One week before she had been called to the bed-side of her aunt, Abigail Leavitt. She had arrived none too soon, for the stern, sad old woman had[92] received her summons, and before another morning dawned had passed away.
To her great surprise, Thirza found that her aunt had left her sole heiress of all she had possessed17. Why she should have been surprised would be difficult to explain. Aunt Abigail's two boys had gone to the war and never returned, her husband had been dead for many years, and Thirza was her only sister's only child, and sole surviving relative. Nothing, therefore, was more natural than this event, but Thirza had simply never thought of it. She had listened, half in wonder, half in indifference18, to the reading of the will, and had accepted mechanically the grudgingly19 tendered congratulations of the assembled farmers and their wives.
She had been supported in arranging and carrying out the gloomy details of the funeral by Jane Withers21, a spinster of a type peculiar22 to New England; one of those persons who, scorning to demean themselves by "hiring out," go about, nevertheless, from family to family, rendering23 reluctant service, "just to accommodate" (accepting a weekly stipend24 in the same spirit of accommodation, it is to be supposed). With this person's assistance, Thirza had prepared the repast to which, according to custom, the mourners from a distance were invited on their return from the burying-ground. Aunt Abigail had been stricken down at the close of a Saturday's baking, leaving a goodly array upon the pan[93]try shelves, a fact upon which Jane congratulated herself without any attempt at concealment25, observing, in fact, that the melancholy event "couldn't have happened handier." In vain had Thirza protested—Jane was inflexible26—and she had looked on with silent horror, while the funeral guests devoured27 with great relish28 the pies and ginger-bread which the dead woman's hand had prepared.
"Mis' Leavitt were a master hand at pie-crust," remarked one toothless dame29, mumbling30 at the flaky paste, "a master hand at pie-crust, but she never were much at bread!" whereupon the whole feminine conclave31 launched out into a prolonged and noisy discussion of the relative merits of salt-risin's, milk-emptin's, and potato yeast32.
That was three or four days ago, and Thirza had remained in the old house with Jane, who had kindly33 proffered34 her services and the solace35 of her companionship. There had been little to do in the house, and that little was soon done, and now the question of what she was to do with her new acquisition was looming36 up before her, and assuming truly colossal37 proportions. She was thinking of it now as she stood there with the wistful look upon her face, almost wishing that Aunt Abigail had left the farm to old Jabez Higgins, a fourth or fifth cousin by marriage, who had dutifully appeared at the funeral, with a look as if he had that within which passed showing, and doubtless he had, for[94] he turned green and blue when the will was read, and drove off soon after at a tearing pace.
Jane, having condescended39 to perform the operation of washing up the two plates, cups, etc., which their evening meal had brought into requisition, entered presently, knitting in hand, and seated herself with much emphasis in a low wooden chair near the window. She was an erect40 and angular person, with an aggressive air of independence about her, a kind of "just-as-good-as-you-are" expression, which seemed to challenge the observer to dispute it at his peril41. She took up the first stitch on her needle, fixed42 her sharp eyes upon Thirza, and, as if in answer to her thoughts, opened on her as follows:
"Ye haint made up yer mind what ye're a-goin' ter dew, hev ye?"
Thirza slowly shook her head, without looking around.
"It's kind o' queer now how things does work a-round. There you was a-workin' an' a-slavin' in that old mill, day in an' day out, only a week ago, an' now you can jest settle right down on yer own place an' take things easy."
"I shouldn't wonder a mite44," went on Jane, with increasing animation45, "I shouldn't wonder a single mite if you should git a husband, after all!"
[95]
Thirza's pale face flushed, and she made an involuntary gesture of impatience46 with one shoulder.
"Oh, ye needn't twist around so," said the undaunted spinster, dryly. "Ye ain't no chicken, laws knows, but ye needn't give up all hopes. Ye're twenty-five if ye're a day, but that ain't nothin' when a woman's got a farm worth three thousand dollars."
Three thousand dollars! For the first time her inheritance assumed its monetary47 value before Thirza's eyes. Hitherto she had regarded it merely as an indefinite extent of pastures, woods, and swamps—but three thousand dollars! It sounded like a deal of money to her, who had never owned a hundred dollars at one time in her life, and her imagination immediately wandered off into fascinating vistas50, which Jane's prosaic51 words had thrown open before her. She heard, as in a dream, the nasal, incisive52 voice as it went on with the catalogue of her possessions.
"Yes, it's worth three thousand dollars, if it's worth a cent! I heerd Squire53 Brooks54 a-tellin' Orthaniel Stebbins so at the funeral. An' then, here's the house. There ain't no comfortabler one on Joneses' Hill, nor one that has more good furnitoor an' fixin's in it. Then there's Aunt Abigail's clo'es an' things. Why, ter my sartain knowledge there's no less'n five real good dresses a-hangin' in the fore-chamber55 closet, ter say nothin' of the bureau full of under-clo'es an' beddin'." Jane did not[96] think it necessary to explain by what means this "sartain knowledge" had been achieved, but continued: "There's a silk warp56 alpacky now, a-hangin' up there, why—it's e'en-a-most as good as new! The creases57 ain't out on't." (Unsophisticated Jane! not to know that the creases never do go out of alpaca.) "I don't see what in the name o' sense ye're a-goin' ter dew with all them dresses. It'll take ye a life-time ter wear 'em out. If I hed that silk warp alpacky now,"—she continued musingly58, yet raising her voice so suddenly that Thirza started; "if I hed that are dress, I should take out two of the back breadths for an over-skirt—yes—an' gore59 the others!" This climax60 was delivered in triumphant61 tone. Then lowering her voice she continued, reflectively: "Aunt Abigail was jest about my build."
Thirza caught the import of the last words.
"Jane," said she, languidly, with an undertone of impatience in her voice (it was hard to be recalled from her pleasant wanderings by a silk warp alpaca!), "Jane, you can have it."
"Wh—what d'ye say?" inquired Jane, incredulously.
"I said you could have that dress; I don't want it," repeated Thirza.
Jane sat a moment in silence before she trusted herself to speak. Her heart was beating with delight, but she would not allow the smallest evi[97]dence of joy or gratitude62 to escape in word or look.
"Wall," she remarked, coolly, after a fitting pause, "ef you haint got no use for it, I might take it, I s'pose. Not that I'm put tew it for clo'es, but I allers did think a sight of Aunt Abigail——"
Her remarks were interrupted by an exclamation63 from Thirza. The front gate opened with a squeak64 and closed with a rattle65 and bang, and the tall form of Orthaniel Stebbins was seen coming up the path. Orthaniel was a mature youth of thirty. For length and leanness of body, prominence66 of elbow and knee joints67, size and knobbiness of extremities68, and vacuity69 of expression, Orthaniel would have been hard to match. He was attired70 in a well-preserved black cloth suit, with all the usual accessories of a rustic71 toilet. His garments seemed to have been designed by his tailor for the utmost possible display of the joints above mentioned, and would have suggested the human form with equal clearness, if buttoned around one of the sprawling73 stumps75 which were so prominent a feature in the surrounding landscape. On this particular occasion there was an air of importance, almost of solemnity, about his person, which, added to a complacent76 simper, born of a sense of the delicate nature of his present errand, produced in his usually blank countenance something almost amounting to expression.
[98]
At first sight of this not unfamiliar78 apparition79, Thirza had incontinently fled, but Jane received the visitor with becoming impressiveness.
"Good-evenin', Mr. Stebbins. Walk right into the fore-room," she remarked, throwing open the door of that apartment of state.
"No need o' puttin' yourself out, marm; the settin'-room's good enough for me," graciously responded the gentleman.
"Walk right in," repeated Jane, throwing open one shutter80, and letting in a dim light upon the scene—a veritable chamber of horrors, with its hideous81 carpet, hair-cloth chairs and sofa, the nameless abominations on its walls, and its general air of protest against the spirit of beauty and all that goes to make up human comfort.
Mr. Stebbins paused on the threshold. There was something unusually repellent about the room, a lingering funereal82 atmosphere, which reached even his dull senses. He would have infinitely83 preferred the sitting-room84; but a latent sense of something in his errand which required the utmost dignity in his surroundings prevailed, and he therefore entered and seated himself on one of the prickly chairs, which creaked expostulatingly beneath him.
"I—ahem! Is Miss Bradford in?"
This question was, of course, a mere48 form,—a ruse86 de guerre, as it were,—and Mr. Stebbins chuckled87 inwardly over his remarkable88 diplomacy89.[99] He had seen Thirza at the window, and witnessed her sudden flight; but, so far from feeling affronted90 by the act, it had rather pleased him. It indicated maiden91 shyness, and he accepted it as a flattering tribute to his powers of fascination92. "She's gone to fix up her hair, or somethin'," he reflected.
When Jane came to summon her, she found Thirza sitting by the window of the fore-chamber, gazing thoughtfully out into the twilight93 again.
"Thirzy!" whispered the spinster, as mysteriously as if Mr. Stebbins was within possible earshot, "Orthaniel Stebbins wants ter see yer. Go right down!"
"Jane, I—sha'n't!" answered Thirza, shortly.
Jane started, and opened her small gray eyes their very widest.
"I mean I don't want to go down," said Thirza, more politely. "I don't wish to see him."
"Wall, if that don't beat the master!" exclaimed Jane, coming nearer. "Why, he's got on his Sunday clo'es! 'S likely 's not he's a-goin' ter propose ter ye!"
"You had better send him away, then," said Thirza.
"Ye don't mean to say ye wouldn't hev him!" gasped95 Jane, with a look of incredulous amazement96 which, catching97 Thirza's eye, caused her to burst into a laugh.
[100]
"I suppose I must go down," she said at last, rising. "If I don't, I shall have all Jones' Hill down upon me. Oh dear!"
Mr. Stebbins would have been surprised to see that she passed the mirror without even one glance.
"Hadn't ye better take off yer apron98, an' put on a pink bow, or somethin'?" suggested Jane; "ye look real plain."
"Wall!" ejaculated the bewildered spinster, "I hope I may never!" And then, being a person who believed in improving one's opportunities, she proceeded at once to a careful re-examination of the "silk-warp alpacky," which hung in straight, solemn folds from a nail in the closet; it had hung precisely100 the same upon Aunt Abigail's lathy form.
Thirza went into the gloomy fore-room. It struck a chill to her heart, and she went straight past Mr. Stebbins, with merely a nod and a "good-evening," and threw open another shutter, before seating herself so far from him, and in such a position, that he could only see her face by an extraordinary muscular feat6. Mr. Stebbins felt that his reception was not an encouraging one. He hemmed101 and hawed, and at last managed to utter:
[101]
"Pleasant evenin', Miss Bradford."
"Very," responded Thirza. It was particularly cold and disagreeable outside, even for a New England April.
"Do you really think so?" responded Thirza, in an absent sort of way.
It was not much; but it was a question, and in so far helped on the conversation. Mr. Stebbins was re-assured.
"Yes," he resumed, in an animated103 manner, "I actooally dew! Ye see, Miss Bradford, ye haint said nothin' tew me about the farm, so I thought I'd come 'roun' an' find out what yer plans is."
"I haven't made any," said Thirza, as he paused.
"Oh—ye haint? Well, ye know I've been a-workin' on't on shares fur yer aunt Abigail, goin' on five year, an' I'm ready ter dew the same fur you; that is——" and here Mr. Stebbins hitched105 a little nearer, while a smile, which displayed not only all his teeth, but no little gum as well, spread itself over his bucolic106 features, "that is, if we can't make no other arrangements more pleasin'."
There was no mistaking his intentions now; they spoke107 from every feature of his shrewdly smiling countenance, from his agitated108 knees and[102] elbows, and from the uneasy hands and feet which seemed struggling to detach themselves from their lank77 continuations and abscond109 then and there.
Thirza looked her wooer calmly in the face. Her imperturbability110 embarrassed but did not dishearten him.
"Thar ain't no use in foolin' round the stump74!" he continued. "I might jest as well come out with it, plain an' squar! I'm ready an' willin' to take the hull111 farm off yer hands if you're agreeable. You jest marry me, Thirzy, an' that settles the hull question slick as a whistle!" and Mr. Stebbins settled back in his chair with a look as if he had just elucidated112 a long-mooted problem in social science.
Thirza rose: there was a little red spot on each cheek, and an unwonted sparkle in her soft eyes; but her manner was otherwise unruffled as she answered:
"You are really very kind, Mr. Stebbins, but I think I shall find some other way out of the dilemma113. I couldn't think of troubling you."
"Oh——" he stammered, "'tain't—no trouble—at all!"
But Thirza was gone.
For a moment Mr. Stebbins doubted his identity. He stared blankly at the open door awhile, and then his eyes wandered vacantly over the carpet and wall, finally coming to rest upon the toes[103] of his substantial boots. He sat for some time thus, repeating Thirza's words as nearly as he could recall them, endeavoring to extract the pith of meaning from the surrounding fibres of polite language. Had she actually refused him? Mr. Stebbins, by a long and circuitous114 mental process, arrived at length at the conclusion that she had, and accordingly rose, walked out of the front door and down the narrow path, in a state of mind best known to rejected suitors. As he closed the gate he cast one sheepish look toward the house.
"I'll be darned!" he muttered, "I'll be darned if I hain't got the mitten115!" and, discomfited116 and sore, the Adonis of Jones' Hill disappeared in the evening shadows.
Jane was watching his departure from behind the curtain of the sitting-room window. In all probability her gentle bosom117 had never been the scene of such a struggle as was now going on beneath the chaste118 folds of her striped calico gown. She could not doubt the object of Mr. Stebbins's visit, nor its obvious result. Astonishment119, incredulity, curiosity, in turn possessed her.
"Waal!" she soliloquized, as the curtain fell from her trembling fingers, "the way some folks fly in the face of Providence120 doos beat the master!"
Thirza, too, had observed her suitor as he strode away, with an expression of scorn upon her face which finally gave way to one of amusement, end[104]ing in a laugh—a curious hysterical121 laugh. A moment later she had thrown herself upon the bed, and Jane, who in a state of curiosity bordering on asphyxia, came up to the door soon after, heard a sound of sobbing122, and considerately went away.
Thirza had her cry out; every woman knows what that means, and knows, too, the mingled124 sense of relief and exhaustion125 which follows. It was fully38 an hour later when she arose and groped her way down into the sitting-room where Jane sat knitting zealously126 by the light of a small lamp. That person's internal struggles commenced afresh, and a feeling of indignation quite comprehensible burnt in her much-vexed bosom as Thirza, after lighting127 another lamp, bade her "good-night," and went out of the room, leaving her cravings for fuller information unassuaged.
Once more in her room, Thirza seated herself before the glass and began to loosen the heavy dark braids of her hair. Upon the bureau lay an open letter, and leaving the soft tresses half undone128, she took it up and re-read it. When she had finished she let it fall upon her lap and fell to thinking. The letter was from her cousin Sue, and bore a foreign post-mark, and from thinking over its contents Thirza fell into reflections upon the diversity of human fate, particularly her own and Sue's. They had commenced life under very similar circumstances. Both had been born about[105] the same time, and in the town of Millburn. Both were "only" children, the fathers of both were mechanics of the better class, and the girls were closely associated up to their fourteenth year, as play-fellows and school-mates. Sue was an ordinary sort of a girl, with a rather pretty blonde face; Thirza, a bright, original creature, with a mobile, dark face, which almost every one turned to take a second look at; a girl who, with a book, almost any book, became oblivious129 of all else. Her father was a man of more than ordinary intelligence, of a dreamy, speculative130 turn of mind, and subject to periods of intense depression. When she was about fourteen years old, Thirza went one evening to the barn to call her father to supper. Receiving no answer to her call, she entered, and there, in a dim corner, she saw something suspended from a beam,—something she could never efface131 from her memory. A shaft132 of sunlight full of dancing motes133 fell athwart the distorted face, whose smile she must now forever miss, and across the rigid134 hands which would never again stroke her hair in the old fond, proud way. In that moment the child became a woman. She went to the nearest neighbor, and without scream or sob123 told what she had seen—then she went to her mother. Soon after, the young girl whose school-life was thus early ended took her place at a loom20 in one of the great cotton-mills, and there she re[106]mained for more than ten years, the sole support and comfort of her weak, complaining mother, who from the dreadful day that made her a widow, sank into hopeless invalidism135. One year previously136 to the commencement of this story she had been laid to rest. In the meantime Sue had grown up, and married a "smart fellow," who after a few years of successful business life in New York, had been sent by some great firm to take charge of a branch establishment in Paris.
Thirza was thinking of these things now, as she sat with Sue's gossipy letter on her lap—thinking of them wearily, and even with some bitterness. It seemed to her hard and strange that Sue should have everything, and she only her lonely, toilsome life, and her dreams. These indeed remained; no one could forbid them to her—no amount of toil72 and constant contact with sordid137 natures could despoil138 her of her one priceless treasure, the power to live, in imagination, brief but exquisite139 phases of existence which no one around her ever suspected. Books furnished the innocent hasheesh, which transported her out of the stale atmosphere of her boarding-house into realms of ever new delight.
But to-night she could not dream. The interview with Mr. Stebbins had been a rude shock, a bitter humiliation140 to her. She had held herself so proudly aloof141 from the men of her acquaintance[107] that none had ever before ventured to cross the fine line of reserve she had drawn142 about her; and now, this uncouth143, mercenary clown had dared pull down the barrier, and trample144 under foot the delicate flowers of sentiment she had cherished with such secrecy145 and care. Her first wooer! Not thus, in the idle dreams which come to every maiden's heart, had Thirza pictured him. That other rose before her now, and strangely enough, it took on the semblance146, as it often had of late, of one she had almost daily seen—a handsome face, a true and good one, too; and yet the hot blood surged into her cheeks, and she tried to banish147 the image from her mind. It would not go at her bidding, however, and, as if to hide from her own eyes in the darkness, Thirza arose and put out the light.
There was no time for dreaming after this, for the question of her inheritance must be settled. So, after a day or two of reflection, Thirza drove into town and held a long consultation148 with Squire Brooks, the result of which was that the farm was announced for sale. It was not long before a purchaser appeared, and in due course of time Thirza found herself, for the first time in her life, in possession of a bank-book!
She returned to her place in the mill, notwithstanding, and was secretly edified149 in observing the effect which her re-appearance produced upon the[108] operatives. The women watched her askance, curiously150 and enviously151, indulging in furtive152 remarks upon her unchanged appearance. As an heiress something had evidently been expected of her in the way of increased elegance153 in dress, and its non-appearance excited comment. On the part of the men there was a slight increase of respect in their mode of salutation, and in one or two instances, an endeavor to cultivate a nearer acquaintance, an endeavor, it is needless to say, without success.
But if there was no outer change in Thirza, there was an inner change going on, which became at length a feverish154 restlessness, which disturbed her night and day. She found herself continually taking down from her shelves certain fascinating books, treating of foreign scenes and people; reading and re-reading them, and laying them aside with strange reluctance155. Then she fell into a habit of taking her little bank-book, and figuring assiduously upon the covers. Three thousand dollars! Enough, she bitterly reflected, to keep her from the almshouse when her hands became too feeble to tend the loom, but a paltry156 sum, after all! Many persons, even in Millburn, spent far more than that yearly.
All at once a thought flashed upon her, a thought which took away her breath and set her brain to whirling. And yet it was not an abso[109]lutely new thought. It had haunted her under various disguises from the moment when Jane Withers, by a few words, had transmuted157 the barren pastures and piney woods of her farm into actual dollars; and now, after hovering158 about all this time, it had found a moment,—when some fascinating book had thrown her off her guard,—to spring upon and overpower her. For a moment she was stunned159 and overwhelmed—then she calmly closed the little bank-book, and said: "I will do it!"
In one week the whole town knew that Thirza Bradford was going to travel, and all former discussions of her affairs sank into nothing in comparison with the importance they now assumed. Among her immediate49 acquaintances there was considerable excitement, and their opinions were freely, if not elegantly, expressed. The men, almost without exception, pronounced her "a fool," as did the elder women, whose illusions, if they had ever entertained any, had long since been dispelled160. But among the younger women there was a more or less repressed feeling of sympathy, amounting to envy. Poor girls! they, too, no doubt, indulged in secret longings161 which their prosaic work-a-day world failed to satisfy; and doubtless those who had themselves "aunt Abigails," or any other "expectations" of a like nature, were led into wild and wicked speculations162 upon the[110] tenure163 of human life, for which, it is to be hoped, Thirza will not be held accountable.
It is the fashion of the day to ascribe our more objectionable peculiarities164 and predilections165 to "hereditary166 taint," and there is something so comforting and satisfactory in this theory, that it has attracted many adherents167 not otherwise of a scientific turn of mind. Millburn was not scientific; but even Millburn fell into the same way of theorizing.
"Bill Bradford," said public opinion, "was an oneasy sort of a chap,—a half crazy, extravagant168 critter,—and Thirzy is a chip o' the old block."
When the news reached Jones' Hill,—which it shortly did by the never-failing means of Jane Withers, who was accommodatingly helping169 Orthaniel's mother through a course of "soap-bilin',"—the comments were severe. Orthaniel received the tidings as he was about starting for the cow-yard, with a milk-pail in each hand. He listened, with fallen jaw170, unto the bitter end. Then, giving his blue overalls171 an expressive172 hitch104, he remarked ungallantly:
"That gal173 hain't got no more sense 'n a yaller dog!"—and he, at least, may be pardoned for so thinking.
As for Thirza, her decision once made, she troubled herself little about the "speech of people." From the moment when she had closed her little bank-book with the words "I will do[111] it," she became, not another woman, but her real self. She went serenely174 about her simple preparations for her departure in a state of quiet exultation175 which lent a new charm to her dark face and a new grace to her step.
Squire Brooks arranged her money affairs for her,—not without remonstrance176, however. It seemed to the close-fisted, elderly man a wild and wanton thing to do; but there was something in the half-repressed enthusiasm of the girl which caused the wise, prudential words to die upon his lips. When she left his office, on the evening before her departure, he watched the light-stepping figure out of sight, and then walked up to the dingy office mirror and surveyed his wrinkled visage on all sides. Carefully brushing up the sparse177 gray locks which had been ordered to the front, as it were, to fill the gaps created by Time's onslaughts, he shook his head deprecatingly, and with a sigh walked away from the glass, humming softly "Mary of Argyle."
As Thirza, absorbed in thought, turned into the long, shaded street which led down to her boarding-house, she was startled out of her reverie by the sound of her own name, pronounced in a friendly tone. Looking up, she saw a gentleman approaching. Her heart gave a quick leap as she recognized Warren Madison, son of the richest manufacturer of Millburn. He was no recent ac[112]quaintance. In her school days, when social distinctions weighed but little, there had been a childish intimacy178 and fondness between them. Time and separation, and the wide difference in their position,—which she, at least, felt most keenly,—had estranged179 them. Since the young man's return, after years of study and travel, to become his father's partner, she had met him very often, both in the mill and outside of it, and he had constantly shown a disposition180 to renew their former friendship. But poor, proud Thirza had rejected all his advances. Even now, although her cheeks tingled181 and her hands trembled nervously182, she would have passed him with a simple nod; but somehow, before she realized it, young Madison had secured her hand and a smile, too; and, to her surprise, she found herself walking by his side, talking with something of the familiarity of the old school days.
"I have been absent for some time, and only heard to-day that you are going away," he said.
"Yes," responded Thirza. "I am going away—to Europe."
"To seek your fortune?" said he, with a smile.
"No—to spend it," said Thirza, in the same manner. "I suppose that you, like Parson Smythers and the rest of Millburn, consider it an 'extry-ordinary proceeding,'"—this with a fair imitation of the reverend gentleman's peculiar drawl.
[113]
Madison smiled.
"Don't count me among your judges, I beg of you, Thirza," he responded, more gravely. "Perhaps I understand you better than you think."
She glanced quickly up into his face,—a handsome face, frank and noble in its expression.
"Understand me?" she repeated; "I don't think any one understands me. Not that they are to blame—I am hardly worth the trouble, I suppose. I know," she continued, moved by an impulse to unburden her heart to some one, "I know that people are discussing and condemning183 me, and it does not trouble me at all to know it; but I don't mind saying this much to you." She caught the last two words back between her lips, but not before they had reached the young man's ears. He glanced quickly into her downcast face, with a look full of eager questioning; but this Thirza did not see, for she had turned her eyes away in confusion. "You know what my life has been," she went on impetuously. "I have never had any youth. Ever since I was a child, I have toiled184 to keep body and soul together. I have succeeded in feeding the one; but the other has starved. I have weighed everything in the balance. I am all alone in the world—all I had to live for is—up there." She pointed185 over her shoulder toward the old burying-ground. "I may be foolish,—even selfish and wicked,—but I can't help it! I am going[114] to leave everything behind me, all the work and all the worry, and give myself a holiday. For one whole year I am going to live—really live! After that, I can bear the old life better—perhaps!"
The girl was almost beautiful as she spoke, with the soft fire in her eyes and her cheeks aglow186. Her voice was sweet and full, and vibrated like a harp-string. The young man beside her did not look at her. He walked steadily187 forward, gazing straight down into the dusty road, and striking out almost savagely188 with his cane189 at the innocent heads of the white clover which crowded up to the road-side.
"I think I know how you feel," he said, after a while. "Why, do you know, I have often had such thoughts myself. Better one year of real life, as you say, than a century of dull routine!"
By this time they had reached the door of Thirza's boarding-house. There were faces at almost every window of the much-windowed establishment, to say nothing of those of the neighboring houses; but neither Thirza nor her companion was aware of this.
They stood on the steps a moment in silence; then he held out his hand. As she placed her own within it, she felt it tremble. Their eyes met, too, with a swift recognition, and a sharp, sweet pain went through her heart. She forced herself to turn her eyes away, and to say quietly:
[115]
"Good-evening and good-bye, Mr. Madison."
The young man dropped her hand and drew a quick breath.
"Good-bye, Thirza," he said; "may you find it all that you anticipate. Good-bye."
And the score or more pairs of inquisitive190 eyes at the surrounding windows saw young Mr. Madison walk calmly away, and Miss Bradford, with equal calmness, enter her boarding-house.
The next morning Thirza went away, and, the nine days' wonder being over, she was dropped almost as completely out of the thoughts and conversation of the people of Millburn as if she had never existed.
We will not accompany her on her travels. There was a time when we might have done so; but alas191, for the story-writer of to-day! Picture-galleries, palaces, and chalets, noble, peasant, and brigand192, gondolas193, volcanoes, and glaciers,—all are as common and familiar to the reader of the period as bonbons194. It is enough to say that Thirza wandered now in reality, as she had so often in fancy, through the storied scenes which had so charmed her imagination; often doubting if it were indeed herself, or if what she saw were not the baseless fabric195 of a vision, which the clanging of the factory bell might demolish196 at any moment.
Sue's astonishment when Thirza, after two months in England and Scotland, walked one day[116] into her apartment in Paris, quite unannounced, can be imagined. She wondered and conjectured197, but, as her unexpected guest was neither awkward nor badly dressed, accepted the situation gracefully198, and ended by really enjoying it. After delightful199 Paris days, came Italy, Germany, and Switzerland, and then more of Paris, and at last came a time when inexorable figures showed Thirza plainly that she must think of returning to America.
"Thirza," protested Sue, "you really mustn't go."
For answer Thirza held up to view a travel-stained porte-monnaie.
"Perhaps we can arrange it somehow," persisted her cousin, vaguely. "You might take a situation as governess, you know;" these words were uttered doubtfully, and with a deprecating glance at the face opposite.
"Thank you!" responded Thirza. "I don't feel a call in that direction. I think, on the whole, I'd prefer weaving cotton."
"Well, que voulez-vous?" responded her cousin, lightly; a quick ear would have noted201 the slight tremor202 in her voice. "I have had a glorious holiday."
"But the going back will be simply dreadful," persisted Sue. "I wish I were rich—then you shouldn't go!"
[117]
"I hardly think that would make any difference, my dear cousin. I don't think I am eminently203 fitted to become a parasite," laughed Thirza.
"Do you know what you are eminently fitted for?" cried Sue, energetically.
"Sue!" cried Thirza, warningly.
"I don't care," Sue continued, daringly; "you are so set on going back to America that I half suspect——"
"Don't, Sue, please!" interrupted Thirza, with such evident signs of genuine displeasure, that Sue, who stood somewhat in awe102 of her cousin, ceased to banter204, mentally vowing205 that she was "the queerest girl she had ever met with."
Thirza arose and went out into the flower-adorned balcony. She sought distraction206, but somehow the surging, chattering207 crowd in the street below, the brilliant illumination, the far-off strains of music, did not bring her what she sought.
"If only Sue wouldn't!" she reflected, and then, between her and the sea of heads, and the lights and the flowers rose a face—the face that had troubled her meditations209 on Jones' Hill, that had followed her in all her wanderings, the noble face, with its blue eyes bent210 upon her so earnestly, so eloquently211. Had she read aright, even if too late, the meaning of those eyes as they met hers at parting? The same sweet, sharp pain that was[118] not all pain, shot through her heart, and a consciousness of something blindly missed, something perversely212 thrown away, came over her. Sighing, she arose, and in response to Sue's call, went in and dressed for a gay party, in which, in her present mood, she felt neither pleasure nor interest. "If people here knew what a pitiful fraud I am—what a despicable part I am acting213!" she said to herself, as, well-dressed and handsome, she entered the brilliant salon214.
It was all over in a few days, and Thirza was sailing homeward as fast as wind and wave and steam could carry her. The year that had passed had brought little outward change in the girl. She looked fairer and fresher, perhaps, and certain little rusticities of dress and speech and manner had disappeared—worn off, as had the marks of toil from the palms of her slender hands. But to all intents and purposes, the tall figure in its close-fitting brown suit, which during the homeward voyage sat for the most part in the vessel's stern, gazing back over the foaming215 path, was the same which had watched a year before with equal steadiness from the steamer's bow. The very same, and yet—the girl often wondered if she were indeed the same, and lost herself in speculations as to how the old life at Millburn would seem to her now. She recalled with inflexible accuracy the details of her existence there, and tried to look her future[119] undauntedly in the face. But all her philosophy failed her when in imagination she found herself upon the threshold of the old mill. There, indeed, she faltered216 weakly, and turned back.
When at last, one evening in June, she stepped out of the train at the little station of Millburn, a crowd of bitter thoughts came rushing upon her, as if they had been lying in wait there to welcome her. She had informed no one of her coming, and it was not strange that no friendly face greeted her, and yet, as she pursued her way alone through the silent, unlighted streets, her heart grew faint within her. How poor and meagre everything seemed! The unpaved streets, the plank217 sidewalks, the wooden houses, and yonder, across the river, the great mills, looming grim and shapeless through the dusk! The long, glorious holiday was over—there lay her future.
Weary and sick at heart she entered her boarding-house. The old familiar aroma218 saluted219 her, the hard-featured landlady220 welcomed her with a feeble smile, the unwashed children with noisy demonstrations221.
Her room was at her disposal, and under the plea of fatigue she kept out of sight the whole of the succeeding day, which happened to be Sunday. She lay the greater part of the day upon the old lounge, looking round upon the well-known furnishings with a weary gaze. How small and[120] shabby the room, how hideous the wall paper, how mean and prosaic everything, and the very canaries in their cage had forgotten her, and screamed shrilly222 at her approach!
That was a long day—the longest of her life, she thought. But the girl was made of good stuff; she made a brave fight, and this time came off conqueror223. When Monday morning came, she arose and dressed herself in the old gray working suit, smiling back encouragement to her reflection in the glass as if it had been that of another person. There was no use in putting off the evil day, she said to herself, it would only make it harder; and so, when the great bells clanged out their harsh summons, she went out into the beautiful June morning, joined the crowd which streamed across the bridge, and before the last brazen224 tone had died away, preliminaries were arranged, and Thirza was in her old place again.
All through the long summer days Thirza labored225 on at the old work, with aching limbs and throbbing227 pulses. The unceasing din11 and jar, the invisible flying filaments228, the hot, oily atmosphere, the coarse chatter208 of the operatives, wearied and sickened her as never before. Every evening she left the mill with a slower step; deep lines began to show themselves in her face, heavy shadows to settle beneath her dark, sad eyes. Poor girl! it was all so much harder than she had anticipated.[121] The latent forces in her nature, which, through all those years of toil, had never been called into action, were now, since her plunge229 into another phase of life, fully aroused, and asserted themselves in ceaseless clamor against surroundings. Besides this,—smother it, fight it, ignore it, as she might,—she was living in a state of tremulous expectancy230. Again and again her heart had leaped at the sight of a figure in the distance, only to sink again into a dull throb226 of disappointment.
The fourth Sunday after her return, Thirza went to church for the first time. It was early when she arrived and people were just beginning to assemble. Many greeted her warmly and proffered her a seat, but she refused all, taking one far back, and at one side where she could see all who entered. The seats gradually filled, but it was not until the last strains of the voluntary were dying away that Madison, senior, the great manufacturer, and his large complacent-looking wife came in, and with an air of filling the whole edifice231, marched down to their pew in the front row. The music ceased. There was a rustling232 of silk which was audible in every part of the little church, and Warren Madison entered, accompanied by a stately blonde girl, elegantly attired. Queen-like she swept along, and Thirza saw, as if in a dream, the smile which she bestowed233 upon her escort as he stood aside to allow her to enter the pew, and she[122] saw also his face, looking handsomer and manlier234 than ever. Then they were seated, and only the backs of their heads were visible. Thirza's heart stood still for a moment, and then began beating so wildly that she almost feared those around her might hear it. She went through mechanically with the simple forms the service required. She even tried to follow the thread of the Rev85. Mr. Smyther's labored discourse235, but there, between her and the pulpit, were the nodding white plumes236 and the yellow braid, and the brown shapely head and broad shoulders, and oh! so near together! Interminable as the service seemed, it came to an end at last, and before the amen of the benediction237 had died upon the air, Thirza was in the street, hastening homeward.
The next day she stood at her loom, listlessly watching the shifting cloud-pictures in the midsummer sky, the glittering river, and the distant meadows and woods, and wishing herself away from the noise and the close air, and alone in some deep nook, where she could hide her face and think. A loud, confused mingling238 of voices, among which a high-pitched, girlish one was most conspicuous239, rose above the clatter240 of the machinery241, and drew her attention. She turned involuntarily toward the sound, and as quickly back again. That one glance had sufficed to show her Warren Madison, escorting a party of ladies[123] through the mill. The blonde girl was there, looking, in her white dress, like a freshly-gathered lily. The party passed near her. She heard young Madison's voice warning the ladies to keep their draperies from the machinery; she heard the girlish voice in laughing answer, and, as they passed by, the same voice exclaiming, "Why, Warren, what a nice girl, for a mill-girl! The dark one, I mean, by the window." Then there came a little whiff of violet perfume, and they had gone—he had gone! And, even in the midst of her humiliation and anger and self-pity, she could not but be thankful that he had thus passed her by, without a word. She could not have borne it—there.
The machinery roared and clattered242 and groaned, the air grew closer and hotter, the silvery clouds grew denser243 and blacker, and little puffs244 of wind blew in and fanned her feverish temples; and at last the bell sounded, and she could go. Away! no matter where, so that she were out of sight of everything and everybody, so that she could be alone with her own torn, wrathful, tortured soul. Straight through the town she went, up the hill beyond, and into the old burying-ground, where her parents rested. It was the only place, alas! where she was sure of being left alone; for there is no place so given over to loneliness and solitude245 as a country grave-yard. Here, among the quiet[124] sleepers246, where the grass and brier-roses grew rank and tall, and undisturbed, except now and then to make room for a new-comer,—here she dared look herself in the face. And oh, the shame and scorn and loathing247 which that self-inspection produced! She threw herself down by the graves,—her graves,—and buried her face upon her arms. She lay there until shadows gathered about her, so still that the small brown sparrows hopped248 fearlessly across the folds of her dress and nestled in the grass beside her. At last she started up, and pressed her hands against her temples.
"I cannot bear it!" she cried aloud. "I thought I could; but I cannot! I must leave this place—this hateful, dreadful place——"
Was there a footstep near her in the dry grass, and was some one standing there in the dusk? She sprang to her feet and would have fled; but the figure came rapidly toward her. It was Warren Madison.
"You must pardon my following you, Thirza," he said. "I went to the house, and they told me you had come up this way. I came after you, because I have something I must say to you."
It was light enough for Thirza to see that he was very pale, and that his eyes were fixed eagerly upon her face. Trembling, bewildered, she made another attempt to pass him; but he seized her wrist and detained her.
[125]
"Thirza," he cried, "do not run away from me until you have heard what I have to say. Let me look in your face, and see if I can find what I thought I saw there when we parted that evening, more than a year ago."
He drew her toward him, and compelled her to meet his gaze. She tried to meet it with coldness and scorn; but she was weak and unnerved, and there was such pleading tenderness in his voice! She trembled, and sought feebly to withdraw her hand.
"Thirza, won't you listen? I love you! I have loved you so long—I never knew it until you went away; I never knew how much until I saw you to-day. I did not even know you had returned. Oh, Thirza, I could not have spoken a word to you before those people for worlds; but how I longed to snatch you up in my arms! If you had only looked at me, proud little statue in a gray dress!"
He compelled her to turn her face toward him.
"Thirza, was I mistaken? No, I was not!" and his voice was full of exultation. "I see the same look in your eyes again. You love me, my darling! There!" he cried, releasing her hands, "proud, cruel little woman, go! Leave me! Run away from me! I do not keep you; but, Thirza, you are mine, for all that!"
Hardly conscious of herself, Thirza stood before him, making no use of her liberty.
[126]
"Come, Thirza," said the shaking, passionate249 voice, "leave all the work and all the worry—your own words, darling; how often I have thought of them! Leave it all behind, and come here, to me!"
The clouds had parted, and the stars flamed out, one after another; and, as they were going home together through the starlight, the young man said:
"And did you live the 'real life' you anticipated, Thirza?"
She raised her shining face to his.
"It has just begun," she said.
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1
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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2
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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4
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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5
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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6
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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7
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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8
picturesqueness
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9
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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10
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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11
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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12
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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13
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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14
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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15
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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16
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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17
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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18
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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19
grudgingly
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20
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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21
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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22
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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23
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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24
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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26
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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27
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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28
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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29
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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30
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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31
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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32
yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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33
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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34
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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36
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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37
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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38
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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39
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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40
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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41
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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42
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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43
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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44
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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45
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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46
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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47
monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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50
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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51
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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52
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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53
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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54
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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55
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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56
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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57
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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58
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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59
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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60
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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61
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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62
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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63
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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64
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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65
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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66
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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67
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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68
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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69
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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70
attired
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| 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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71
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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72
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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73
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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74
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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75
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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76
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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77
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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78
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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79
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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80
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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81
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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82
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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83
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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84
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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85
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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86
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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87
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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89
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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90
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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91
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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92
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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93
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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94
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
gasped
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|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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96
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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97
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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98
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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99
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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100
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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101
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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102
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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103
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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104
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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105
hitched
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|
| （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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106
bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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107
spoke
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|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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108
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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109
abscond
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| v.潜逃，逃亡 | |
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110
imperturbability
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| n.冷静；沉着 | |
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111
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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112
elucidated
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| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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114
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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115
mitten
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| n.连指手套，露指手套 | |
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116
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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117
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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118
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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119
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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120
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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121
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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122
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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123
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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124
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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125
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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126
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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127
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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128
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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129
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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130
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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131
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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132
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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133
motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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134
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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135
invalidism
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| 病弱，病身； 伤残 | |
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136
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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137
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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138
despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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139
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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140
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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141
aloof
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|
| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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142
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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143
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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144
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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145
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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146
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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147
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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148
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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149
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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151
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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152
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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153
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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154
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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155
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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156
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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157
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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159
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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160
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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162
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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163
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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164
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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165
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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166
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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167
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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168
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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169
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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170
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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171
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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172
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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173
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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174
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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175
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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176
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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177
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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178
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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179
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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180
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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181
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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183
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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184
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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185
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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186
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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187
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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188
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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189
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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190
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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191
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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192
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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193
gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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194
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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195
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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196
demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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197
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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199
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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200
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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201
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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202
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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203
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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204
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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206
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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207
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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208
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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209
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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210
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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211
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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212
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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213
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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214
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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215
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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216
faltered
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| （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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217
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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218
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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219
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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220
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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221
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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222
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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223
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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224
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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225
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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226
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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227
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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228
filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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229
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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230
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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232
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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233
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
manlier
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| manly（有男子气概的）的比较级形式 | |
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235
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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236
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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237
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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238
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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239
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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240
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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241
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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242
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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243
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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244
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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245
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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246
sleepers
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| 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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247
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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248
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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249
passionate
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| 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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