Both grammar and high school had just been dismissed, and the bare-trodden play-ground was filled with the departing scholars. In the centre of the ground a group of boys had collected, and from this group the discordant6 sounds still proceeded.
"What is the meaning of this disturbance7?" the master asked, coming near.
At the sound of his voice the group fell apart, disclosing, as a central point, the figure of a girl of thirteen or fourteen years. She was thin and straight, and her face, now ablaze8 with anger and excitement, was a singular one, full of contradic[4]tions, yet not inharmonious as a whole. It was fair, but not as blondes are fair, and its creamy surface was flecked upon the cheeks with dark, velvety10 freckles11. Her features were symmetrical, yet a trifle heavy, particularly the lips, and certain dusky tints12 were noticeable about the large gray eyes and delicate temples, as well as a peculiar13 crisp ripple14 in the mass of vivid red hair which fell from under her torn straw hat.
Clinging to her scant15 skirts was a small hunch-backed boy, crying dismally16, and making the most of his tears by rubbing them into his sickly face with a pair of grimy fists.
The teacher looked about him with disapproval17 in his glance. The group contained, no doubt, its fair proportion of future legislators and presidents, but the raw material was neither encouraging nor pleasant to look upon. The culprits returned his wavering gaze, some looking a little conscience-smitten, others boldly impertinent, others still (and those the worst in the lot) with a charming air of innocence18 and candor19.
"What is it?" the master repeated. "What is the matter?"
"They were plaguing Bobby, here," the girl broke in, breathlessly,—"taking his marbles away, and making him cry—the mean, cruel things!"
[5]
"Boys," he remarked, solemnly, "I—I'm ashamed of you!"
The delinquents23 not appearing crushed by this announcement, he turned again to the girl.
"Girls should not quarrel and fight, my dear. It isn't proper, you know."
A mocking smile sprang to the girl's lips, and a sharp glance shot from under her black, up-curling lashes24, but she did not speak.
"She's allers a-fightin'," ventured one of the urchins25, emboldened26 by the teacher's reproof27; at which the girl turned upon him so fiercely that he shrank hastily out of sight behind his nearest companion.
"You are not one of my scholars?" the master asked, keeping his mild eyes upon the scornful face and defiant28 little figure.
"No!" the girl answered. "I go to the high school!"
"No; certainly not, certainly not," said the teacher, a little staggered. "What is your name, child?"
"Lilly, sir; Lilly O'Connell," she answered, indifferently.
[6]
"Lilly!" the teacher repeated abstractedly, looking into the dusky face, with its flashing eyes and fallen ruddy tresses,—"Lilly!"
"It ought to have been Tiger-Lily!" said a pert voice. "It would suit her, I'm sure, more ways than one!" and the speaker, a pretty, handsomely-dressed blonde girl of about her own age, laughed, and looked about for appreciation31 of her cleverness.
"So it would!" cried a boyish voice. "Her red hair, and freckles, and temper! Tiger-Lily! That's a good one!"
A shout of laughter, and loud cries of "Tiger-Lily!" immediately arose, mingled with another epithet32 more galling33 still, in the midst of which the master's deprecating words were utterly34 lost.
A dark red surged into the girl's face. She turned one eloquent35 look of wrath36 upon her tormentors, another, intensified37, upon the pretty child who had spoken, and walked away from the place, leading the cripple by the hand.
"Oh, come now, Flossie," said a handsome boy, who stood near the blonde girl, "I wouldn't tease her. She can't help it, you know."
"Pity she couldn't know who is taking up for her!" she retorted, tossing the yellow braid which hung below her waist, and sauntering away homeward.
"Oh, pshaw!" the boy said, coloring to the[7] roots of his hair; "that's the way with you girls. You know what I mean. She can't help it that her mother was a—a mulatto, or something, and her hair red. It's mean to tease her."
"She can help quarrelling and fighting with the boys, though," said Miss Flossie, looking unutterable scorn.
"She wouldn't do it, I guess, if they'd let her alone," the young fellow answered, stoutly39. "It's enough to make anybody feel savage40 to be badgered, and called names, and laughed at all the time. It makes me mad to see it. Besides, it isn't always for herself she quarrels. It's often enough for some little fellow like Bobby, that the big fellows are abusing. She is good-hearted, anyhow."
They had reached by this time the gate opening upon the lawn which surrounded the residence of Flossie's mother, the widow Fairfield. It was a small, but ornate dwelling41, expressive42, at every point, of gentility and modern improvements. The lawn itself was well kept, and adorned43 with flower-beds and a tiny fountain. Mrs. Fairfield, a youthful matron in rich mourning of the second stage, sat in a wicker chair upon the veranda44 reading, and fanning herself with an air of elegant leisure.
Miss Flossie paused. She did not want to quarrel with her boyish admirer, and, with the true in[8]stinct of coquetry, instantly appeared to have forgotten her previous irritation45.
"Won't you come in, Roger?" she said, sweetly. "Our strawberries are ripe."
He nodded pleasantly and went his way. It lay through the village and along the fields and gardens beyond. Just as he came in sight of his home,—a square, elm-shaded mansion48 of red brick, standing49 on a gentle rise a little farther on,—he paused at a place where a shallow brook50 came creeping through the lush grass of the meadow which bounded his father's possessions. He listened a moment to its low gurgling, so suggestive of wood rambles51 and speckled trout52, then tossed his strap53 of books into the meadow, leaped after it, and followed the brook's course for a little distance, stooping and peering with his keen brown eyes into each dusky pool.
All at once, as he looked and listened, another sound than the brook's plashing came to his ears, and he started up and turned his head. A stump54 fence, black and bristling55, divided the meadow from the adjoining field, its uncouth56 projections57 draped in tender, clinging vines, and he stepped[9] softly toward it and looked across. It was a rocky field, where a thin crop of grass was trying to hold its own against a vast growth of weeds, and was getting the worst of it,—a barren, shiftless field, fitly matching the big shiftless barn and small shiftless house to which it appertained.
Lying prone58 among the daisies was Lilly O'Connell, her face buried in her apron59, the red rippling60 mane falling about her, her slender form shaking with deep and unrestrained sobs62.
Roger looked on a moment and then leaped the fence. The girl rose instantly to a sitting position, and glared defiance63 at him from a pair of tear-stained eyes.
"What are you crying about?" he asked, with awkward kindness.
The girl looked up quickly into the honest dark eyes.
"It was Florence Fairfield that said it," she returned, speaking very rapidly.
Roger gave an uneasy laugh.
"Oh! you mean that about the 'Tiger-Lily'?"
"Yes," she answered, "and it's true. It's true as can be. See!" And for the first time the boy noticed that her gingham apron was filled with the fiery66 blossoms of the tiger-lily.
[10]
"See!" she said again, with an unchildish laugh, holding the flowers against her face.
Roger was not an imaginative boy, but he could not help feeling the subtle likeness67 between the fervid68 blossoms, strange, tropical outgrowth of arid69 New England soil, and this passionate70 child of mingled races, with her ruddy hair, and glowing eyes and lips. For a moment he did not know what to say, but at last, in his simple, boyish way he said:
"Well, what of it? I think they're splendid."
The girl looked up incredulously.
"I wouldn't mind the—the hair!" he stammered71. "I've got a cousin up to Boston, and she's a great belle—a beauty, you know. All the artists are crazy to paint her picture, and her hair is just the color of yours."
Lilly laid the flowers down. Her eyes fell.
"You don't understand," she said, slowly. "Other girls have red hair. It isn't that."
"I—I wouldn't mind—the other thing, either, if I were you," he stammered.
"You don't know what you'd do if you were me!" the girl cried, passionately74. "You don't know what you'd do if you were hated, and despised, and laughed at, every day of your life! And how would you like the feeling that it could never be any different, no matter where you went,[11] or how hard you tried to be good, or how much you learned? Never, never any different! Ah, it makes me hate myself, and everybody! I could tear them to pieces, like this, and this!"
She had risen, and was tearing the scarlet75 petals76 of the lilies into pieces, her teeth set, her eyes flashing.
"Look at them!" she cried wildly. "How like me they are, all red blood like yours, except those few black drops which never can be washed out! Never! Never!"
And again the child threw herself upon the ground, face downward, and broke into wild, convulsive sobbing77.
Young Roger was in an agony of pity. He found his position as consoler a trying one. An older person might well have quailed78 before this outburst of unchild-like passion. He knew that what she said was true—terribly, bitterly true, and this kept him dumb. He only stood and looked down upon the quivering little figure in embarrassed silence.
Suddenly the girl raised her head, with a flash of her eyes.
"What does God mean," she cried, fiercely, "by making such a difference in people?"
Roger's face became graver still.
"I can't tell you that, Lilly," he answered, soberly. "You'll have to ask the minister. But[12] I've often thought of it myself. I suppose there is a reason, if we only knew. I guess all we can do is to begin where God has put us, and do what we can."
Lilly slowly gathered her disordered hair into one hand and pushed it behind her shoulders, her tear-stained eyes fixed79 sadly on the boy's troubled face.
The tea-bell, sounding from the distance, brought a welcome interruption, and Roger turned to go. He looked back when half across the meadow, and saw the little figure standing in relief upon a rocky hillock, the sun kindling80 her red locks into gold.
A few years previously81, O'Connell had made his appearance in Ridgemont with wife and child, and had procured82 a lease of the run-down farm and buildings which had been their home ever since. It was understood that they had come from one of the Middle States, but beyond this nothing of their history was known.
The wife, a beautiful quadroon, sank beneath the severity of the climate, and lived but a short time. After her death, O'Connell, always a surly, hot-headed fellow, grew surlier still, and fell into evil ways. The child, with a curious sort of dignity and independence, took upon her small shoulders the burden her mother had laid aside, and carried on the forlorn household in her own way, without assistance or interference.
[13]
That she was not like other children, that she was set apart from them by some strange circumstance, she had early learned to feel. In time she began to comprehend in what the difference lay, and the knowledge roused within her a burning sense of wrong, a fierce spirit of resistance.
With the creamy skin, the full, soft features, the mellow83 voice, and impassioned nature of her quadroon mother, Lilly had inherited the fiery Celtic hair, gray-green eyes, and quick intelligence of her father.
She contrived84 to go to school, where her cleverness placed her ahead of other girls of her age, but did not raise her above the unreasoning aversion of her school-mates; and the consciousness of this rankled85 in the child's soul, giving to her face a pathetic, hunted look, and to her tongue a sharpness which few cared to encounter.
Those who knew her best—her teachers, and a few who would not let their inborn86 and unconquerable prejudice of race stand in the way of their judgment87—knew that, with all her faults of temper, the girl was brave, and truthful88, and warm-hearted. They pitied the child, born under a shadow which could never be lifted, and gave her freely the kind words for which her heart secretly longed.
There was little else they could do, for every attempt at other kindness was repelled89 with a proud indifference90 which forbade further overtures91. So[14] she had gone her way, walking in the shadow which darkened and deepened as she grew older, until at last she stood upon the threshold of womanhood.
It was at this period of her life that the incidents we have related occurred. Small as they were, they proved a crisis in the girl's life. Too much a child to be capable of forming a definite resolve, or rather, perhaps, of putting it into form and deliberately92 setting about its fulfilment, still the sensitive nature had received an impression, which became a most puissant93 influence in shaping her life.
A change came over her, so great as to have escaped no interested eyes; but interested eyes were few.
Her teachers, more than any others, marked the change. There was more care of her person and dress, and the raillery of her school-mates was met by an indifference which, however hard its assumption may have been, at once disarmed94 and puzzled them.
Now and then, the low and unprovoked taunts95 of her boyish tormentors roused her to an outburst of the old spirit, but for the most part they were met only with a flash of the steel-gray eyes, and a curl of the full red lips.
One Sunday, too, to the amazement96 of pupils and the embarrassment97 of teachers, Lilly O'Connell, neatly98 attired100 and quite self-possessed101, walked into[15] the Sunday-school, from which she had angrily departed, stung by some childish slight, two years before. The minister went to her, welcomed her pleasantly, and gave her a seat in a class of girls of her own age, who, awed102 by the mingled dignity and determination of his manner, swallowed their indignation, and moved along—a trifle more than was necessary—to give her room.
The little tremor103 of excitement soon subsided104, and Lilly's quickness and attentiveness105 won for her an outward show, at least, of consideration and kindness, which extended outside of school limits, and gradually, all demonstrations107 of an unpleasant nature ceased.
When she was about sixteen her father died. This event, which left her a homeless orphan108, was turned by the practical kindness of Parson Townsend—the good old minister who had stood between her and a thousand annoyances109 and wrongs—into the most fortunate event of her life. He, not without some previous domestic controversy110, took the girl into his own family, and there, under kind and Christian111 influences, she lived for a number of years.
At eighteen her school-life terminated, and, by the advice of Parson Townsend, she applied112 for a position as teacher of the primary school.
The spirit with which her application was met was a revelation and a shock to her. The outward[16] kindness and tolerance114 which of late years had been manifested toward her, had led her into a fictitious115 state of content and confidence.
"I was foolish enough," she said to herself, with bitterness, "to think that because the boys do not hoot116 after me in the street, people had forgotten, or did not care."
The feeling of ostracism117 stung, but could not degrade, a nature like hers. She withdrew more and more into herself, turned her hands to such work as she could find to do, and went her way again, stifling118 as best she might the anguished119 cry which sometimes would rise to her lips:
"What does God mean by it?"
Few saw the beauty of those deep, clear eyes and pathetic lips, or the splendor120 of her burnished121 hair, or the fine curves of her tall, upright figure. She was only odd, and "queer looking"—only Lilly O'Connell; very pleasant of speech, and quick at her needle, and useful at picnics and church fairs, and in case of sickness or emergencies of any kind,—but Lilly O'Connell still,—or "Tiger-Lily," for the old name had never been altogether laid aside.
Ten years passed by. The good people of Ridgemont were fond of alluding122 to the remarkable123 progress and development made by their picturesque124 little town during the past decade, but in[17] reality the change was not so great. A few new dwellings125, built in the modern efflorescent style, had sprung up, to the discomfiture127 of the prim113, square houses, with dingy128 white paint and dingier129 green blinds, which belonged to another epoch130; a brick block, of almost metropolitan131 splendor, cast its shadow across the crooked132 village street, and a soldiers' monument, an object of special pride and reverence133, adorned the centre of the small common, opposite the Hide and Leather Bank and the post-office.
Beside these, a circulating library, a teacher of china-painting and a colored barber were casually134 mentioned to strangers, as proofs of the slightness of difference in the importance of Ridgemont and some other towns of much more pretension135.
Over the old Horton homestead hardly a shadow of change had passed. It presented the same appearance of prosperous middle age. The great elms about it looked not a day older; the hydrangeas on the door-step flowered as exuberantly136; the old-fashioned roses bloomed as red, and white, and yellow, against the mossy brick walls; the flower-plots were as trim, and the rustic138 baskets of moneywort flourished as green, as in the days when Mrs. Horton walked among them, and tended them with her own hands. She had lain with her busy hands folded these five years, in the shadow of the Horton monument, between the[18] grave of Dr. Jared Horton and a row of lessening139 mounds140 which had been filled many, many years—the graves of the children who were born—and had died—before Roger's birth.
A great quiet had hung about the place for several years. The blinds upon the front side had seldom been seen to open, except for weekly airings or semi-annual cleanings.
But one day in mid-summer the parlor141 windows are seen wide open, the front door swung back, and several trunks, covered with labels of all colors, and in several languages, are standing in the large hall.
An unwonted stir about the kitchen and stable, a lively rattling142 of silver and china in the dining room, attest143 to some unusual cause for excitement. The cause is at once manifest as the door at the end of the hall opens, and Roger Horton appears, against a background composed of mahogany side-board and the erect144 and vigilant145 figure of Nancy Swift, the faithful old housekeeper146 of his mother's time.
The handsome, manly147 lad had fulfilled the promise of his boyhood. He was tall and full-chested; a trifle thin, perhaps, and his fine face, now bronzed with travel, grave and thoughtful for his years, but capable of breaking into a smile like a sudden transition from a minor148 to a major key in music.
[19]
He looked more than thoughtful at this moment. He had hardly tasted the food prepared by Nancy with a keen eye to his youthful predilections149, and in the firm conviction that he must have suffered terrible deprivations150 during his foreign travels.
Truly, this coming home was not like the comings-home of other days, when two dear faces, one gray-bearded and genial151, the other pale and gentle-eyed, had smiled upon him across the comfortable board. The sense of loss was almost more than he could bear; the sound of his own footsteps in the cool, empty hall smote152 heavily upon his heart.
The door of the parlor stood ajar, and he pushed it open and stepped into the room. Everything was as it had always been ever since he could remember—furniture, carpets, curtains, everything. Just opposite the door hung the portraits of his parents, invested by the dim half-light with a life-like air which the unknown artist had vainly tried to impart.
Roger had not entered the room since his mother's funeral, which followed close upon that of his father, and just before the close of his collegiate course.
Something in the room brought those scenes of bitter grief too vividly153 before him. It might have been the closeness of the air, or, more probably, the odor rising from a basket of flowers which stood upon the centre-table. He remembered now[20] that Nancy had mentioned its arrival while he was going through the ceremony of taking tea, and he went up to the table and bent154 over it. Upon a snowy oval of choicest flowers, surrounded by a scarlet border, the word "Welcome" was wrought155 in purple violets.
The young man smiled as he read the name upon the card attached. He took up one of the white carnations156 and began fastening it to the lapel of his coat, but put it back at length, and with a glance at the painted faces, whose eyes seemed following his every motion, he took his hat and went out of the house.
His progress through the streets of his native village took the form of an ovation157. Nearly every one he met was an old acquaintance or friend. It warmed his heart, and took away the sting of loneliness which he had felt before, to see how cordial were the greetings. Strong, manly grips, kind, womanly hand-pressures, and shy, blushing greetings from full-fledged village beauties, whom he vaguely159 remembered as lank160, sun-burned little girls, met him at every step.
He noticed, and was duly impressed by, the ornate new dwellings, the soldiers' monument, and the tonsorial establishment of Professor Commeraw. But beyond these boasted improvements, it might have been yesterday, instead of four years ago, that he passed along the same street on his[21] way to the station. Even Deacon White's sorrel mare161 was hitched162 before the leading grocery-store in precisely163 the same spot, and blinking dejectedly at precisely the same post, he could have taken his oath, where she had stood and blinked on that morning.
Before the tumble-down structure where, in connection with the sale of petrified164 candy, withered165 oranges, fly-specked literature, and gingerpop, the post-office was carried on, sat that genial old reprobate166, the post-master, relating for the hundredth time to a sleepy and indifferent audience, his personal exploits in the late war; pausing, however, long enough to bestow167 upon Horton a greeting worthy168 of the occasion.
"Welcome home!" said Mr. Doolittle, with an oratorical169 flourish, as became a politician and a post-master; "welcome back to the land of the free and the home of the brave!"
Whereupon he carefully seated himself on the precarious170 chair which served him as rostrum, and resumed his gory171 narrative172.
A little further on, another village worthy, Fred Hanniford, cobbler, vocalist, and wit, sat pegging173 away in the door of his shop, making the welkin ring with the inspiring strains of "The Sword of Bunker Hill," just as in the old days. True, the brilliancy of his tones was somewhat marred174 by the presence of an ounce or so of shoe-pegs in his left[22] cheek, but this fact had no dampening effect upon the enthusiasm of a select, peanut-consuming audience of small boys on the steps.
He, too, suspended work and song to nod familiarly to his somewhat foreignized young townsman, and watched him turn the corner, fixing curious and jealous eyes upon the receding175 feet.
"Who made your boots?" he remarked sotto voce, as their firm rap upon the plank176 sidewalk grew indistinct, which profound sarcasm177 having extracted the expected meed of laughter from his juvenile178 audience, Mr. Hanniford resumed his hammer, and burst forth179 with a high G of astounding180 volume.
As young Horton came in sight of Mrs. Fairfield's residence, he involuntarily quickened his steps. As a matter of course, he had met in his wanderings many pretty and agreeable girls, and, being an attractive young man, it is safe to say that eyes of every hue181 had looked upon him with more or less favor. It would be imprudent to venture the assertion that the young man had remained quite indifferent to all this, but Horton's nature was more tender than passionate; early associations held him very closely, and his boyish fancy for the widow's pretty daughter had never quite faded. A rather fitful correspondence had been kept up, and photographs exchanged, and he felt himself justified182 in believing that the welcome the purple violets[23] had spoken would speak to him still more eloquently183 from a pair of violet eyes.
He scanned the pretty lawn with a pleased, expectant glance. Flowers were massed in red, white and purple against the vivid green; the fountain was scattering184 its spray; hammocks were slung185 in tempting nooks, and fanciful wicker chairs, interwoven with blue and scarlet ribbons, stood about the vine-draped piazza186. He half expected a girlish figure to run down the walk to meet him, in the old childish way, and as a fold of white muslin swept out of the open window his heart leaped; but it was only the curtain after all, and just as he saw this with a little pang187 of disappointment, a girl's figure did appear, and came down the walk toward him. It was a tall figure, in a simple dark dress. As it came nearer, he saw a colorless, oval face, with downcast eyes, and a mass of ruddy hair, burnished like gold, gathered in a coil under the small black hat. There was something proud, yet shrinking, in the face and in the carriage of the whole figure. As the latch188 fell from his hand the girl looked up, and encountered his eyes, pleased, friendly and a trifle astonished, fixed full upon her.
She stopped, and a beautiful color swept into her cheeks, a sudden unleaping flame filled the luminous189 eyes, and her lips parted.
"Why, it is Lilly O'Connell!" the young man said, cordially, extending his hand.
[24]
The girl's hand was half extended to meet his, but with a quick glance toward the house she drew it back into the folds of her black dress, bowing instead.
Horton let his hand fall, a little flush showing itself upon his forehead.
"Are you not going to speak to me, Miss O'Connell?" he said, in his frank, pleasant way. "Are you not going to say you are glad to see me back, like all the rest?"
The color had all faded from the girl's cheeks and neck. She returned his smiling glance with an earnest look, hesitating before she spoke38.
"I am very glad, Mr. Horton," she said, at last, and, passing him, went swiftly out of sight.
The young man stood a moment with his hand upon the gate, looking after her; then turned and went up the walk to the door, and rang the bell. A smiling maid admitted him, and showed him into a very pretty drawing-room.
He had not waited long when Florence, preceded by her mother, came in. She had been a pretty school-girl, but he was hardly prepared to see so beautiful a young woman, or one so self-possessed, and so free from provincialism in dress and manner. She was a blonde beauty, of the delicate, porcelain190-tinted type, small, but so well-made and well-dressed as to appear much taller than she really was. She was lovely to-night in a filmy white[25] dress, so richly trimmed with lace as to leave the delicate flesh-tints of shoulders and arms visible through the fine meshes191.
She had always cared for Roger, and, being full of delight at his return and his distinguished192 appearance, let her delight appear undisguisedly. Although a good deal of a coquette, with Roger coquetry seemed out of place. His own simple, sincere manners were contagious193, and Florence had never been more charming.
"Tell us all about the pictures and artists and singers you have seen and heard," she said, in the course of their lively interchange of experiences.
"I am afraid I can talk better about hospitals and surgeons," said Horton. "You know I am not a bit ?sthetic, and I have been studying very closely."
"You are determined194, then, to practise medicine?" Mrs. Fairfield said, with rather more anxiety in her tones than the occasion seemed to demand.
"I think I am better fitted for that profession than any other," Horton answered.
"I should never choose it, if I were a man," said Florence, decidedly.
"It seems to have chosen me," Horton said. "I have not the slightest bent in any other direction."
[26]
"It is such a hard life," said Florence. "A doctor must be a perfect hero."
"You used to be enthusiastic over heroes," said Horton, smiling.
"I am now," said Florence, "but——"
"Not the kind who ride in buggies instead of on foaming196 chargers and wield197 lancets instead of lances," laughed Horton, looking into the slightly vexed198 but lovely face opposite, with a great deal of expression in his dark eyes.
"Of course you would not think of settling in Ridgemont," remarked Mrs. Fairfield, blandly200, "after all you have studied."
"I don't see why not," he answered.
"But for an ambitious young man," began Mrs. Fairfield.
"I'm afraid I am not an ambitious young man," said Horton. "There is a good opening here, and the old home is very dear to me."
Florence was silently studying the toe of one small sandalled foot.
"Well, to be sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, who always endeavored to fill up pauses in conversation,—"to be sure, Ridgemont is improving. Don't you find it changed a good deal?"
"Why, not very much," Horton answered. "Places don't change so much in a few years as people. I met Lilly O'Connell as I came into your grounds. She has changed—wonderfully."
[27]
"Y-yes," said Mrs. Fairfield, rather stiffly. "She has improved. Since her father died, she has lived in Parson Townsend's family. She is a very respectable girl, and an excellent seamstress."
Florence had gone to the window, and was looking out.
"She was very good at her books, I remember," he went on. "I used to think she would make something more than a seamstress."
"I only remember her dreadful temper," said Florence, in a tone meant to sound careless. "We called her 'Tiger-Lily,' you know."
"I never wondered at her temper," said Horton. "She had a great deal to vex199 her. I suppose things are not much better now."
"Oh, she is treated well enough," said Mrs. Fairfield. "The best families in the place employ her. I don't know what more she can expect, considering that she is—a——"
"Off color," suggested Horton. "No. She cannot expect much more. But it is terrible—isn't it?—that stigma202 for no fault of hers. It must be hard for a girl like her—like what she seems to have become."
"Oh, as to that," said Florence, going to the piano and drumming lightly, without sitting down, "she is very independent. She asserts herself quite enough."
"Why, yes," broke in her mother, hastily.[28] "She actually had the impudence203 to apply for a position as teacher of the primary school, and Parson Townsend, and Hickson of the School Board, were determined she should have it. The 'Gazette' took it up, and for awhile Lilly was the heroine of the day. But of course she did not succeed. It would have ruined the school. A colored teacher! Dreadful!"
"Dreadful, indeed," said Horton. He rose and joined Florence at the piano, and a moment later Mrs. Fairfield was contentedly204 drumming upon the table, in the worst possible time, to her daughter's performance of a brilliant waltz.
The evening terminated pleasantly. After Horton had gone, mother and daughter had a long confidential205 talk upon the piazza, which it is needless to repeat. But at its close, as Mrs. Fairfield was closing the doors for the night, she might have been heard to say:
"You could spend your winters in Boston, you know."
To which Florence returned a dreamy "Yes."
The tranquillity206 of Ridgemont was this summer disturbed by several events of unusual local interest. Two, of a melancholy207 nature, were the deaths of good old Parson Townsend and of Dr. Brown, one of the only two regular physicians of whom the town could boast. The latter event had the effect to bring about the beginning of[29] young Dr. Horton's professional career. The road now lay fair and open before him. His father had been widely known and liked, and people were not slow in showing their allegiance to the honored son of an honored father.
Of course this event, being one of common interest, was duly discussed and commented upon, and nowhere so loudly and freely as in the post-office and cobbler's shop, where, surrounded by their disciples208 and adherents209, the respective proprietors210 dispensed211 wit and wisdom in quantities suitable to the occasion.
"He's young," remarked the worthy post-master, with a wave of his clay pipe, "an' he's brought home a lot o' new-fangled machines an' furrin notions, but he's got a good stock of Yankee common-sense to back it all, an' I opine he'll do."
And such was the general verdict.
His popularity was further increased by the rumor212 of his engagement to Miss Florence Fairfield. Miss Fairfield being a native of the town, and the most elegant and accomplished213 young woman it had so far produced, was regarded with much the same feeling as the brick block and the soldiers' monument; and as she drove through the village streets in her pretty pony214 phaeton, she received a great deal of homage215 in a quiet way, particularly from the masculine portion of the community.
"A tip-top match for the young doctor," said[30] one. "She's putty as a picter an' smart as lightnin', an' what's more, she's got 'the needful.'"
"Well, as to that," said another, "Horton ain't no need to look for that. He's got property enough."
To which must be added Mr. Hanniford's comments, delivered amidst a rapid expectoration of shoe-pegs.
"She's got the littlest foot of any girl in town, an' I ought to know, for I made her shoes from the time she was knee-high to a grasshopper216 till she got sot on them French heels, which is a thing I ain't agoin' to countenance217. She was always very fond o' my singin', too. Says she,'You'd ought to have your voice cultivated, Mr. Hanniford,' says she, 'it's equal, if not superior, to Waktel's or Campyneeny's, any time o' day.' Though," he added, musingly218, "as to cultivatin', I've been to more'n eight or ten singin'-schools, an' I guess there ain't much more to learn."
The death of Parson Townsend brought about another crisis in the life of Lilly O'Connell. It had been his express wish that she should remain an inmate219 of his family, which consisted now of a married son and his wife and children. But, with her quick intuition, Lilly saw, before a week had passed, that her presence was not desired by young Mrs. Townsend, and her resolution was at once taken.
[31]
Through all these years she had had one true friend and helper—Priscilla Bullins, milliner and dress-maker.
Miss Bullins was a queer little frizzed and ruffled220 creature, with watery221 blue eyes, and a skin like yellow crackle-ware. There was always a good deal of rice-powder visible in her scant eyebrows222, and a frost-bitten bloom upon her cheeks which, from its intermittent223 character, was sadly open to suspicion, but a warm heart beat under the tight-laced bodice, and it was to her, after some hours of mental conflict, that Lilly went with her new trouble. Miss Bullins listened with her soul in arms.
"You'll come and stay with me; that's just what you'll do, Lilly, and Jim Townsend's wife had ought to be ashamed of herself, and she a professor! I've got a nice little room you can have all to yourself. It's next to mine, and you're welcome to it till you can do better. I shall be glad of your company, for, between you and me," dropping her voice to a confidential whisper, "I ain't so young as I was, and, bein' subject to spells in the night, I ain't so fond of livin' alone as I used to be."
So Lilly moved her small possessions into Miss Bullin's spare bedroom, and went to work in the dingy back shop, rounding out her life with such pleasure as could be found in a walk about the burying-ground on Sundays, in the circulating[32] library, and in the weekly prayer-meeting, where her mellow voice revelled224 in the sweet melodies of the hymns225, whose promises brought such comfort to her lonely young heart.
From the window where she sat when at work she could look out over fields and orchards227, and follow the winding228 of the river in and out the willow-fringed banks. Just opposite the window, a small island separated it into two deep channels, which met at the lower point with a glad rush and tumult229, to flow on again united in a deeper, smoother current than before.
Along the river bank, the road ran to the covered bridge, and across it into the woods beyond. And often, as Lilly sat at her work, she saw Miss Fairfield's pony phaeton rolling leisurely230 along under the overhanging willows231, so near that the voices of the occupants, for Miss Fairfield was never alone, now, came up to her with the cool river-breeze and the scent126 of the pines on the island. Once, Roger Horton happened to look up, and recognized her with one of those grave smiles which always brought back her childhood and the barren pasture where the tiger-lilies grew; and she drew back into the shadow of the curtain again.
Doctor Horton saw Lilly O'Connell often; he met her flitting through the twilight232 with bulky parcels, at the bedsides of sick women and children, and even at the various festivals which en[33]livened the tedium233 of the summer (where, indeed, her place was among the workers only), and he would have been glad to speak to her a friendly word now and then, but she gave him little chance. There was a look in her face which haunted him, and the sound of her voice, rising fervid and mournful above the others at church or conference-meeting, thrilled him to the heart with its pathos234. Once, as he drove along the river-side after dark, the voice came floating out from the unlighted window of the shop where he so often saw her at work, and it seemed to him like the note of the wood-thrush, singing in the solitude235 of some deep forest.
Before the summer was over, something occurred to heighten the interest which the sight of this solitary236 maiden237 figure, moving so unheeded across the dull background of village life, had inspired.
It was at a lawn party held upon Mrs. Fairfield's grounds, for the benefit of the church of which she was a prominent member. There was the usual display of bunting, Chinese lanterns, decorated booths, and pretty girls in white. A good many people were present, and the Ridgemont brass238 band was discoursing239 familiar strains. Doctor Horton, dropping in, in the course of the evening, gravitated naturally toward an imposing240 structure, denominated on the bills the "Temple of Flora241," where Miss Fairfield and attendant nymphs were disposing of iced lemonade and button-hole bou[34]quets in the cause of religion. The place before the booth was occupied by a group of young men, who were flinging away small coin with that reckless disregard of consequences peculiar to very youthful men on such occasions. All were adorned with boutonnières at every possible point, and were laughing in a manner so exuberant137 as might, under other circumstances, have led to the suspicion that the beverage242 sold as lemonade contained something of a more intoxicating243 nature.
Miss Fairfield was standing outside the booth, one bare white arm extended across the green garlands which covered the frame-work. She looked bored and tired, and was gazing absently over the shoulder of the delighted youth vis-à-vis.
Her face brightened as Doctor Horton was seen making his way toward the place.
"We were laughing," said the young man who had been talking with her, after greetings had been exchanged,—"we were laughing over the latest news. Heard it, Doctor?"
Dr. Horton signified his ignorance.
He was abstractedly studying the effect of a bunch of red columbine nodding at a white throat just before him. He had secured those flowers himself, with some trouble, that very day, during a morning drive, and he alone knew the sweetness of the reward which had been his.
"A marriage, Doctor," went on the youth, jo[35]cosely. "Marriage in high life. Professor Samuel Commeraw to Miss Lilly O'Connell, both of Ridgemont."
Horton looked up quickly.
"From whom did you get your information?" he asked, coolly regarding the young fellow.
"From Commeraw himself," he answered, with some hesitation244.
"Ah!" Dr. Horton returned, indifferently. "I thought it very likely."
"I don't find it so incredible," said Miss Fairfield, in her fine, clear voice. "He is the only one of her own color in the town. It seems to me very natural."
Dr. Horton looked into the fair face. Was it the flickering245 light of the Chinese lanterns which gave the delicate features so hard and cold a look?
He turned his eyes away, and as he did so he saw that Lilly O'Connell, with three or four children clinging about her, had approached, and, impeded246 by the crowd, had stopped very near the floral temple. A glance at her face showed that she had heard all which had been said concerning her.
The old fiery spirit shone from her dilated247 eyes as they swept over the insignificant248 face of the youth who had spoken her name. Her lips were contracted, and her hand, resting on the curly head of one of the children, trembled violently.
[36]
She seemed about to speak, but as her eyes met those of Doctor Horton, she turned suddenly, and, forcing a passage through the crowd, disappeared.
Dr. Horton lingered about the flower-booth until the increasing crowd compelled Miss Fairfield to to resume her duties, when he slipped away, and wandered aimlessly about the grounds. At last, near the musicians' stand, he saw Lilly O'Connell leaning against a tree, while the children whom she had in charge devoured249 ice-cream and the music with equal satisfaction. Her whole attitude expressed weariness and dejection. Her face was pale, her eyes downcast, her lips drawn250 like a child's who longs to weep, yet dares not.
Not far away he saw, hanging upon the edge of the crowd, the tall form of Commeraw, his eyes, alert and swift of glance as those of a lynx, furtively watching the girl, who seemed quite unconscious of any one's observation.
Some one took Horton's attention for a moment, and when he looked again both Lilly, with her young charge, and Commeraw were no longer to be seen. He moved away from the spot, vaguely troubled and perplexed251.
The brazen252 music clashed in his ears the strains of "Sweet Bye-and-Bye," people persisted in talking to him, and at last, in sheer desperation, he turned his steps toward the temple of Flora. It was almost deserted253. The band had ceased play[37]ing, people were dispersing254, the flowers had wilted255, and the pretty girls had dropped off one by one with their respective cavaliers. The reigning256 goddess herself was leaning against a green pillar, looking, it must be confessed, a little dishevelled and a good deal out of humor, but very lovely still.
"You must have found things very entertaining," she remarked, languidly. "You have been gone an hour at least."
"I have been discussing sanitary257 drainage with Dr. Starkey," Horton answered, taking advantage of the wavering light to possess himself of one of the goddess's warm white hands, and the explanation was, in a measure, quite true.
Miss Fairfield made no other reply than to withdraw her hand, under the pretext258 of gathering259 up her muslin flounces for the walk across the lawn. Horton drew her white wrap over the bare arms and throat, and walked in silence by her side to the hall door. Even then he did not speak at once, feeling that the young lady was in no mood for conversation, but at last he drew the little white figure toward him, and said:
"You are tired, little girl. These church fairs and festivals are a great nuisance. I will not come in to-night, but I will drive round in the morning to see how you have slept."
[38]
"Why," she began, hurriedly, "why are you always defending Lilly O'Connell?"
She shot the question at him with a force which took away his breath. She had always seemed to him gentleness itself. He hardly recognized her, as she faced him with white cheeks and blazing eyes.
"It was always so," she went on, impetuously, "ever since I can remember. You have always been defending her. No one must speak of her as if she were anything but a lady. I cannot understand it, Roger! I want to know what it means—the interest you show, and always have shown, in that—that girl!"
Horton had recovered himself by this time. He looked into the angry face with a quiet, almost stern, gaze. The girl shrank a little before it, and this, and the quiver of her voice toward the close of her last sentence, softened the resentment261 which had tingled262 through his veins263. Shame, humiliation264, not for himself, but for her, his affianced wife, burned on his cheeks.
"What interest, Florence?" he said, repeating her words. "Just that interest which every honest man, or woman, feels in a fellow-creature who suffers wrongfully. Just that—and nothing more."
Her lips parted as if to retort, but the steadiness of her lover's gaze disconcerted her. He was very gentle, but she felt, as she had once or twice be[39]fore, the quiet mastery of his stronger nature, and the eyes fell. He took both her hands and held them awhile without removing his eyes from her face.
"Good-night, Florence," he said, at last, almost with sadness.
She would have liked to let him see that she was sorry for her ill-temper, or rather for the manifestation265 of it, but she was only overawed, not penitent266, and bent her head to his parting kiss without a word.
Two or three evenings later, Doctor Horton received an urgent summons from one of his patients, who lived at the end of a new and almost uninhabited street. A lamp at the corner of the main street lighted it for a short distance, beyond which the darkness was intense. When just opposite the lamp, and about to cross over, he observed a woman pass swiftly across the lighted space in the direction toward which he was himself going. There was no mistaking the erect figure and graceful267 gait—it was Lilly O'Connell. After an instant of wondering what could have brought her there at such an hour, for it was late, according to village customs, he changed his intention as to crossing, and kept down the other side.
The sight of this girl brought back afresh that brief, unpleasant scene with Florence, which he[40] had tried to forget, but which had recurred268 to him very often, and always with a keen sting of pain and shame. His faith in the woman he loved was so perfect! Should hers be less in him? For him there was no happiness without repose269. To doubt, to be doubted, would end all. He walked on in the darkness, lost in such thoughts, and quite forgetting where he was, but all at once he became aware of other footsteps behind him, and involuntarily looking back, he saw, just on the edge of the lamp-lit space, the figure of a man—a tall figure, with a certain panther-like grace of movement. There was but one such in the town, that of Commeraw, the mulatto.
The sight gave him a disagreeable shock. That he was following Lilly O'Connell he had no doubt. Could it be true, then, the rumor to which he had given so little credence270? He remembered, now, that he had seen this fellow hanging about at various times and places when she was present. Might it not have been pretence—her proud indifference and scornful evasion271 of his advances? He asked himself, with a hot flush of mortification272, the same question which Florence had put to him. It was true that he had many times openly defended her. He had been forced to do so by that quality of his nature which moved him always to espouse273 the cause of the weak. Perhaps he had elevated this girl to a higher plane than she deserved to occupy.[41] After all, it would not be strange if her heart, in its longing274 for sympathy, had turned toward this man of her dead mother's race. Then her face, so sensitive, so overshadowed with sadness, came before him, and he could not think of it in juxtaposition275 with the brutal276 face of Commeraw. He banished278 the thought with disgust.
In the meantime, the man could be seen creeping along, a black shadow thrown into faint relief against the white sand of the overhanging bank. There was something furtive21 and stealthy in his actions which excited Horton's fears. He saw that he had at last overtaken the girl, and he quickened his own pace until he was so near that the sound of their voices came over to him.
"There is no other answer possible," she was saying. "You must never speak to me in this way again."
She would have gone on, but the man placed himself before her. There was a deliberation in the way he did so which showed his consciousness of power.
"This is a lonesome place," he said, with a short, cruel laugh.
She made no answer.
The man muttered an imprecation.
"You are not going to leave me so," he said. "Curse it! why do you treat me so, as if I were a dog? What are you more than I am? Are you[42] so proud because you have a few more drops of their cursed white blood in your veins than I have? What will that help you? Do you imagine it will get you a white husband?"
"Let me pass!" interrupted the girl, coldly. "You can kill me if you like. I would rather die than give you any other answer. Will you let me pass?" and she made another swift motion to go by him.
A savage cry came from his lips. He sprang toward her. She made no outcry. The two shadows struggled for a moment in deadly silence, but it was only for a moment. Quick as thought, Horton flung himself upon the man, who, taken thus by surprise, loosened his hold upon the girl, shook himself free, and, with a fierce oath, fled.
Lilly staggered back against the bank.
"Do not be afraid," said Horton, panting. "The fellow will not come back."
"Doctor Horton!" she said, faintly.
"Yes, it is Doctor Horton. Where were you going? I will see you in safety."
"I was on my way to watch with Mrs. Lapham," she answered, in firmer tones.
"I am going there too," said Horton. "If you feel able, go on, I will follow after awhile. Or will you go home?"
She came forward, walking a little slowly.
[43]
"I will go on; she expects me."
And in a few moments she had disappeared from sight.
Horton remained where she had left him for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then he proceeded on his way. An old woman admitted him to the house, and he went into the sick-room. Lilly O'Connell was sitting by the cradle of the youngest child, which lay across her lap. She greeted him with a bow, and averted280 her head, but the glimpse he had of her face showed him that it was not only pale, but drawn as if with physical pain.
As he was about to leave his patient's side he looked toward her again, and his eyes fell upon the arm which supported the child's head. About the sleeve, a handkerchief, stained with blood, was tightly bound.
He went over to the corner where she was sitting.
"Will you come into the next room?" he said. "I would like to give you some directions about the medicine."
She gave him a quick, upward glance, arose, laid the baby in the arms of the old woman, and followed him mutely into the adjoining room, where a light was burning on the table, and stood before him, waiting for him to speak.
"You are hurt," he said, taking the bandaged arm in his hand. "That fellow has wounded you."
"I suppose he meant to kill me," she answered,[44] leaning with the disengaged arm against the table.
Horton unbound the handkerchief. The blood was oozing282 from a deep flesh cut below the elbow. With skilful283 fingers, he ripped open the sleeve and turned it back from the fair round arm. Then, with the appliances the country doctor has always at hand, he dressed the wound. When he had finished, Lilly drew the sleeve down and fastened it over the bandage.
Horton looked into her face. She was deadly pale, and her hands, which had touched his once or twice during the operation, were like ice.
"You are weak and unstrung. You have lost a great deal of blood. Sit down, Miss O'Connell."
She did so, and there was a little silence. The young man's nerves were still thrilling with the excitement of the last hour. For the moment, this girl—sitting there before him, this fair girl with her hard, cruel destiny—filled him completely.
"What are you going to do?" he asked, at length.
"Do?" she repeated. "Nothing."
"You will let this villain284 escape justice?" he said. "You will take no measures to protect yourself?"
Lilly raised her head. A look of intense bitterness swept across her face.
[45]
"I shall not do anything," she said. "Doctor Horton, you have always been good to me. As far back as I can remember, you have been my friend. I want you to promise me not to speak of what has happened to-night."
Horton bit his lips in perplexity.
"I do not think I have any right to make such a promise," he said, after a little pause. "This was an attempt at murder."
She rose and came close up to him.
"You must promise me. Do you not see?" she went on, passionately. "If I were any one else, it would be different—do you not understand? To have my name dragged before the public—I could not bear it! I would rather he killed me outright285!"
Doctor Horton walked the floor excitedly.
"It is a terrible thing," he said. "I cannot blame you, but it does not seem right. Think the matter over. Perhaps you will feel differently. In the meantime, I will do nothing without your consent."
"Thank you, Doctor Horton," she said.
A feeble call came from the sick-room, and she turned away. Soon after, Doctor Horton left the house.
The next day Commeraw's shop remained closed, and it was discovered that he had fled the town. Numerous debts and embarrassments[46] which came to light sufficiently286 accounted for his departure, and were also ample guarantee against his return. In this way, the question which had vexed Doctor Horton's mind was unexpectedly settled.
He did not see Lilly O'Connell for several days, but met her at last on the street in such a way that she could not well avoid him.
"It goes against my sense of justice that that scoundrel should escape so easily," he said, after having made professional inquiries287 after the wounded arm, "but at least you will now be safe," and, touching288 his hat respectfully, he turned to leave her. At that instant, Miss Fairfield's phaeton dashed around the corner. The occupant drew the reins290 slightly and regarded the two with a flash of the turquoise291 eyes; then, bowing coldly, she gave her horse a touch of the whip and dashed on again.
When Horton appeared at Mrs. Fairfield's that evening, however, Florence received him with unusual sweetness, and when chided playfully for the coldness of her greeting on the street, replied only with a light laugh.
The next morning rain was falling steadily292, but it did not prevent Miss Fairfield from appearing in Miss Bullins's shop, taut293 and trim in her blue flannel294 suit, the yellow hair and delicate rose-tinted face finely relieved against the black velvet9 lin[47]ing of her hat. She found Lilly O'Connell in attendance and the shop otherwise unoccupied, as she had expected. She was very gracious. She brought with her a parcel containing costly295 linen296 and laces, which she wished made into mysterious garments after the imported models inclosed.
"My dresses will be made in Boston," she explained, with a conscious blush, "but I want these things made under my own supervision—and I want you to make them."
What was it in her crisp, clear tones which gave the common words so subtle an effect? The two girls looked each other full in the face for a moment. Miss Fairfield was the first to look away.
"You do your work so beautifully, you know," she added, with a very sweet smile.
There was nothing more to say, yet she sauntered about the shop awhile, looking at the goods displayed, or out into the rainy street.
"I'm sorry to see you looking so badly," she said, at last, turning her eyes suddenly upon the pale face behind the counter. "But I don't wonder, either. It is natural you should take it hard."
Again the gray eyes met the blue in that mute encounter.
"I don't think I know what you mean," said Lilly, her fingers tightening297 upon the laces she was folding.
Miss Fairfield raised her eyebrows.
[48]
"Oh, of course," she went on, sympathetically, "of course, you don't like to talk about it, but I'm sure you are not in the least to blame. It was shameful298 of Commeraw to go off the way he did. I am really sorry for you. Good-morning!"
A moment later, when she was well outside, a little laugh broke from her lips. It had been very well done—even better than she had meant to do it.
The new minister, a susceptible299 young man, meeting her at this moment, thought he had never seen his fair parishioner looking so charming.
Just after, he was equally struck by another face, framed in reddish-golden hair, which was gazing out from the milliner's window at the murky300 sky. Its set, hopeless expression startled him.
"What a remarkable face!" he reflected. "It is that girl whose voice I noticed the other evening." And, being a well-meaning young man, he mentally added, "I really must speak with her, next conference-meeting."
Summer passed tranquilly301 away, autumn ran its brief course; and in November, when the days were getting toward their shortest and dreariest302, something happened which startled quiet Ridgemont out of the even tenor303 of its way. The small-pox broke out among the operatives in the paper-mill, and spread so rapidly during the first days as to produce a universal panic. The streets were al[49]most deserted; houses were darkened, as if by closed shutters304 one might shut out the fatal guest. Those who were compelled to go about, or whose social instinct overcame their fear, walked the streets with a subdued305 and stealthy air, as if on the lookout306 for an ambushed307 foe308.
The village loafers were fewer in number, and their hilarity309 was forced and spasmodic. Jokes of a personal nature still circulated feebly, but seemed to have lost their point and savor310, and the laughter which followed had a hollow ring. Mr. Hanniford was visibly depressed311, and the sallies which his position as local humorist compelled him to utter were of a ghastly description. He still endeavored to enliven his labors312 with his favorite ditty, but it had lost perceptibly in force and spirit.
Mr. Doolittle, the post-master, bore himself with a dignified314 composure truly admirable, going fishing more persistently315 and smoking more incessantly316 than ever.
"What you want, boys," he remarked, with great earnestness, to the few faithful retainers whom the potent317 spell of gingerpop rendered insensible to other considerations,—"what you want is to take plenty of exercise in the open air, and smoke freely. Tobacco is a great—a—prophylactic."
Meetings of citizens were held, and all the usual sanitary means adopted and put in execution.[50] An uninhabited farm-house, whose rightful owner was in some unknown part of the world, was chosen for hospital uses, and thither318 all victims of the disease were carried at once. From the beginning, Dr. Horton had been most prompt and active in suggesting prudential measures, and in seeing them carried out. By universal consent, he was invested with full powers. Dr. Starkey, the only other physician, on the ground of failing health, willingly submitted to the situation. The young physician's entire energies were aroused. He worked indefatigably319, sparing neither strength nor pocket; for among the victims were several heads of families, whose sickness—and, in a few cases, whose death—left want and misery320 behind them.
One of the greatest obstacles encountered was the scarcity321 of nurses, most of those responding to the call becoming themselves victims in a few days. Two men only—veteran soldiers—were equal to the occasion, and acted in multifarious capacities—as drivers of the ambulance, housekeepers322, cooks, nurses, undertakers, and grave-diggers.
On the evening when the certainty of the outbreak was established, Dr. Horton, after a day of excessive labor313, went around to Mrs. Fairfield's. It was a dark, rainy evening, and the house seemed strangely cheerless and silent. A faint light shone from one upper window, and he fancied,[51] as he reached the steps, that he saw a girlish figure leaning against the window-sash. The housemaid who admitted him, after a second ring, did so with a hesitating and constrained324 air, eyed him askance as she set her lamp upon the parlor table, and retreated hastily.
He was kept waiting, too, as it seemed to him, an unnecessarily long time. He was tired and a little unstrung. He was in that mood when the touch of a warm, tender hand is balm and cordial at once, and the delay fretted325 him. He could hear muffled326 footfalls over his head, and the murmur327 of voices, as he wandered about the room, taking up various small articles in a listless way, to throw them down impatiently again; pulling about the loose sheets of music on the piano, and wondering why so lovely a creature as Florence need to be so scrupulously328 exact about her toilet, with an impatient lover chafing329 and fretting330 not twenty paces away. But at last there was a sound of descending331 footsteps, a rustling332 of skirts, and the door opened to admit—Mrs. Fairfield. She, at all events, had not been spending the precious moments at her toilet-table. Something must have thrown her off her guard. She was negligent333 in her attire99, and certain nameless signs of the blighting334 touch of Time were allowed to appear, it may be safely asserted for the first time, to the eyes of mortal man. She was also flustered336 in manner, and, after giving Dr.[52] Horton the tips of her cold fingers, retreated to the remotest corner of the room, and sank into an easy-chair. He noticed as she swept by him that her person exhaled337 camphor like a furrier's shop.
"It's dreadful, isn't it?" she murmured, plaintively338, holding a handkerchief saturated340 with that drug before her face. "Perfectly341 dreadful!"
Dr. Horton was at first puzzled, and then, as the meaning of her remark came to him, a good deal amused. He had not felt like laughing, all day; but now he was obliged to smile, in the palm of his hand, at the small, agitated342 countenance of his future mother-in-law, seen for the first time without "war-paint or feathers."
"It is certainly a misfortune," he said, reassuringly343; "but it is not wise to become excited. The disease is confined at present to the lower part of the town, and, with the precautions which are to be taken, it will hardly spread beyond it."
Mrs. Fairfield shook her head incredulously.
"I have only a few moments to stay," the young man said, after a slight pause. "I have to attend a citizens' meeting. Is not Florence well?"
"Y-yes, she is well," came in hesitating and muffled accents from behind the handkerchief. "She is not ill, but she is terribly upset by the state of things, poor child! She has such a horror[53] of disease! Why, she can't bear to come near me when I have one of my sick headaches. So sensitive, you know. So——"
A light had gradually been breaking upon Horton's mind. He colored, and stepped forward a little. He had not been asked to sit down, and was still in overcoat and gloves.
"I think," he said, slowly, looking Mrs. Fairfield full in the face,—"I suppose I know what you mean. Florence will not come down. She is afraid to—to see me."
Mrs. Fairfield fidgeted in her chair, and a red spot burned in her sallow cheek.
"You must not think strange of it, Roger," she began, volubly. "You know how delicately organized Florence is. So nervous and excitable. And it would be such a misfortune—with her complexion345!"
Dr. Horton took one or two turns across the room. He was not apt to speak on impulse, and he waited now. He stopped before a portrait of Florence, which hung over the piano. The tender face looked out upon him with the soft, beguiling346 smile about the small, curved lips, which had become so dear to him. Above it was a bunch of gorgeous sumac, which he had gathered for her one heavenly day, not long ago; and on the piano-rack stood the song she had taught him to believe the sweetest song in all the world:
[54]
"Du bist wie eine Blume,
He looked at the face again. She was "like a flower." How could he have found it in his heart to blame her, even by the remotest thought?
"I'm sure," came the plaintive339 voice again, "you ought not to blame her. I think it's perfectly natural."
Dr. Horton turned toward her, with a cheerful smile.
"Yes, it is quite natural. Of course I have taken every precaution; but it was wrong of me to come without finding out how she felt. Tell her I will not come again until"—he paused, with an unpleasant feeling in his throat—"until she wishes me to come."
"Well, I am sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, rising with an alacrity347 which betrayed how great was her relief, "you must know what a trial it is to her, Roger. The poor girl feels so badly. You are not angry?" giving her hand, but holding the camphorated handkerchief between them.
"No," Dr. Horton said, taking the reluctant fingers a moment, "not at all angry."
He went away into the outer darkness, walking a little heavily. The house-door shut behind him with a harsh, inhospitable clang, and as he went down the steps the wind blew a naked, dripping[55] woodbine-spray sharply against his cheek, giving him a curiously348 unpleasant thrill.
When he was part way down the walk, he looked back. At the upper window the girlish figure was still visible, the face still pressed against the pane349. His heart bounded at the sight, and then sank with a sense of remoteness and loss for which, a moment later, he chided himself bitterly.
Mrs. Fairfield waited only until she believed Roger was off the grounds, when she threw open all the windows in the room, sprinkled everything liberally with carbolic acid, and went up-stairs to her daughter.
She found Florence standing at the window where she had left her.
"What did he say?" she asked, without looking around.
"Oh, he was very reasonable," Mrs. Fairfield answered, seizing the camphor-bottle from the bureau, "very, indeed. He said it was wrong in him to have come under such circumstances, and he would not come again until the danger was over. Roger always was so sensible."
Tears rolled from the girl's eyes down over her blue cashmere wrapper, and she bit her lips to keep back the sobs which threatened to break out.
"Hannah says three more cases were reported to-night," said her mother, re-entering, after a short absence.
"We'd better go, hadn't we?" said Mrs. Fairfield.
"No!" cried the girl. "Yes! Oh, I don't know! I don't know!" and she threw herself upon the bed, crying hysterically353.
The evil news being corroborated354 by the milkman next morning, led to another conference between mother and daughter, the result of which was that the following notes awaited Dr. Horton on his return from an exhausting day's work:
"My Dearest Roger: Do not be too much hurt or shocked to hear that mother and I have left town on the 3.30 train. We think it best. It is hard, of course; but the separation will be easier than if we were in the same place. I assure you, dear Roger, it pains me to go, dreadfully; but I cannot bear such a strain upon my nerves. Do, dearest, take care of yourself—though, of course, you won't take the disease. Doctors never do, I believe. I don't see why, I'm sure.
"Oh, how I wish you had settled in Boston, or some large place, where your practice would have been among first-class people only. Those low mill people are always breaking out with some horrid355 thing or other. It is too bad. We are going to stay with Aunt Kitty, in Boston. She has been wanting me to spend the winter with her. She is very gay, but of course, dearest, I shall have no interest in anything. Of course you will write.
"Your own, as ever,
"F. F."
Doctor Horton read this letter twice before opening the other, which was from Mrs. Fairfield herself, and ran as follows:
[57]
"My Dear Roger: I am sure you will not blame me for taking our darling Flossie out of harm's way, nor her for going. As I told her last night, you always were so sensible. The poor child has been in such a state, you've no idea! We feel real anxious about you. Do take every precaution, for Flossie's sake, though they say doctors never take diseases. Do wear a camphor-bag somewhere about you. I always did wish you had chosen the law—it is so much nicer. Of course Flossie will expect letters, but don't you think you had better soak the paper and envelopes in carbolic acid beforehand? They say it's very efficacious.
"Yours, affectionately,
"A. Fairfield.
"P. S.—You have no idea how the darling child's spirits have risen since we began packing. She is quite another creature.
"A. F."
Doctor Horton smiled as he read, but as he put both notes away in his desk, his face became grave and sad again.
"It is perfectly natural," he said to himself, as he went down to his lonely tea. "Perfectly so, and I am glad she has gone. But——"
The terrible disease whose presence had sent such a thrill of horror through the quiet little town had been raging for two weeks, and though the inevitable356 rebound357 from the first pressure of dread201 was making itself universally felt, as a topic of conversation it had lost none of its charms.
On a wild, wet afternoon, Lilly O'Connell sat in the stuffy358 work-room sacred to the mysteries of making and trying on the wonderful productions[58] of Miss Bullins's scissors and needle. She was sewing the folds upon a dress of cheap mourning, while Miss Bullins sat opposite with lap-board and scissors, her nimble tongue outrunning the latter by long odds359.
"What's friends for," she was saying, "if they aint goin' to stand by you when the pinch comes? Folks that's got husbands and lovers and friends a plenty don't realize their blessin's. As for Florence Fairfield, it makes me ashamed of bein' a woman—the way that girl did! They say she wouldn't even see Roger Horton to bid him good-by. I never heard the like!"
Lilly turned her head toward the window, perhaps because the dress in her hands was black, and the light dull.
"They say he's workin' himself to death for all them poor people, and he aint got nobody—no sister nor mother—to nurse him up when he comes home all tuckered out; though Nancy Swift thinks a sight of him, and she'll do her duty by him, I make no doubt. He's just like his father, and he was a good man. Florence Fairfield don't deserve her privileges, I'm afeard."
The street door opened, and with a gust279 of cold wind entered Widow Gatchell, the village "Sairey Gamp." She was an elderly woman, tall, stiff and dry as a last year's mullein-stalk. Her dark, wrinkled face was fixed and inexpressive, but the small[59] black eyes were full of life. She was clothed in rusty360 garments, and carried a seedy carpet-sack in her hand.
"How d'ye do?" she said, in a dry voice, dropping on to the edge of a chair. "I jest come in to tell ye, if ye was drove, 'taint323 no matter about my bunnit. I sha'n't want it right away."
"Why not?" said Miss Bullins, looking up.
"I'm goin' to the pest-house nussin' to-morrow," returned the old woman, in the same quiet tone.
"Good land! Sarah Gatchell!" cried Miss Bullins, upsetting her lap-board. "Aint you 'most afraid?"
"What'd I be afeared of," she said, "'s old 'n' homely361 's I be? The small-pox aint agoin' to touch me. I'd 'a' gone a week ago, but I couldn't leave Mis' Merrill, an' her baby not a week old. I've jess been a-talkin' with Dr. Horton," she went on. "He says they're sufferin' for help. They's three sick women an' two children, an' not a woman in the house to do a thing for 'em. They've been expectin' two nusses from the city, but they aint come. Seems to me 'taint jest right fur men-folks to be fussin' 'round sick women an' childern."
"Not a woman there?" said Lilly O'Connell,[60] who had been listening with her hands idle in her lap.
"There'll be one there in the mornin'," said the widow, rising to go. "I'd 'a' gone to-night, but I couldn't be o' much use till I'd gone 'round the house by daylight, an' got the hang o' things."
"Wall, you've got good grit363, Sarah," said the milliner, with enthusiasm. "You're as good as half a dozen common women. I declare, I'd go myself, but I shouldn't be a bit o' use. I should catch it in a day. I was always a great one for catchin' diseases."
"Aint ye well?" said Mrs. Gatchell, turning suddenly toward Lilly. "Ye look kind o' peakèd. I guess ye set still too much."
"I am perfectly well," said Lilly.
"Ye be? Wall, sewin' is confinin'. Good-by."
Lilly had no appetite for her tea, and immediately after she put on her cloak and hat, and went out. The wind had gone down as the sun set, the rain had ceased, and a few pale stars were struggling through the thin, vapory clouds.
The streets were very quiet, and she met but few people. The choir364 in the Orthodox Church were rehearsing, their voices ringing out clear and not inharmonious in a favorite hymn226. She stopped, and bowing her head upon one of the square wooden posts, waited until the hymn closed. Then she[61] went on her way. It was quite dark when she reached the end of her walk—the residence of Dr. Starkey. She seized the brass knocker with a firm hand, and was shown into the office. In a few moments Dr. Starkey entered.
He was an old-school physician, and an old-school gentleman as well. He would have considered it indecent to appear before the world in any other garb365 than a broadcloth swallow-tail coat of ancient date, and with his long neck wrapped in white lawn nearly to the point of suffocation366. He entered the room, and bowed with courtly gallantry on seeing a feminine figure standing by the table; but, as Lilly looked up and the lamp-light fell upon her face and hair, there was a perceptible congealing367 of his manner.
"Miss—a——" he began.
"I am Lilly O'Connell," she said, simply.
"Oh—a—yes! Miss O'Connell. Hm! Sit down, Miss O'Connell,—sit down!" he added, observing her closely from under his shaggy brows.
The girl remained standing, but the doctor seated himself before the glowing grate, and placed himself in an attitude of professional attention.
"You are—indisposed?" he asked, presently, as she remained silent.
"No; I am quite well," she answered; and then, after a little pause, during which her color mounted and faded, she continued: "I have heard[62] that there is need of more help at the hospital, and I came to ask you to take me as nurse, or anything you most need."
Her voice trembled a little, and her eyes were fixed eagerly upon the doctor's face.
He turned square about, the withered, purple-veined hands clutching the arms of his chair tightly, a kind of choking sound issuing from his bandaged throat.
"Will you say that again?" he asked abruptly368, staring with raised eyebrows at the pale, earnest face.
Lilly repeated what she had said, more firmly.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the old man, measuring the girl from head to foot slowly.
"Child," he said, after a pause, "do you know what you are talking about?"
"I think so," the girl answered, quietly.
"No, you do not!" the old man said, almost brusquely. "It is a place to try the nerves of the strongest man, to say nothing of a woman's. It is no place for a girl—no place."
"I am not afraid," the girl said, her voice breaking. "They say I am good in sickness, and I will do any kind of work. It is dreadful to think of those poor little children and women, with no one to do anything for them but men. Oh, do not refuse!" she cried, coming nearer and holding out her hands entreatingly369.
[63]
The doctor had fidgeted in his chair, uttering a variety of curious, inarticulate exclamations370 while she was speaking.
"But, child," he repeated, earnestly, "it would be as much as your life is worth to enter the house. You would come down in a week. You might die!"
Lilly looked up into the mottled old face, and smiled sadly.
"I am not afraid," she said again, "and there is no one to care very much. Even if I should die, it would not matter."
Dr. Starkey reflected, rubbing one shrivelled finger up and down the bridge of his nose. He knew how woman's help was needed in that abode371 of pestilence372 and death. He looked at the white, supple373 hands clasped over the gray cloak before him, and thought of the work which they would be required to perform, then shook his head slowly, and rose.
"No," he said, "I cannot consent."
Lilly made a motion as if to speak, but he raised his hand deprecatingly.
"It would be as bad as murder," he went on. "I respect your motive374, Miss O'Connell, I do, indeed; but you are too young and too—a—delicate for the undertaking375. Don't think of it any more."
He took one of the hands which dropped at her[64] side and held it in his glazed376 palm, looking kindly into the downcast face. He knew the girl's whole history. He had been one of the fiercest opponents of her application for a teacher's place, and from conscientious377 motives378 solely379, as he believed; but he remembered it now with sharp regret. There was nothing in this fair and womanly figure to inspire antipathy380, surely. For the first time, a realizing sense of her solitary life came to him, and he was pained and sorry. He wanted to be very kind to her, but felt strangely unable to express himself.
"Don't say no one would care what befell you," he began, his gruff voice softening381. "A young woman of your—a—attractions should have many friends. Consider me one, Miss O'Connell," he continued, with a blending of the sincere and the grandiose382 in his manner,—"consider me a friend from this day, and let me thank you again for your offer. It was very praiseworthy of you, very."
Lilly bowed—she could not trust herself to speak—and went away.
Dr. Starkey walked up and down his office several times, raised and lowered the flame of the lamp, poked383 the fire, looked out into the starlit night, and, with a fervent384 "Bless my soul! how extraordinary!" settled himself for his customary nap over the Boston paper.
Lilly hurried home through the silent streets.[65] Miss Bullins's shop was empty of customers, and she herself, her hair bristling with crimping-pins and curl-papers, was putting things in order for the night. She studied Lilly's face with watchful385 anxiety, as she joined in her labors.
"I hope to gracious she aint comin' down sick!" she reflected. "You aint got backache and pains in your limbs, have you?" she inquired, with thinly veiled anxiety.
Lilly laughed.
"No, Miss Bullins; nothing of the kind."
"I thought you looked kind o' queer," said the good creature, coloring.
"I am only a little tired; not sick."
She came and stood by the old maid's chair, as she sat warming her feet at the stove, and laid her hand on the thin gray hair.
"Good-night, Miss Bullins."
"Good-night, dear. Hadn't you better drink a cup of pepper-tea before you go to bed?"
"No, thank you; I am only tired."
She sat by the window of her little bedroom over the shop a long time before lighting335 her lamp. Dim and dark, the river wound along, its surface gleaming here and there faintly through the leafless branches of the willows. Overhead, the solemn stars shone coldly. The houses along its banks were already dark and silent. At some involuntary movement, her hand fell upon a soft[66] white mass of needle-work which strewed386 the table near her, and the contact seemed to rouse her. She rose, lit the lamp, folded the dainty, lace-trimmed garment, and made it into a parcel with some others which she took from a drawer, and went to bed. It was long before she slept, but the early morning found her asleep, with a peaceful smile upon her face.
The next day, being Saturday, was a busy one, for let Death stalk as he will, people must have their Sunday gear. The little shop was full at times, and feminine tongues and fingers flew without cessation, mixing millinery and misery in strange confusion.
"You don't say that's Mis' Belden's bonnet387, with all them flowers on it? Well, I never! And she a member!"
"Why, you're a member, too, ain't you, Mis' Allen?" says another, with a glance at the first speaker's head, where feathers of various hues388 waved majestically389.
"Oh, you mean my feathers?" was the spirited answer. "Feathers an' flowers is different things. You must draw the line somewhere, an' I draw it at feathers."
"They say one o' the women died up to the pest-house yesterday," said one woman, in the midst of an earnest discussion as to the comparative becomingness of blue roses and crimson390 pansies.
[67]
"Dear me!" said Miss Bullins, compassionately392, "an' not a woman there to lay her out! Sarah Gatchell didn't go up till to-day."
"They don't lay 'em out," remarked the other, unconcernedly, holding a brilliant pansy against her bilious393 countenance. "They roll 'em up in the sheet they die on, and bury 'em in the pasture."
"Well, good-day, Miss Bullins. I guess I'd better take the roses. I'm most too old for red. Get it done if you can. Good-day."
It went on so all day. At one time there was a rush for the window.
"It's Doctor Horton!" cried a pretty girl. "Oh my! Ain't he sweet? He's handsomer than ever, since he got so pale. I don't see how in the world Flossie Fairfield could do as she did. They say she's afraid to have him write to her."
"She loves her good looks more'n she does him, I guess," said another.
"And they to be married in the spring," said Miss Bullins, pathetically. "Lilly, here, was making her underclo'se, and they're a sight to see,—all hand-made, and so much lace in 'em that it ain't modest, I do declare!"
"If she got her deserts she wouldn't have no use for weddin' clo'se," said another, with acerbity395; "not if I was Roger Horton."
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"Wall, you ain't," said her companion, drily, "an' he ain't no different from other men, I guess."
Lilly worked on with feverish396 haste. About four o'clock she rose and went out, pausing an instant at the door, and looking back. Miss Bullins, intent upon some button-holes for which every moment of daylight was needed, did not look up. Lilly closed the door, and went up to her room.
It was small and simple, but it was the best she had known. There were some innocent efforts at decoration, a daintiness about the bed, a few books on hanging shelves, and a pretty drapery at the one window. She looked around with a sinking heart. There was a small writing-desk upon the table, and she went to it and wrote a few lines, which she sealed and directed. She packed a few articles in a satchel397, put on her cloak and hat, and stole down the stairs.
Choosing the quietest street, she walked rapidly through the village until the last house was passed, and the open country lay before her, bare and brown and desolate398, except for the blue hills in the distance, which, summer or winter, never lost their beauty.
Two or three farmers, jogging homeward with their week's supplies, passed her, and one offered her a lift as far as she was going, which she declined.
A mile from the village, a road turned off to the[69] left, winding through barren fields, until lost in the pine woods. As she turned into this, a man driving toward the village reined399 in and called to her, warningly:
"The pest-house is up yonder!"
She merely bowed and kept on. The man stared a moment, and whipped up his horse again. It was dark in the woods, and chilly400, but she felt no fear, not even when the sere401 bushes by the way-side rustled402, or twigs403 snapped as if beneath the tread of some living creature.
As she came out into comparative light she saw a buggy driven rapidly toward her. She recognized its occupant at once, and with a quick heart-throb sprang behind a clump404 of young pines, and dropped upon her knees.
Dr. Horton drove by, his face turned toward her place of concealment405. He did not know that any human eye was upon him, and the heaviness of his spirit appeared unrepressed in every feature. His eyes followed listlessly the irregular outline of the way-side walls and bushes, but it was evident that his thoughts were not of surrounding things, otherwise he must have seen the crouching406 figure and the white face pressed against the rough bark of the tree whose trunk she clasped.
The girl's eyes followed him until he was lost to sight in the woods. Then she came out and pursued her way.
[70]
A curve in the road brought her in sight of the house now devoted407 to hospital uses. It was a two-story farm-house, black with age, shutterless408 and forsaken409-looking. Over it hung the cloud of a hideous410 crime. A few years before, the owner, led on by an insane passion, had murdered his aged281 wife in her bed. The sequel had been a man's life ended in prison, a girl's name blasted, a dishonored family, a forsaken homestead,—for the son, to whom the property had fallen, had gone away, leaving no trace behind him. It had stood for years as the murderer had left it; its contents had been untouched by human hands; the hay had rotted in the barn; the fields were running waste. The very road itself was avoided, and the old wheel-ruts were almost effaced411 by grass and weeds. Swallows had possessed themselves of the cold, smokeless chimneys and sunken, mossy eaves; vagrant412 cats prowled about the moldering mows413 and empty mangers. The old well-sweep pointed414 like a gaunt, rigid415 finger toward heaven. The little strips of flower-beds beneath the front windows were choked with grass, but the red roses and pinks and columbines which the old woman had loved, still grew and bloomed in their season, and cast their petals about the sunken door-stone, and over the crooked path and neglected grass.
There were no flowers now,—only drifting masses of wet brown leaves. The setting sun had just[71] turned the windows into sheets of blood, and down in the pasture could be seen the rough clods of several new-made graves. The silence was absolute. Faint columns of smoke, rising from the crumbling416 chimneys, were the only signs of human presence.
A tremor shook the girl from head to foot, and she ceased walking. After all, she was young and strong, and the world was wide; life might hold something of sweetness for her yet. It was not too late. She half turned,—but it was only for a moment, and her feet were on the door-step, and her hand on the latch.
She turned a last look upon the outer world,—the bare fields, the leafless woods, the blue hills, the fading sky. A desperate yearning417 toward it all made her stretch out her hands as if to draw it nearer for a last farewell. Then from within came the piteous cry of a sick child, and she raised the latch softly and entered the house. The air of the hall smote her like a heavy hand, coming as she did from the cool outer air; but guided by the cry, which still continued, she groped her way up the bare, worn stairs, pushed open a door, and entered.
The child's voice covered the sound of her entrance and, sickened by the foul418 air, she had leaned for some moments against the wall before Widow Gatchell, who was holding the child across[72] her knee, turned and saw her. The old woman's hard, brown features stiffened419 with surprise, her lips parted without sound.
"I have come to help you," said Lilly, putting down her satchel and coming forward.
"Who sent ye?" the widow asked, shortly.
"Nobody. I offered my services, but Dr. Starkey refused to let me come. I knew you would not send me away if I once got here, and so I came."
"What was folks thinkin' of to let ye come?" asked the old woman again.
"Nobody knew it," Lilly answered.
"Wall," the widow said, "ye had no sort o' business to come, though the Lord knows they's need enough of help."
"Perhaps He sent me, Sarah," the girl said, gently. "Oh, the poor, poor baby! Let me take it."
Widow Gatchell's keen eyes swept the girl's compassionate391 face with a searching gaze. She rose stiffly and laid the child in her arms.
"There!" she said, drawing a long breath. "You're in for it now, Lilly O'Connell, and may the Lord have mercy on ye!"
When Dr. Horton entered the pest-house in the morning, the first person he encountered was Lilly O'Connell, coming through the hall with a tray in her hands. In her closely fitting print dress and[73] wide apron, the sleeves turned back from her smooth, strong arms, her face earnest, yet cheerful, she was the embodiment of womanly charity and sweetness. He started as though he saw a spectre.
"Good heavens!" he said; "how came you here? Who—who permitted you to come here?"
"No one," said Lilly, supporting the waiter on the post at the foot of the stairs. "I just came. I asked Dr. Starkey to take me as nurse, but he refused."
"I know, I know," said the young man. He stepped back and opened the door, letting in the crisp morning air. "But why did you come? It is a terrible place for you."
"I came to be of use," she answered, smiling. "I hope I am useful. Ask Mrs. Gatchell. She will tell you that I am useful, I am sure."
Horton's face expressed pain and perplexity.
"It is wrong—all wrong," he said. "Where were your friends? Was there no one who cared for you, no one that you care for, enough to keep you from this wild step?"
She looked up into his face, and, for one brief moment, something in her deep, luminous eyes chained his gaze. A soft red spread itself over her cheeks and neck. She shook her head slowly, and taking up the tray, went on up the stairs.
Miss Bullins found the little note which Lilly[74] had left for her, when, as no response came to her repeated summons to tea, she mounted the stairs to see what had happened.
She read the hastily written lines with gathering tears.
"You can get plenty of milliners and seamstresses; but those poor women and children are suffering for some one to take care of them. Forgive me for going this way, but it seemed the only way I could go. May be I shall be sick; but if I do, there is no beauty to lose, you know, and if I die, there is nobody to break their heart about it. You will be sorry, I know. I thank you, oh so much, for all your kindness to me, and I do love you dearly. May God bless you for all your goodness. If I should die, what I leave is for you to do what you please with.
"Your grateful and loving
"Lilly."
The good little woman's tears fell faster as she looked about the empty room.
"I never was so beat in my life," she confided420 to a dozen of her intimate friends many times over during the next week. "You could have knocked me down with a feather."
Dr. Starkey's amazement surpassed Miss Bullins's, if possible. He first heard of the step Lilly had taken from Dr. Horton. He saw her himself a day or two later, on making his tri-weekly visit to the hospital, and commended her bravery and self-sacrificing spirit in phrases something less stilted421 than usual.
He could not entirely422 banish277 an uneasy feeling[75] when he looked at the fresh young face, but he became tolerably reconciled to the situation when he saw what her energy and tenderness, in cooperation with Widow Gatchell's skill and experience, were accomplishing.
As for the girl herself, the days and nights passed so rapidly, making such demands upon body and mind, as to leave no time for regret. The scenes she witnessed effaced the past entirely for the time. In the midst of all the pain, and loathsomeness423, and delirium424, and death, she moved about, strong, gentle and self-contained, so self-contained that the vigilant eyes of the old nurse followed her in mute surprise.
"I never see nothin' like it," she said to Dr. Horton one day. "I've known her since she was little, an' I never would 'a' believed it, though I knew she'd changed. Why, she used to be so high-strung an' techy, like, an' now she's like a lamb."
On the tenth day after her coming, Dr. Horton in making his round entered an upper chamber425, where Lilly was standing by one of the three beds it contained. She had just drawn the sheet over the faces of two who had died that morning—mother and child.
The dead woman was the deserted wife of a man who had left her a year before, young, weak and ignorant, to certain want and degradation426.
[76]
"I cannot feel sorry," Lilly said. "It is so much better for them than what was left for them here."
Dr. Horton hardly seemed to hear her words. He was leaning wearily against a chair behind him; his eyes were dull, and his forehead contracted as if with physical suffering.
"You are ill!" she said, with a startled gesture.
"No, only getting a little tired out. I hope the worst is over now, and I think I shall hold out."
He went about from room to room, and from bed to bed, attentive106 and sympathetic as ever, and then left the house. A half hour later, one of the men came into the kitchen where Mrs. Gatchell was stirring something over the fire.
"Got a spare bed?" he asked, laconically427.
The widow looked up.
"'Cause we've got another patient."
"Who is it?" she asked, quickly.
"Come and see."
She followed the man to the rear of the house, where, upon a stone which had fallen from the wall, Dr. Horton was sitting, his head bent in slumber428. She listened a moment to his heavy breathing, laid her hand upon his forehead, and turned silently away.
A bed was made ready, and the young doctor, still wrapped in the heavy sleep of disease, was[77] laid upon it, and one of the men was sent for Dr. Starkey.
In the delirium which marks the first stages of the disease, young Horton would allow no one but Lilly O'Connell to minister to him. Sometimes he imagined himself a boy, and called her "mother," clinging to her hand, and moaning if she made the least effort to withdraw. At other times, another face haunted him, and another name, coupled with endearing words or tender reproaches, fell from the half-unconscious lips.
Who but a woman can comprehend the history of those days and nights of watching and waiting? Each morning found her more marble-pale; purple rings formed themselves about the large eyes, but a deep, steady light, which was not born of pain and suffering, shone in their clear depths.
At last, one night, the crisis, whose result no human judgment could foretell429, was at hand. No delirium, no restlessness now—only a deep sleep, in which the tense muscles relaxed and the breath came as softly as a child's.
Widow Gatchell shared the young girl's watch, but the strain of the last month had told upon her, and toward morning she fell asleep, and Lilly kept her vigil alone. Only the ticking of the old clock in the hall and the breathing of the sleepers430 broke the deep silence which filled the house. The lamp threw weird431 shadows across the ceiling and over[78] the disfigured face upon the pillow. Of all manly beauty, only the close-clustering chestnut432 hair remained, and the symmetrical hands which lay nerveless and pale, but unmarred, upon the spread.
Statue-like, the young girl sat by the bed-side, her whole soul concentrated in the unwavering gaze which rested upon the sleeper's face. A faint—ever so faint—murmur came at last from the hot, swollen433 lips, and one languid hand groped weakly, as if seeking something. She took it gently and held it between her own soft palms. It seemed to her fine touch that a light moisture was discernible upon it. She rose and bent over the pillow with eager eyes. A storm of raptured434 feeling shook her. She sank upon her knees by the bed, and pressed the hand she held close against her breast, whispering over it wild words which no ear might hear.
All at once, the fingers which had lain so inert435 and passive in her grasp seemed to her to thrill with conscious life, to return faintly the pressure of her own. She started back.
A ray of dawning light crept under the window-shade and lay across the sick man's face. His eyes were open, and regarding her with a look of perfect intelligence.
The girl rose with a smothered436 cry, and laid the drooping437 hand upon the bed. The dark, gentle[79] eyes followed her beseechingly438. It seemed as if he would have spoken, but the parched439 lips had lost their power.
She went to the sleeping woman and touched her shoulder.
"Sarah, I think he is better," she said, her voice trembling.
Instantly, the old nurse was on the alert. She went to the bed, and laid her hand upon the sick man's forehead and wrist, then turned toward Lilly, with a smile.
"Go and take some rest," she said in a whisper. "The crisis has passed. He will live."
Dr. Horton's recovery was not rapid, but it was sure.
From the hour of his return to consciousness, Lilly O'Connell had not entered his room.
When a week had passed, he ventured to question his faithful attendant, Widow Gatchell, in regard to her. For twenty-four hours he had missed the step and voice he had believed to be hers, passing and repassing the hall outside his door. The old woman turned her back abruptly and began stirring the already cheerful fire.
"She ain't quite so well to-day," she answered, in a constrained voice.
The young man raised his head.
"Do you mean that she is sick?" he asked hastily.
[80] "She was took down last night," the widow answered, hesitating, and would have left the room; but the young man beckoned440 her, and she went to his side.
"Let everything possible be done for her," he said. "You understand—everything that can be done. Let Mason attend to me."
"I'll do my part," the old nurse answered, in the peculiarly dry tone with which she was accustomed to veil her emotions.
Dr. Starkey, who, since the young doctor's illness, had been, perforce, in daily attendance, was closely questioned. His answers, however, being of that reserved and non-committal nature characteristic of the profession, gave little satisfaction, and Horton fell into a way of noticing and interpreting, with the acute sense of the convalescent, each look of his attendant, each sound which came to him, keeping himself in a state of nervous tension which did much toward retarding441 his recovery.
Three or four days had passed in this way, when one morning, just at daybreak, Dr. Horton was roused from his light sleep by sounds in the hall outside his door—hushed voices, shuffling442 footsteps, and the sound of some object striking with a heavy thud against the balusters and wall. He raised himself, his heart beating fast, and listened intently. The shuffling steps moved on, down the creaking stairs and across the bare floor below. A[81] door opened and shut, and deep silence filled the house again. He sank back upon his pillow, faint and bewildered, but still listening, and after some moments, another sound reached his ears faintly from a distance—the click of metal against stones and frozen mold.
He had already been able, with some assistance, to reach his chair once or twice a day; now he rose unaided, and without consciousness of pain or weakness, found his way to the window, and pushed aside the paper shade with a shaking hand.
It was a dull, gray morning, and a light snow was falling, but through the thin veil he could see the vague outlines of two men in the pasture opposite, and could follow their stiff, slow motions. They were filling in a grave.
He went to his bed and lay back upon it with closed eyes. When he opened them, Widow Gatchell was standing by him with his breakfast on a tray.
Her swarthy face was haggard, but her eyes were tearless, and her lips set tightly together. He put his hand out and touched hers.
"I know," he said, softly.
The woman put the tray on the table, and sank upon a chair. She cleared her throat several times before speaking.
"Yes," she said, at last, in her dry, monotonous443 voice. "She is gone. We did all we could[82] for her, but 'twarn't no use. She was all wore out when she was took. Just afore she died she started up and seized hold o' my hand, her eyes all soft an' shinin', an' her mouth a-smilin'. 'Sarah,' says she, 'I shall know the meaning of it now!' The good Lord only knows what she meant—her mind was wanderin', most likely—but them was her last words, 'I shall know the meanin' of it now, Sarah!'"
The old woman sat a while in silence, with the strange repressed look which watching by so many death-beds had fixed upon her face; then, arranging the breakfast upon the stand, went out again.
It snowed persistently all day. From the chair by the window, Doctor Horton watched it falling silently, making everything beautiful as it fell,—rude wall, and gnarled tree, and scraggy, leafless bush,—and covering those low, unsightly mounds with a rich and snowy pall444. He watched it until night fell and shut it from his sight.
Lilly O'Connell's was the last case. The disease seemed meantime to have spent its force, and in a few weeks the unbroken silence of midwinter rested over the drear and forlorn spot.
Doctor Horton was again at home. He was thin, and his face showed some traces of the disease from which he had just recovered, but they were slight, and such as would pass away in time. The pleasant chamber where he was sitting was[83] filled with evidences of care and attention, for every woman in Ridgemont, old or young, desired to show in some way her admiration445 and esteem446 for the young physician. Fruit and jellies and flowers and books filled every available place.
He was seated before a cheerful fire. Upon the table by his side lay many papers and letters, the accumulation of several weeks. One letter, of a recent date, was open in his hand. A portion of it ran thus:
"* * * It has been very gay here this season, and mother and Aunt Kitty have insisted upon my going out a great deal. But I have had no heart in it, dearest, especially since I knew that you were ill. I assure you, I was almost ill myself when I heard of it. How thankful I am that you are convalescent. I long to see you so much, but Aunt Kitty does not think I ought to return before spring. Oh Roger, do you think you are much changed? * * *"
Shading his eyes with his thin hand, he sat a long time in deep thought. At last, rousing himself, he went to his desk and wrote as follows:
"My Dear Florence: I am changed; so much that you would not know me; so much that I hardly know myself; so much, indeed, that it is better we do not meet at present.
R. H."
With a smile so bitter that it quite transformed his genial, handsome face, he read and re-read these lines.
"Yes," he said aloud, "it is the right way, the[84] only way," and he sealed and directed the letter, and went back to his reverie by the fire.
Lilly O'Connell's death made a deep impression in the village. That which her life, with all its pain and humiliation and loneliness, its heroic struggles, its quiet, hard-won victories, had failed to do, the simple story of her death accomplished. It was made the subject of at least two eloquent discourses447, and for a time her name was on every tongue. But it was only for a time, for when, in the course of years, the graves in the pasture were opened, and the poor remains448 of mortality removed by surviving friends to sacred ground, her grave remained undisturbed.
It was not forgotten, however. One day in June, when the happy, teeming449 earth was at her fairest, Dr. Horton drove out of the village, and turning into the grass-grown, untraversed road, went on to the scene of the past winter's tragedy of suffering and death. The old house was no longer in existence. By consent of the owner (whose whereabouts had been discovered), and by order of the selectmen of the town, it had been burned to the ground. Where it had stood, two crumbling chimneys rose from the mass of blackened bricks and charred450 timbers which filled the cellar, the whole draped and matted with luxuriant woodbine and clinging shrubs451. Birds brooded over their nests in every nook and cranny of the ruin, and red[85] roses flaunted452 in the sunshine and sprinkled the gray door-stone with splashes of color. The air was as sweet about it, the sky as blue above it, as if crime and plague were things which had no existence.
Dr. Horton left his horse to browse453 on the tender leaves of the young birches which grew along the wall, and went down into the pasture. The sod above the graves was green, and starred with small white flowers. There were fifteen graves in all, distinguished only by a number rudely cut upon rough stakes driven into the ground at their heads.
He went slowly among them until he came to one a little apart from the others, in the shadow of the woods which bordered the field. A slender young aspen grew beside it, its quivering leaves shining in the sun. Soft winds blew out from the fragrant454 woods, and far off in their green depths echoed the exquisite455, melancholy note of the wood-thrush. At the foot of the grave, where the grass, nourished by some hidden spring, grew long and lush, a single tiger-lily spread its glowing chalice456.
The young man stood there with uncovered head a long, long time. Then, laying his hand reverently457 upon the sod for one instant, he went away.
Several years have passed since these events. Dr. Horton is still unmarried. This is a source of great regret in the community with which he has[86] become so closely allied458, and by which he is held in universal regard and honor. There are some prematurely459 whitened locks upon his temples, and two or three fine straight lines just above his warm, steadfast460 eyes, but he is neither a morose461 nor a melancholy man, and there are those who confidently hope that the many untenanted rooms in the old homestead may yet open to the sunshine of a wife's smile, and echo to the music of childish voices.
It was two years before he met Miss Fairfield, she having spent that time in Europe with her mother and "Aunt Kitty." It was a chance meeting, upon Tremont Street, in Boston. He was in the act of leaving a store as she entered, accompanied by her mother. He recognized them with a friendly and courteous462 bow, and passed on.
Miss Fairfield leaned against the counter with a face white as snow.
"He is not—changed—so very much," she whispered to her mother.
The Fairfields spend a part of their time in Ridgemont, and the elegant little phaeton and the doctor's buggy often pass each other on the street; the occupants exchange greetings, and that is all.
Miss Fairfield is Miss Fairfield still. Always elegant and artistic464 in her dress, she is not quite[87] the same, however. The porcelain tints have faded, and there is a sharpness about the delicate features, and a peevishness465 about the small pink lips. She is devoted to art. She paints industriously466, and with fair result. Her tea-sets are much sought after, and she "spends her winters in Boston."
点击收听单词发音
1 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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2 remonstrance | |
n抗议,抱怨 | |
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3 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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4 mingled | |
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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5 jeers | |
n.操纵帆桁下部(使其上下的)索具;嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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6 discordant | |
adj.不调和的 | |
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7 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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8 ablaze | |
adj.着火的,燃烧的;闪耀的,灯火辉煌的 | |
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9 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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10 velvety | |
adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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11 freckles | |
n.雀斑,斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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12 tints | |
色彩( tint的名词复数 ); 带白的颜色; (淡色)染发剂; 痕迹 | |
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13 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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14 ripple | |
n.涟波,涟漪,波纹,粗钢梳;vt.使...起涟漪,使起波纹; vi.呈波浪状,起伏前进 | |
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15 scant | |
adj.不充分的,不足的;v.减缩,限制,忽略 | |
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16 dismally | |
adv.阴暗地,沉闷地 | |
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17 disapproval | |
n.反对,不赞成 | |
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18 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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19 candor | |
n.坦白,率真 | |
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20 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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21 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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22 furtively | |
adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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23 delinquents | |
n.(尤指青少年)有过失的人,违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
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24 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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25 urchins | |
n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 );淘气鬼;猬;海胆 | |
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26 emboldened | |
v.鼓励,使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27 reproof | |
n.斥责,责备 | |
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28 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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29 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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30 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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31 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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32 epithet | |
n.(用于褒贬人物等的)表述形容词,修饰语 | |
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33 galling | |
adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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34 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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35 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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36 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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37 intensified | |
v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 spoke | |
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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39 stoutly | |
adv.牢固地,粗壮的 | |
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40 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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41 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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42 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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43 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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44 veranda | |
n.走廊;阳台 | |
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45 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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46 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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47 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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48 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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49 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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50 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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51 rambles | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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52 trout | |
n.鳟鱼;鲑鱼(属) | |
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53 strap | |
n.皮带,带子;v.用带扣住,束牢;用绷带包扎 | |
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54 stump | |
n.残株,烟蒂,讲演台;v.砍断,蹒跚而走 | |
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55 bristling | |
a.竖立的 | |
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56 uncouth | |
adj.无教养的,粗鲁的 | |
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57 projections | |
预测( projection的名词复数 ); 投影; 投掷; 突起物 | |
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58 prone | |
adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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59 apron | |
n.围裙;工作裙 | |
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60 rippling | |
起涟漪的,潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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61 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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62 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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63 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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64 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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65 sneaks | |
abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋(网球鞋)v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 );偷偷溜走;(儿童向成人)打小报告;告状 | |
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66 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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67 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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68 fervid | |
adj.热情的;炽热的 | |
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69 arid | |
adj.干旱的;(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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70 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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71 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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73 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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74 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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75 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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76 petals | |
n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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77 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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78 quailed | |
害怕,发抖,畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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80 kindling | |
n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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81 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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82 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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83 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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84 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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85 rankled | |
v.(使)痛苦不已,(使)怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86 inborn | |
adj.天生的,生来的,先天的 | |
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87 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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88 truthful | |
adj.真实的,说实话的,诚实的 | |
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89 repelled | |
v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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90 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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91 overtures | |
n.主动的表示,提议;(向某人做出的)友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 );(歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的)序曲,前奏曲 | |
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92 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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93 puissant | |
adj.强有力的 | |
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94 disarmed | |
v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 );使息怒 | |
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95 taunts | |
嘲弄的言语,嘲笑,奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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96 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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97 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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98 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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99 attire | |
v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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100 attired | |
adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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102 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103 tremor | |
n.震动,颤动,战栗,兴奋,地震 | |
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104 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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105 attentiveness | |
[医]注意 | |
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106 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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107 demonstrations | |
证明( demonstration的名词复数 ); 表明; 表达; 游行示威 | |
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108 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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109 annoyances | |
n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 );烦恼;打扰;使人烦恼的事 | |
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110 controversy | |
n.争论,辩论,争吵 | |
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111 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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112 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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113 prim | |
adj.拘泥形式的,一本正经的;n.循规蹈矩,整洁;adv.循规蹈矩地,整洁地 | |
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114 tolerance | |
n.宽容;容忍,忍受;耐药力;公差 | |
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115 fictitious | |
adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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116 hoot | |
n.鸟叫声,汽车的喇叭声; v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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117 ostracism | |
n.放逐;排斥 | |
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118 stifling | |
a.令人窒息的 | |
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119 anguished | |
adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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120 splendor | |
n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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121 burnished | |
adj.抛光的,光亮的v.擦亮(金属等),磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 );被擦亮,磨光 | |
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122 alluding | |
提及,暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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123 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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124 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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125 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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126 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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127 discomfiture | |
n.崩溃;大败;挫败;困惑 | |
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128 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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129 dingier | |
adj.暗淡的,乏味的( dingy的比较级 );肮脏的 | |
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130 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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131 metropolitan | |
adj.大城市的,大都会的 | |
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132 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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133 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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134 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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135 pretension | |
n.要求;自命,自称;自负 | |
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136 exuberantly | |
adv.兴高采烈地,活跃地,愉快地 | |
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137 exuberant | |
adj.充满活力的;(植物)繁茂的 | |
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138 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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139 lessening | |
减轻,减少,变小 | |
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140 mounds | |
土堆,土丘( mound的名词复数 ); 一大堆 | |
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141 parlor | |
n.店铺,营业室;会客室,客厅 | |
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142 rattling | |
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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143 attest | |
vt.证明,证实;表明 | |
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144 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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145 vigilant | |
adj.警觉的,警戒的,警惕的 | |
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146 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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147 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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148 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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149 predilections | |
n.偏爱,偏好,嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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150 deprivations | |
剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 ); 被夺去; 缺乏; 匮乏 | |
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151 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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152 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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153 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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154 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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155 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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156 carnations | |
n.麝香石竹,康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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157 ovation | |
n.欢呼,热烈欢迎,热烈鼓掌 | |
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158 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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159 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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160 lank | |
adj.瘦削的;稀疏的 | |
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161 mare | |
n.母马,母驴 | |
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162 hitched | |
(免费)搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 ); 搭便车; 攀上; 跃上 | |
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163 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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164 petrified | |
adj.惊呆的;目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆,使惊呆;变僵硬;使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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165 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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166 reprobate | |
n.无赖汉;堕落的人 | |
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167 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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168 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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169 oratorical | |
adj.演说的,雄辩的 | |
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170 precarious | |
adj.不安定的,靠不住的;根据不足的 | |
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171 gory | |
adj.流血的;残酷的 | |
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172 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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173 pegging | |
n.外汇钉住,固定证券价格v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的现在分词 );使固定在某水平 | |
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174 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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175 receding | |
v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 );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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176 plank | |
n.板条,木板,政策要点,政纲条目 | |
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177 sarcasm | |
n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
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178 juvenile | |
n.青少年,少年读物;adj.青少年的,幼稚的 | |
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179 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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180 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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181 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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182 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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183 eloquently | |
adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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184 scattering | |
n.[物]散射;散乱,分散;在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的;分散在不同范围的;广泛扩散的;(选票)数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式);散布;驱散 | |
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185 slung | |
抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 ); 吊挂; 遣送; 押往 | |
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186 piazza | |
n.广场;走廊 | |
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187 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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188 latch | |
n.门闩,窗闩;弹簧锁 | |
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189 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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190 porcelain | |
n.瓷;adj.瓷的,瓷制的 | |
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191 meshes | |
网孔( mesh的名词复数 ); 网状物; 陷阱; 困境 | |
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192 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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193 contagious | |
adj.传染性的,有感染力的 | |
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194 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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195 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196 foaming | |
adj.布满泡沫的;发泡 | |
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197 wield | |
vt.行使,运用,支配;挥,使用(武器等) | |
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198 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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199 vex | |
vt.使烦恼,使苦恼 | |
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200 blandly | |
adv.温和地,殷勤地 | |
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201 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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202 stigma | |
n.耻辱,污名;(花的)柱头 | |
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203 impudence | |
n.厚颜无耻;冒失;无礼 | |
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204 contentedly | |
adv.心满意足地 | |
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205 confidential | |
adj.秘(机)密的,表示信任的,担任机密工作的 | |
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206 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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207 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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208 disciples | |
n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 );门徒;耶稣的信徒;(尤指)耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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209 adherents | |
n.支持者,拥护者( adherent的名词复数 );党羽;徒子徒孙 | |
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210 proprietors | |
n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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211 dispensed | |
v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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212 rumor | |
n.谣言,谣传,传说 | |
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213 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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214 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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215 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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216 grasshopper | |
n.蚱蜢,蝗虫,蚂蚱 | |
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217 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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218 musingly | |
adv.沉思地,冥想地 | |
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219 inmate | |
n.被收容者;(房屋等的)居住人;住院人 | |
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220 ruffled | |
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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221 watery | |
adj.有水的,水汪汪的;湿的,湿润的 | |
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222 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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223 intermittent | |
adj.间歇的,断断续续的 | |
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224 revelled | |
v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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225 hymns | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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226 hymn | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌 | |
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227 orchards | |
(通常指围起来的)果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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228 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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229 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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230 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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231 willows | |
n.柳树( willow的名词复数 );柳木 | |
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232 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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233 tedium | |
n.单调;烦闷 | |
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234 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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235 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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236 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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237 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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238 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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239 discoursing | |
演说(discourse的现在分词形式) | |
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240 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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241 flora | |
n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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242 beverage | |
n.(水,酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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243 intoxicating | |
a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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244 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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245 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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246 impeded | |
阻碍,妨碍,阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247 dilated | |
adj.加宽的,扩大的v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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248 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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249 devoured | |
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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250 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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251 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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252 brazen | |
adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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253 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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254 dispersing | |
adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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255 wilted | |
(使)凋谢,枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256 reigning | |
adj.统治的,起支配作用的 | |
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257 sanitary | |
adj.卫生方面的,卫生的,清洁的,卫生的 | |
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258 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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259 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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260 repulsing | |
v.击退( repulse的现在分词 );驳斥;拒绝 | |
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261 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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262 tingled | |
v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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263 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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264 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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265 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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266 penitent | |
adj.后悔的;n.后悔者;忏悔者 | |
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267 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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268 recurred | |
再发生,复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 ); 治愈 | |
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269 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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270 credence | |
n.信用,祭器台,供桌,凭证 | |
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271 evasion | |
n.逃避,偷漏(税) | |
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272 mortification | |
n.耻辱,屈辱 | |
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273 espouse | |
v.支持,赞成,嫁娶 | |
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274 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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275 juxtaposition | |
n.毗邻,并置,并列 | |
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276 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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277 banish | |
vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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278 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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279 gust | |
n.阵风,突然一阵(雨、烟等),(感情的)迸发 | |
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280 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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281 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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282 oozing | |
v.(浓液等)慢慢地冒出,渗出( ooze的现在分词 );使(液体)缓缓流出;(浓液)渗出,慢慢流出 | |
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283 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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284 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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285 outright | |
adv.坦率地;彻底地;立即;adj.无疑的;彻底的 | |
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286 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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287 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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288 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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289 rein | |
n.疆绳,统治,支配;vt.以僵绳控制,统治 | |
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290 reins | |
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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291 turquoise | |
n.绿宝石;adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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292 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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293 taut | |
adj.拉紧的,绷紧的,紧张的 | |
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294 flannel | |
n.法兰绒;法兰绒衣服 | |
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295 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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296 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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297 tightening | |
上紧,固定,紧密 | |
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298 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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299 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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300 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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301 tranquilly | |
adv. 宁静地 | |
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302 dreariest | |
使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 ); 阴沉的; 令人厌烦的; 单调的 | |
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303 tenor | |
n.男高音(歌手),次中音(乐器),要旨,大意 | |
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304 shutters | |
百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 ); (照相机的)快门 | |
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305 subdued | |
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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306 lookout | |
n.注意,前途,瞭望台 | |
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307 ambushed | |
v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 );埋伏着 | |
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308 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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309 hilarity | |
n.欢乐;热闹 | |
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310 savor | |
vt.品尝,欣赏;n.味道,风味;情趣,趣味 | |
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311 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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312 labors | |
v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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313 labor | |
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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314 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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315 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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316 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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317 potent | |
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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318 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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319 indefatigably | |
adv.不厌倦地,不屈不挠地 | |
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320 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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321 scarcity | |
n.缺乏,不足,萧条 | |
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322 housekeepers | |
n.(女)管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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323 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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324 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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325 fretted | |
焦躁的,附有弦马的,腐蚀的 | |
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326 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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327 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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328 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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329 chafing | |
n.皮肤发炎v.擦热(尤指皮肤)( chafe的现在分词 );擦痛;发怒;惹怒 | |
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330 fretting | |
n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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331 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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332 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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333 negligent | |
adj.疏忽的;玩忽的;粗心大意的 | |
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334 blighting | |
使凋萎( blight的现在分词 ); 使颓丧; 损害; 妨害 | |
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335 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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336 flustered | |
adj.慌张的;激动不安的v.使慌乱,使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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337 exhaled | |
v.呼出,发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 );吐出(肺中的空气、烟等),呼气 | |
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338 plaintively | |
adv.悲哀地,哀怨地 | |
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339 plaintive | |
adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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340 saturated | |
a.饱和的,充满的 | |
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341 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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342 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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343 reassuringly | |
ad.安心,可靠 | |
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344 sniffing | |
n.探查法v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的现在分词 );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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345 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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346 beguiling | |
adj.欺骗的,诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 );使陶醉;使高兴;消磨(时间等) | |
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347 alacrity | |
n.敏捷,轻快,乐意 | |
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348 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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349 pane | |
n.窗格玻璃,长方块 | |
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350 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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351 wrung | |
绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 ); 握紧(尤指别人的手); 把(湿衣服)拧干; 绞掉(水) | |
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352 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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353 hysterically | |
ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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354 corroborated | |
v.证实,支持(某种说法、信仰、理论等)( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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355 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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356 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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357 rebound | |
v.弹回;n.弹回,跳回 | |
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358 stuffy | |
adj.不透气的,闷热的 | |
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359 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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360 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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361 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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362 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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363 grit | |
n.沙粒,决心,勇气;v.下定决心,咬紧牙关 | |
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364 choir | |
n.唱诗班,唱诗班的席位,合唱团,舞蹈团;v.合唱 | |
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365 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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366 suffocation | |
n.窒息 | |
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367 congealing | |
v.使凝结,冻结( congeal的现在分词 );(指血)凝结 | |
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368 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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369 entreatingly | |
哀求地,乞求地 | |
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370 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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371 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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372 pestilence | |
n.瘟疫 | |
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373 supple | |
adj.柔软的,易弯的,逢迎的,顺从的,灵活的;vt.使柔软,使柔顺,使顺从;vi.变柔软,变柔顺 | |
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374 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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375 undertaking | |
n.保证,许诺,事业 | |
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376 glazed | |
adj.光滑的,像玻璃的;上过釉的;呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式);上釉于,上光;(目光)变得呆滞无神 | |
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377 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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378 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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379 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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380 antipathy | |
n.憎恶;反感,引起反感的人或事物 | |
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381 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
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382 grandiose | |
adj.宏伟的,宏大的,堂皇的,铺张的 | |
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383 poked | |
v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 );戳出;拨弄;与(某人)性交 | |
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384 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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385 watchful | |
adj.注意的,警惕的 | |
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386 strewed | |
v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 );散落于;点缀;撒满 | |
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387 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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388 hues | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
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389 majestically | |
雄伟地; 庄重地; 威严地; 崇高地 | |
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390 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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391 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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392 compassionately | |
adv.表示怜悯地,有同情心地 | |
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393 bilious | |
adj.胆汁过多的;易怒的 | |
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394 lining | |
n.衬里,衬料 | |
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395 acerbity | |
n.涩,酸,刻薄 | |
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396 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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397 satchel | |
n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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398 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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399 reined | |
勒缰绳使(马)停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 ); 驾驭; 严格控制; 加强管理 | |
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400 chilly | |
adj.凉快的,寒冷的 | |
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401 sere | |
adj.干枯的;n.演替系列 | |
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402 rustled | |
v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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403 twigs | |
细枝,嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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404 clump | |
n.树丛,草丛;vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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405 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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406 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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407 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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408 shutterless | |
快门不 | |
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409 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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410 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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411 effaced | |
v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;超越;使黯然失色 | |
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412 vagrant | |
n.流浪者,游民;adj.流浪的,漂泊不定的 | |
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413 mows | |
v.刈,割( mow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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414 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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415 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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416 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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417 yearning | |
a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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418 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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419 stiffened | |
加强的 | |
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420 confided | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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421 stilted | |
adj.虚饰的;夸张的 | |
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422 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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423 loathsomeness | |
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424 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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425 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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426 degradation | |
n.降级;低落;退化;陵削;降解;衰变 | |
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427 laconically | |
adv.简短地,简洁地 | |
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428 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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429 foretell | |
v.预言,预告,预示 | |
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430 sleepers | |
n.卧铺(通常以复数形式出现);卧车( sleeper的名词复数 );轨枕;睡觉(呈某种状态)的人;小耳环 | |
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431 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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432 chestnut | |
n.栗树,栗子 | |
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433 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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434 raptured | |
欢天喜地的,狂喜的,销魂的 | |
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435 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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436 smothered | |
(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
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437 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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438 beseechingly | |
adv. 恳求地 | |
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439 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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440 beckoned | |
v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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441 retarding | |
使减速( retard的现在分词 ); 妨碍; 阻止; 推迟 | |
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442 shuffling | |
adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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443 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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444 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
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445 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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446 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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447 discourses | |
论文( discourse的名词复数 ); 演说; 讲道; 话语 | |
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448 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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449 teeming | |
adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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450 charred | |
v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式);烧焦 | |
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451 shrubs | |
灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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452 flaunted | |
v.炫耀,夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 );有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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453 browse | |
vi.随意翻阅,浏览;(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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454 fragrant | |
adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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455 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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456 chalice | |
n.圣餐杯;金杯毒酒 | |
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457 reverently | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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458 allied | |
adj.协约国的;同盟国的 | |
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459 prematurely | |
adv.过早地,贸然地 | |
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460 steadfast | |
adj.固定的,不变的,不动摇的;忠实的;坚贞不移的 | |
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461 morose | |
adj.脾气坏的,不高兴的 | |
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462 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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463 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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464 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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465 peevishness | |
脾气不好;爱发牢骚 | |
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466 industriously | |
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