushed. "I know it seems presumptuous," he said. "People will call me a climber. And yet— We have no aristocracy in my country, no recognized aristocracy, as perhaps you know. But of such families as we have, mine is not the worst. For five generations—"
"I care little about families," said Don Raymundo coolly.
The tone was courteous92, but the words stung Hazlitt. "I am not a rich man," he said, "but I have enough. I was afraid at first that it was the hacienda I cared for, not the wealth of it, but the power and romance of the life here. That was what took me at first, but now it's Do?a Dolores herself. I know it. I had hoped—" he hesitated. After six months of almost daily intercourse93 it was as impossible to break through Don Raymundo's smiling reserve as it had been at first. "I had hoped that you might find the company of another white man not disagreeable, that we might perhaps even become friends, but—all that doesn't matter, but simply this: it isn't the hacienda I want."
Don Raymundo spread out his hands with a gesture of utter weariness. "I care so little for the hacienda and who has it and what becomes of it," he said, "that if the burden of it could be lifted from me I should be almost happy, I think." And while scorn for the eternal posing of the man was setting Hazlitt's lips, he went on: "My friend, and I call you friend because I feel a friendliness94 for you, I am going to tell you a story I never thought to tell to any one." Don Raymundo's momentary95 energy dropped from him. "If you care to listen," he amended96, in his most uninterested manner.
"Go on, please," said Hazlitt impatiently.
"It is a story of a young man in Spain," said Don Raymundo, "a boy who had a mama and a sister and a name, all of them associated with a rambling97 stone house that perched on a sunburnt hill. He also had a somewhat lively and energetic brain, and a very moderate education. All he lacked was an income. I hope I do not bore you more than usual?"
Hazlitt moved restlessly, and Don Raymundo continued: "Observe the sequence. The wealth of dreams is traditionally Oriental, and the Philippines lie in the Orient. So the boy, lying there beneath the broken roof of the gaunt stone house, and being sadly in need of an income, dreams of a journey over sunny seas to a region where Spaniards dwell in palaces and gain untold98 gold, living like little gods together on broad acres where cane rustles99 and coffee-blossoms gleam and the hemp100 sends up its never-dying stalk. Demonio!" said Don Raymundo, with a mocking lightness bitter as it well could be, "I seem to be falling into the mood of that boy who dreamed."
Don Raymundo's silence seemed expectant, somehow, and Hazlitt asked: "He came?"
"He came," said Don Raymundo, "and he awoke. They say that he found the rustling101 cane and the gleaming blossoms a bit monotonous102, even while they turned to gold beneath his touch. His environment, I take it, must have been rather like—" He motioned toward the window and the world that lay outside it, the fields stretching away in the burning light to the dim edge of the forest, the endless sweep of the jungle, the distant glow of the sleeping sea, all the untamable world that pressed around the "Hacienda without a Name."
"Like this," Don Raymundo agreed. "People say he said at last that proper companionship, and perhaps a wife—Diós mio, I grow stupid. His nearest neighbor, who was half a native, was—blessed, I believe the proper word is—blessed with a daughter. A most charming young woman in those days, they tell me, very gay, very gentle, very affectionate, most accomplished104; she had spent many years on the Continent, I believe. In short, she was an unusually beautiful and attractive young person, very like—"
"Like—" Hazlitt began unwillingly105, and stopped.
"Like Dolores," Don Raymundo assented for him. "And this interesting young woman naturally felt ill at ease among her homestaying half-countrymen, and naturally had much in common—but all that is easily understood. They were married. And that," Don Raymundo said with languid brutality106, "seems to have been the ending of the young man's second dream. Since then he has lived with open eyes."
Hazlitt felt a twinge of shame come over him at listening. After all, the law which establishes a neutral strip of silence between men is based on something deeper than mere convention.
"Don't you think," Hazlitt asked at last—he had to say something—"that this young man took himself too seriously, too tragically107? If he had given more to life, had gone about among people—"
"I understand," Don Raymundo interrupted him, "that he declined to go out among his countrymen, where his wife was received only as a favor to himself and his name. He was a somewhat Quixotic young man, you see. And his Filipino friends, though worthy108 people doubtless, were somewhat unattractive and dull to both the young man and his wife. So in the end he was restricted to the joys of home. And his wife grew old more rapidly than he. There seemed to be something in her blood that made her grow old quickly."
For a moment Hazlitt felt a gleam of pity for the lonely man beside him. Then his back stiffened109.
"I do not think," said Hazlitt, and for his life could not keep the vibration110 of scorn from his voice, "that I love Do?a Dolores merely because she is young and beautiful. What I want is to make her happy. We can grow old together."
Don Raymundo smiled, and for once his smile was patient instead of mocking. "You are like that young man of mine now," he said gently. "You remind me very much of him. When you are older, you will judge less harshly. And aren't you overlooking something? Is it my happiness that counts, or yours, or even Dolores', though it's hard that she should suffer for the mistake her father made." He drew himself up in his chair and looked at Hazlitt with a new light in his eyes.
"Have you any right to marry her?" he asked almost sternly. "What of your children? And their children? A hundred years from now, will they be—white? Or must they go on forever belonging nowhere, despised by half the brothers of their blood, and themselves despising the other half? Where will it end?"
Enlightenment burst on Hazlitt in a flash. This was no lover's obstacle, to be surmounted111 by theatric leaps and bounds. He had come face to face with one of the truths of life, Nature's unescapable law of blood. He saw them coming, the slow generations, men of no race and country. "My God!" he said, and gripped the arms of his chair till the cane splintered.
A door opened at the other end of the big room. "Our companions are coming," said Don Raymundo quietly, and rose with punctilious112 courtesy.
After the greetings Do?a Ceferina went directly to the gleaming tray which bore the chocolate and biscuits which buoy113 one from the dead languor114 of the siesta to the full tide of evening life. Hazlitt sank back in his chair again. Suddenly a soft voice asked over his shoulder: "You haven't forgotten to save this day week for our baile, have you? You must come, you know, because then," Dolores hesitated at her boldness but rattled115 on, "because then I sha'n't have to dance so often with these stupid native boys."
Hazlitt gripped the arms of his chair again. The moment for decision had come. All those unborn generations were waiting for his answer. Dolores was waiting too, poor, helpless, innocent Dolores. He looked to Don Raymundo for relief, but Don Raymundo, at a window, had turned his back and was puffing116 at his eternal cigarette. The pause grew long. Then slowly Hazlitt straightened in his chair, and as he looked up at the wondering face behind him, the law and the prophets were swept away in a gush117 of pitying affection. Pitying, and then? She seemed so rarely, wonderfully beautiful to him, rare and precious as some golden flower from supernal118 gardens. He could not let her go, could not give up her surpassing loveliness. "Yes," he said very firmly, "yes, I will come."
"Lalalá!" Do?a Ceferina laughed from her place behind the cups. "He speaks as seriously as if he made a vow119 to Our Lady. It's only a ball, you know, Hazleet. Give the men their chocolate, Dolorcita." She raised her cup and sipped happily. "After all," she said, in a tone of deep content, "there are few things in life more delightful120 than one's chocolate and cigarette."
Don Raymundo was gazing from his window off into the distance, where the gathering shadows were blending forest and cane-field.
"Chocolate is very good," he said thoughtfully.
Three women tramped in the glare of endless Segovia beach. One was young and graceful; another was a comely, ox-like thing of middle age; the third was at the end of life. They halted for a moment to rest, and the grandmother squatted121 on her haunches and gazed, unseeing, out over the water.
"There will be a wedding at the hacienda next month," said the girl.
"Yes," said her mother, "the young American will marry Se?orita Dolores. They say he is very rich, richer than Don Raymundo."
"He is very big and handsome," said the girl wistfully. "And Do?a Dolores—she is very beautiful and kind."
A flash of jealousy122 crossed the mother's broad, good-natured face. "Yes," she said, "she is beautiful. But after all she is only a mestiza, almost a Filipina like the rest of us. And she will grow old."
Then, having halted a moment, they tramped on along their path like phantoms risen on the lifeless beach, for the youngest was but a memory of what the eldest had been a little time before, and the eldest was only a prophecy of what the youngest soon would be.
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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19
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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20
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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21
flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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22
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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23
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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25
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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27
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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29
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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31
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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32
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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33
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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35
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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36
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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37
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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38
ruminative
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| adj.沉思的，默想的，爱反复思考的 | |
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39
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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40
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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41
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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42
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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43
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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44
exaction
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| n.强求，强征；杂税 | |
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45
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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46
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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47
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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48
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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49
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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50
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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51
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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52
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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53
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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55
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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56
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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58
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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60
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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62
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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63
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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65
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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66
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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67
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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68
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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69
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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70
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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71
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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73
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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74
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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75
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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76
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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78
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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79
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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80
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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81
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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82
mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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83
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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84
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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85
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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86
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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87
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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88
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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89
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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90
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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91
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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92
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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93
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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94
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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95
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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96
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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97
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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98
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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99
rustles
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| n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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101
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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102
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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103
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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105
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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106
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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107
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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108
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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109
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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110
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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111
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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112
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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113
buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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114
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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115
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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116
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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117
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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118
supernal
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| adj.天堂的，天上的；崇高的 | |
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119
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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120
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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121
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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122
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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