In the earth they laid John Aggett, at the junction6 of cross-roads not far from his mother’s home; and they handled his clay roughly and, cutting a blackthorn stake from the tree by his cottage door, buried the man with old-time indignities7 and set no mark upon his grave.
For two years Sarah and Timothy were strangers after that night; then Farmer Chave passed to his ancestors and Tim found himself lord of Bellever p. 109Barton and a free man. In course of time he won the girl back—indeed little effort was needed to do so. Their wedded8 life is not recorded and may be supposed to have passed peacefully away. A son’s son now reigns9 in the place of his yeoman fathers; and his grandparents lie together under the grass of Widecombe churchyard. There, for fifty years an antique monument has risen above them, and a fat cherub10 puffed12 at a posthorn; but to-day gold lichens13 threaten to obliterate14 the manifold virtues15 of Timothy Chave and his lady as set forth16 on slanting17 stone.
And the other man rests lonely under the sloe tree; for its green wood grew and flourished to the amazement18 of those who set it there. Yet the purple harvest of that haggard and time-fretted thorn men still bid their children leave upon the bough20; for the roots of it wind in the dust of the unholy dead, and to gather the flower or pluck the fruit would be to beckon21 sorrow.
p. 111‘CORBAN’
p. 113“’Tis a question which to drown,” said Mr. Sage22.
He smoked his churchwarden and looked down between his knees where a mother cat was gazing up at him with green eyes. She purred, rolled half on her back and opened and contracted her forepaws with pleasure, while she suckled two kittens.
Mr. Sage’s daughter—a maiden23 of twelve—begged him to spare both squeaking24 dabs25 of life.
“They’m so like as two peas, faither—braave li’l chets both. Doan’t ’e drown wan26 of ’em,” she said.
“Thicky cat’s been very generous of chets in her time,” declared Mr. Sage. “If such things had ghostesses, you might see a whole regiment27 of ’em—black an’ white, tabby an’ tortoiseshell—down-along by the river come dark.”
“Even I shouldn’t be feared of a chet’s ghostie,” declared little Milly Sage.
But she had her way. One kitten, when it could face the world alone, was given to a friend who dwelt some miles distant at Princetown; the other grew into a noble tom of bold tabby design and genial28 disposition29. His mother, feeling him to be p. 114her masterpiece, passed gently out of life soon after her son reached cat’s estate. She had done her duty to the feline30 community, and Milly mourned for her a whole week. But Mr. Sage did not mourn. He much preferred the young tom, and between the cat and the old man, as years passed by, there waxed a friendship of remarkable31 character.
“I call un ‘Corban,’” said Mr. Sage, “’cause he was a gift—a gift from my little girl when she was a little ’un. ’Twas her own ram32 cat, you mind, but as the creature growed up, it took that tender to me that Milly said as it must be mine; an’ mine ’tis; an’ what he’d do wi’out me, or what I’d do wi’out he, be blessed if I know.”
He spoke33 to his next-door neighbour and personal crony, Amos Oldreive, a gamekeeper and river-watcher for many years. Now this man was honourably34 retired35, with a small pension and a great rheumatism36, the reward of many a damp night on behalf of the salmon37 in Dart38’s ancient stream.
At Postbridge these old people dwelt—a hamlet in the heart of Dartmoor—a cluster of straggling cots beside the name-river of that region, where its eastern branch comes tumbling through the shaggy fens40 beneath Cut Hill. Here an elderly, disused, packhorse bridge crosses Dart, but the main road spans its stream upon a modern arch p. 115hard by. The lives of Sage and Oldreive had passed within twenty miles of this spot. The keeper knew every tor of the waste, together with the phases of the seasons, and the natural history of each bird and beast and fish sacred to sporting. His friend’s days were also spent in this desolate41 region, and both ancients, when necessity or occasion drove them into towns, felt the houses pressing upon their eyes and crushing their foreheads and the air choking them. At such times they did their business with all speed, and so returned in thankfulness to the beech-tree grove42, the cottages and those meadowlands of Postbridge by Dart, all circled and cradled in the hills.
Noah Sage and his next-door neighbour quarrelled thrice daily, and once daily made up their differences over a glass of spirit and water, sometimes consumed in one cottage, sometimes in the other. Their conditions were very similar. Noah had an only daughter; Amos, an only son; and each old man, though both had married late in life, was a widower43.
The lad and lass, thus thrown together, came naturally to courtship, and it was a matter understood and accepted that they should marry when young Ted5 Oldreive could show a pound a week. The course of true love progressed uneventfully. Milly was plain, if good health, good temper and p. 116happy, honest eyes can be plain; while Ted, a sand-coloured and steady youth of a humble44 nature, leaning naturally upon distinction of classes for his peace of mind, had not a rival or an enemy in the world. Mr. Sage held him a promising45 husband for Milly, and Ted’s master, appreciating the man’s steadfast46 qualities, gave promise of the desired number of shillings weekly when Ted should have laboured for another six months at the Vitifer tin mines near his home.
Little of a sort to set down concerning these admirable folks had arisen but for the circumstance of the cat ‘Corban.’ Yet, when that beast had reached the ripe age of eight years and was still a thing of beauty and a cat of mark at Postbridge, he sowed the seeds of strife47, wrecked48 two homes, and threatened seriously to interfere49 with the foundation of a third.
It happened thus: gaffer Oldreive, by reason of increasing infirmities, found it necessary to abandon those tramps on the high Moor39 that he loved, and to occupy his time and energies nearer home. Therefore he started the rearing of young pheasants upon half an acre of land pertaining50 to his lease-hold cottage. The old man built his own coops and bred his own hens, as he proudly declared. Good money was to be made by one who knew how to solve the difficulties of the business, and with greatly revived p. 117interest in life, Amos bought pheasants’ eggs and henceforth spent his time among his coops and foster mothers. The occupation rendered him egotistical, and his friend secretly regretted it; nor would he do likewise when urged to make a similar experiment.
“Doan’t want no birds my side the wall,” he said. “I’ve got a brave pig or two as’ll goody into near so much money as your pheysants; an’ theer’s ‘Corban,’ he’d make short work of any such things as chicks.”
Oldreive nodded over the party wall and glanced, not without suspicion, at ‘Corban,’ who chanced to be present.
“Let ’em taste game an’ it grows ’pon ’em like drink ’pon a human,” he said.
‘Corban’ stretched his thighs51, cleaned his claws on a block of firewood, and feigned52 indifference53. As a matter of fact, this big tabby tom knew all about the young pheasants; and Mr. Oldreive knew that he knew.
Sage, on the other hand, with an experience of the beast extending from infancy54, through green youth to ripe prime, took it upon him to say that this cat was trustworthy, high-minded and actuated by motives56 he had never seen equalled for loftiness, even in a dog.
The old keeper snorted from his side of the wall.
p. 118“A dog! You wouldn’t compare thicky, green-eyed snake wi’ a dog, would ’e?”
“Not me,” answered the other. “No dog ever I knawed was worthy55 to wash his face for un. An’ he’m no more a green-eyed snake than your spaniel, though a good deal more of a gen’leman.”
“Us won’t argue it then, for I never knawed any use for cats myself but to plant at the root of a fruit-bearin’ tree,” said Mr. Oldreive, cynically57.
“An’ I never seed no use for dogs, ’cept to keep gen’lefolks out of mischief,” answered Sage, who was a radical58 and no sportsman. He puffed, and grew a little red as he spoke.
Here, and thus, arose a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. Noah Sage stumped59 indoors to his daughter, while ‘Corban’ followed with pensive60 step and a general air as though one should say, “I forgive, but I can’t forget.”
Three days later Mr. Oldreive looked over the wall, and his neighbour saw him, and put a hasty foot on some feathers.
“Marnin’, Sage. Look here—what I wants to knaw be, whether your blasted cat have took wan o’ my phaysants, or whether he haven’t?”
“Might have, might not, Amos. Better ax un. Here he be.”
Green-eyed innocence61 marked the fat round face of ‘Corban.’ He leapt upon the wall and saluted62 p. 119the breeder of pheasants with open-hearted friendship.
“What be onder your heel, neighbour?”
“Why—a bit of rabbit’s flax ’twas, I think. My sight ban’t so good as of old nowadays.”.
“Rabbit’s flax! ’Tis a phaysant’s feathers! Get away, you hookem-snivey Judas, or I’ll hit ’e over the chops!”
This last threat concerned ‘Corban,’ who was rubbing his whiskers against Mr. Oldreive’s waistcoat.
The ancient Sage puffed out his cheeks and grew as red as a rose.
“Ban’t the way to speak to any respectable, well-thought-upon domestic animal, an’ you knaw it, Amos.”
“Domestic!” echoed Mr. Oldreive, bitterly. “About so domestic as a auld63 red fox I sent off wi’ a flea64 in his ear two nights since. Domestic! He pretends to be to gain his private ends. Just a savage65, cruel, awnself [119] beast of prey66, an’ no better. Can’t shutt foxes, ’cause they’m the backbone67 of England; but I can shutt cats an’—an’—”
“Stop theer!” roared the other ancient. He trembled with passion; his under jaw chattered68; he lifted his legs up and down and cracked the joints69 of his fingers.
“To think I’ve knawed ’e all these years an’ never p. 120seed through to the devilish nature of ’e! ’Tis sporting as makes men all the same—no better’n heathen savages70.”
The other kept calm before this shattering criticism.
“Whether or no, I doan’t breed these here phaysants for fun, nor yet for your cat’s eatin’. No call to quarrel, I should hope. But keep un his own side the wall if you please, else he’s like to have an onrestful time. I give ’e fair warning.”
“Perhaps you’d wish for me to chain un up?”
“Might be better—for him if you did.”
“I doan’t want you in my house to-night,” said the owner of ‘Corban’ suddenly. “You’ve shook me. You’ve shook a friendship of more’n fifty year standing71, Amos Oldreive, an’ I can’t abear to look upon your face again to-day.”
“More shame to you, Noah Sage! If you reckon your mangy cat be more to you than a gude Christian72 neighbour, say so. But I ban’t gwaine to fall down an’ worship thicky varmint—no, not for twenty men, so now you knaw.”
“So much for friendship then,” answered Noah Sage, wagging his head.
“So much for a silly auld fool,” replied Amos Oldreive, rather rudely; and they left it at that, and each turned his back upon his neighbour.
Not a word was exchanged between them for three days; then the keeper sent in a message by p. 121Milly, who trembled before her parent as she delivered it.
“Mr. Oldreive sez that ‘Corban’ have killed two more of his li’l game-birds, faither. An’ he sez that if so be as he goes for to catch puss in theer again, he’ll shutt un! Doan’t ’e look so grievous gallied, dear faither! I’m sure he never could do it after bein’ your friend fifty year, though certainly he was cleanin’ his gun when he spoke to me.”
“Shutt the cat! If he do, the world shall ring with it, God’s my judge! Shutt my cat—red-handed, blood-sucking ruffian! Shutt my cat; an’ then think to marry his ginger-headed son to my darter! Never! the bald pelican73. You tell him that if a hair o’ my cat be singed74 by his beastly fowling-piece, I’ll blaze it from here to Moretonhampstead—ess fay, I will, an’ lock him up, an’ you shan’t marry his Ted neither. Shutt my—Lord! to think as that man have been trusted by me for half a century! I cream all down my spine75 to picture his black heart. Guy Fawkes be a Christian gen’leman to un. Here! ‘Corban’! ‘Corban’! ‘Corban’! Wheer be you to, cat? Come here, caan’t ’e, my purty auld dear?”
He stormed off, and Milly, her small eyes grown troubled and her lips drawn76 down somewhat, hastened to tell Ted Oldreive the nature of this dreadful discourse77.
p. 122“He took it very unkid,” she said. “Caan’t deny as poor faither was strung up to a high pitch by it. Such obstinate78, saucy79 auld sillies as both be. An’ if faither’s cat do come to harm, worse will follow, for he swears I shan’t have ’e if Mr. Oldreive does anything short an’ sharp wi’ ‘Corban.’”
Ted scratched his sandy locks as a way to let in light upon slow brains.
“’Tis very ill-convenient as your cat will eat faither’s game-birds,” he said; “but knawin’ the store your auld man sets by the gert hulkin’ tabby, I’m sure my auld man never would ackshually go for to shutt un.”
“If he does, ’tis all off betwixt you an’ me—gospel truth. Faither’s a man as stands to his word through thunder,” declared Milly. “An’ I ban’t of age yet, so he can keep me from you, an’ he will if Mr. Oldreive kills ‘Corban.’”
“Tu late for that,” answered Ted, very positively80. “The banns was up last Sunday, as your faither well knaws. An’ who be he to stand against an anointed clergyman in the house of the Lard? Us was axed out to Princetown for the first time last Sunday; an’ I get my pound a week after midsummer, as I’ve told your faither. Then us’ll take that cottage ’pon top of Merripit Hill, an’ auld men must fight theer awn battles, an’ us shall be out o’ earshot, thank God.”
p. 123“Us be meeting trouble halfway81, I hope,” she answered. “I’m sure I’ll keep a eye ’pon ‘Corban’ day an’ night so far as I can; but you knaw what a cat is. They’ve got theer own ideas an’ theer own affairs to look arter. Why, if you set p’liceman ’pon ’em, they’d only laugh at un. ‘Corban’s’ a cat as be that independent in his ways. He’ll brook82 no meddlin’ with—’specially of a night.”
“Well caution un, for he’ve got a ’mazin’ deal of sense. I hope he won’t be overbold for his skin’s sake, ’cause my faither’s every bit so much a man of his word as Mr. Sage; an’ what he says he’ll stick to. He’ve had to shutt a gude few score o’ cats in his business; an’ he’ll add your tabby to the reckoning, sure as Judgement, if any more of his phaysants be stolen.”
Thus, with common gloom of mind, the lovers separated and the clouds thickened around them. Their parents were no longer upon speaking terms, and tragedy hung heavy on the air. Then, in the deep and dewy silence of a June night, with Dart murmuring under the moon and the new-born foliage84 of the beech trees whispering their silky song, there burst upon the nocturnal peace vile85 uproar86 of gunpowder87. Somebody had fired a gun, and the noise of it woke a thousand echoes and leapt with reverberations thrice repeated along the stone crowns of Hartland and Stannon and huge Broad Down.
p. 124Gaffer Sage rushed to his window, but could see nothing more than a puff11 of white smoke rising lazily under the moon. Trembling with dark misgivings88, he crept back to bed, but slept no more. ‘Corban’ usually came to the old man’s chamber89 at dawn, when Milly opened the house; but though she was stirring before five o’clock on the following morning, no ‘Corban’ bolted into the cottage when she unbarred the door; no familiar friend padded and purred “Good morning” to Mr. Sage; neither did ‘Corban’ appear at breakfast—a course very unusual with him.
Noah could not eat his meal for anxiety. He pushed away his tea, rose and walked into the garden. Upon the other side of the wall Amos Oldreive was casting grain to his young pheasants.
“Where’s my cat to?” asked Noah Sage, bluntly. “I heard your gun explode last night. Did you shutt un? I’ve a right to knaw.”
Mr. Oldreive was clearly nervous and ill at ease, his sallow face needing wiping before he replied. But his eyes shone defiance90; he pointed91 at the pheasants ere he answered.
“A month ago there was four dozen of ’em,” he said; “now theer be ezacally three dozen an’ two. An’ as for your cat, maybe I have shutt un, an’ maybe I have not, so now.”
“You ought to be stringed up for it, you grizzly92, p. 125auld, crook-back coward! I knaw very well you done it; an’ you’ll awnly be sorry once, and that’s for ever. Doan’t suppose you’ve heard the last of this. But I must take thought afore I gets upsides with you.”
He turned, went into the house and spoke to Milly. The man had aged83 strangely in five minutes, his voice grew squeaky and unsteady.
“He’ve—he’ve shutt un. He’ve shutt my cat!”
Then Mr. Sage took his stick an’ walked out upon the Moor to reflect and to consider what his life would be without his treasure. He wept a little, for he was not a man of strong intellect. Then his painful tears were scorched93 up, and he breathed threatenings and slaughter94.
He tramped back to Postbridge with a mind made up, and bawled95 his determination over the party-wall at Amos Oldreive’s back.
“Your son shan’t have my darter now—not if he travels on his naked knees from here to Exeter for her. No darter of mine shall marry the child of a dirty murderer! That’s what you be; an’ all men shall knaw it; an’ I pray God your birds’ll get the pip to the last one among ’em, an’ come they grows, I pray God they’ll choke the man as eats ’em; an’ if I weern’t so auld an’ so weak in the loins, be gormed if I wouldn’t come over the wall p. 126this minute an’ wring96 your skinny neck, you cruel, unlawful beast!”
Mr. Oldreive looked round and cast one glance at a spot ten yards’ distant, where the black earth looked as though newly upturned, near an apple tree. But he said not a word, only spat97 on his hands and proceeded with his digging.
A dreadful week passed, and Mr. Sage’s mingled98 emotions and misfortunes resulted in an attack of gout. He remained singularly silent under this trial, but once broke into activity and his usual vigour99 of speech when his old friend sent him a dozen good trout100 from Dart, and a hope that his neighbour would let bygones be bygones. These excellent fish, despite his foot, Mr. Sage flung one by one through his bedroom window into Amos Oldreive’s front garden; for what were trout to him with no ‘Corban’ to share them?
Behind the scenes of this tragedy Ted and Milly dwelt dismally101 on their own future. He clung to it that if the banns could but be asked a third time without interference, Mr. Sage was powerless; Milly, however, believed that she knew better.
“I be only eighteen,” she explained, “an’ faither’s my guardian102 to do as he will with me until I come of age.”
So they were troubled in secret until a sudden and amazing solution to the great problem came within p. 127a week of ‘Corban’s’ exit. The only apparent way to be Ted’s wife was opened through lying, and Milly rose to the necessary heights of untruth without a pang103. She felt that good must come of her evil conduct—good not only to herself, but to her unhappy father. His bereavement104 had cost him dear. He still preserved a great, tragical105 silence, but from time to time hinted of far-reaching deeds when his foot should be strong enough to bear him up.
There came a day when Milly walked to Princetown, and, entering into the house of certain friends there, rubbed her eyes and stood astounded106 and open-mouthed before the spectacle of ‘Corban.’ It was no feline apparition107 that she saw, but a live cat, with bold tabby markings of alternate rabbit-brown and black—a cat with strong, flat nose, cold and healthy; four good, well-defined tiers of whisker on either side of his countenance108; green eyes, that twinkled like the twin lamps of a little train when seen by night, and a tail of just proportion and brave carriage.
“Lard save us!” cried Milly; “however did ’e come by this here cat, Mrs. Veale? I had Mr. Oldreive’s own sacred word as he’d shutt un dead an’ buried un onder his apple tree.”
“That’s our butivul puss; an’ you should knaw how us come by it if anybody do, my dear, for you p. 128bringed it here in a basket from Postbridge when you was a li’l maid six year agone.”
Milly’s active mind was working too rapidly to allow of any reply for some moments. Then she told Mrs. Veale of the recent tribulation109 at home, and in ten minutes an obvious plot was hatched between them.
“’Tis a peace-loving cat, an’ if you butter its paws an’ treat it a bit generous in the matter of food, ’twill very likely settle down along with you. Of course, you shall have un for such a Christian purpose as to bring them two dear auld men together again. An’ the more cheese you can spare un, the more like he is to bide110 with you.”
So Mrs. Veale; and Milly answered:—
“‘Corban’ was fond o’ cheese, tu, an’ his mother afore him! ’Twas a family failing, no doubt.”
She scanned the cat narrowly and it mistook her attention for admiration111, and purred in a soft, guttural, elderly way, and bent112 itself into a bow against her knee and showed much natural goodness.
“So like t’other as two peas!” declared Milly, not remembering that she had made exactly the same remark when this cat and its late brother were born. “Faither’s sight ban’t strong enough to part ’em if awnly this one behaves well,” she added.
It was decided113 that the girl should come early on Sunday morning for her tabby peacemaker, and p. 129meantime Mr. Oldreive and his son were to be acquainted with the plot. As for Amos, he was an easy man, and had not slain114 his neighbour’s poaching cat excepting under grave provocation115. Ever since the deed he had regretted it, but he had never confessed to the actual crime excepting in the ears of Milly and Ted. Nobody had officially announced the death of his cat to Mr. Sage. Therefore, Milly hoped he would accept the stranger as his own, and suffer peace to return amongst them. The Oldreives, much cowed by Noah’s attitude and frightened by his illness, gladly promised to do all they might for his daughter, and when Sunday came, she started for Princetown after an early breakfast and left her father behind her. He was in better health again, and she noticed, as an unusual circumstance, that he appeared very full of his own affairs upon that morning, and clearly desired her room more than her company.
With a heavy basket she set off homeward by nine o’clock. Inside the wickerwork a new ‘Corban,’ after protesting once or twice at the narrowness of its quarters, curled round nose to tail, abandoned itself to the freaks of chance and digested an ample breakfast.
But midway between Princetown and Postbridge, where the road traversed the high Moor and stretched like a white thread between granite116 hills p. 130and glimmering117 marsh-lands, from whence the breeding plover118 called, Milly nearly dropped her basket. For along the way, in a borrowed market-cart behind his own brown pony119, came her father.
“Why, where on airth be you drivin’ to, my auld dear?” she asked; and Mr. Sage, puffing120 and growing very red, made answer:—
“I be gwaine up-long to Princetown to holy worship.”
Now this was an action absolutely unparalleled. “To church! What for?”
“If you must knaw, ’tis that I may forbid your banns wi’ Ted Oldreive. No use to fret19 nor cry. I be firm as a rock ’pon it; an’ I be gwaine to deny them banns afore the face of the Lord an’ the people.”
“Why ever should ’e do such a cruel thing, dear faither?”
“Because no blood o’ mine be gwaine to mix wi’ that murdering villain’s.”
“He never told you he shot ‘Corban.’”
“D’you doubt it? Don’t the whole of Dartmoor know it?”
“Let me get up in the cart an’ sit beside you,” said Milly. “I want for you to look in this here basket.”
She leapt from the step to the driving-seat beside her father; then opened the basket. Grateful for p. 131this sudden light and air, her burden gazed out, yawned, showed perfect teeth, black lips, and a pink mouth; then jumping boldly on to Mr. Sage’s scanty121 lap, rubbed against him and purred deeply, while its upright tail brushed his chin.
“God’s goodness!” cried the old man, and nearly fell out into the road.
“Somebody must have took un to Princetown,” said Milly, outwardly calm though her heart beat hard. “Theer I found un none the worse, poor twoad. Now he’s twice ‘Corban,’ dear faither, an’ twice my gift to ’e.”
The old man was entirely122 deceived, as anybody even of keen sight might well have been. The curious friendship of the cat also aided his delusion123. He stroked it, and it stood up and put its front paws upon his necktie and rubbed noses.
“Glory be! Now us’ll go home-along,” said Mr. Sage.
His dim eyes were dimmer for tears; but he could not take them off the creature. His hands also held it close. Milly picked up the reins124 and turned the brown pony homeward, much to his surprise and joy.
And ‘Corban’ II., as though ’specially directed by Providence125, played its part nobly, and maintained the imposition. Mr. Sage begged Amos Oldreive’s pardon, and Amos, for his part, calmed his p. 132conscience by assuring Noah that henceforth his cat was more than welcome to a young pheasant whenever it had a mind to one. A little strangeness on the part of the returned wanderer seemed natural in Mr. Sage’s opinion. That he had apparently126 developed one or two new habits was also reasonable in a cat with as much new experience of the world. And meantime the wedding preparations were pushed on.
At the end of the week Ted Oldreive came home from Vitifer for Sunday; and he expressed joy at the sight of ‘Corban,’ once more the glory of his old haunts.
But the young man’s face changed when Noah and the cat had departed in company, and a look of frank alarm made Milly tremble before danger.
“Why, what’s amiss, sweetheart?” she asked, nervously127. “All danger be past now, an’ the creature’s settled down as homely128 an’ pleasant as need be.”
“Matter enough,” said Ted; “’tis a ewe cat!”
“A ewe cat! Oh, Ted, doan’t say that!”
“’Tis so; an’ God send her doan’t have chets ’fore we’m married, else Postbridge won’t hold your dear faither—nor Dartymoor neither.”
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1
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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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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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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12
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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16
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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17
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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18
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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19
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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20
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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21
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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22
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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23
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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24
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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25
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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26
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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27
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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28
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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29
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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30
feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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31
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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32
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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33
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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34
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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35
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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36
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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37
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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38
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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39
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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40
fens
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| n.（尤指英格兰东部的）沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
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41
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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42
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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43
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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44
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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45
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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46
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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47
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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48
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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49
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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50
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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51
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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52
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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53
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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54
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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55
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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56
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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57
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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58
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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59
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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60
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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61
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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62
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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63
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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64
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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65
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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66
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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67
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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68
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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69
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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70
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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71
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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72
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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73
pelican
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| n.鹈鹕，伽蓝鸟 | |
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74
singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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75
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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76
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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77
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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78
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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79
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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80
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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81
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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82
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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83
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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84
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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85
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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86
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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87
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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88
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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89
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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90
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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91
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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92
grizzly
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| adj.略为灰色的，呈灰色的；n.灰色大熊 | |
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93
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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94
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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95
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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96
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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97
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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98
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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99
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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100
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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101
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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102
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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103
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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104
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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105
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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106
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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107
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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108
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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109
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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110
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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111
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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112
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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113
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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114
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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115
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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116
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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117
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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118
plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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119
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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120
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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121
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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122
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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123
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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124
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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125
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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126
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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127
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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128
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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