Lucian was growing really anxious about his manuscript. He had gained enough experience at twenty-three to know that editors and publishers must not be hurried; but his book had been lying at Messrs Beit’s office for more than three months. For six weeks he had not dared to expect an answer, but afterwards life had become agonizing1. Every morning, at post-time, the poor wretch2 nearly choked with anxiety to know whether his sentence had arrived, and the rest of the day was racked with alternate pangs4 of hope and despair. Now and then he was almost assured of success; conning5 over these painful and eager pages in memory, he found parts that were admirable, while again, his inexperience reproached him, and he feared he had written a raw and awkward book, wholly unfit for print. Then he would compare what he remembered of it with notable magazine articles and books praised by reviewers, and fancy that after all there might be good points in the thing; he could not help liking6 the first chapter for instance. Perhaps the letter might come tomorrow. So it went on; week after week of sick torture made more exquisite7 by such gleams of hope; it was as if he were stretched in anguish8 on the rack, and the pain relaxed and kind words spoken now and again by the tormentors, and then once more the grinding pang3 and burning agony. At last he could bear suspense10 no longer, and he wrote to Messrs Beit, inquiring in a humble11 manner whether the manuscript had arrived in safety. The firm replied in a very polite letter, expressing regret that their reader had been suffering from a cold in the head, and had therefore been unable to send in his report. A final decision was promised in a week’s time, and the letter ended with apologies for the delay and a hope that he had suffered no inconvenience. Of course the “final decision” did not come at the end of the week, but the book was returned at the end of three weeks, with a circular thanking the author for his kindness in submitting the manuscript, and regretting that the firm did not see their way to producing it. He felt relieved; the operation that he had dreaded12 and deprecated for so long was at last over, and he would no longer grow sick of mornings when the letters were brought in. He took his parcel to the sunny corner of the garden, where the old wooden seat stood sheltered from the biting March winds. Messrs Beit had put in with the circular one of their short lists, a neat booklet, headed: Messrs Beit & Co.‘s Recent Publications.
He settled himself comfortably on the seat, lit his pipe, and began to read: “A Bad Un to Beat: a Novel of Sporting Life, by the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede, author of Yoicks, With the Mudshire Pack, The Sportleigh Stables, etc., etc., 3 vols. At all Libraries.” The Press, it seemed, pronounced this to be a “charming book. Mrs. Runnymede has wit and humor enough to furnish forth13 half-a-dozen ordinary sporting novels.” “Told with the sparkle and vivacity14 of a past-mistress in the art of novel writing,” said the Review; while Miranda, of Smart Society, positively15 bubbled with enthusiasm. “You must forgive me, Aminta,” wrote this young person, “if I have not sent the description I promised of Madame Lulu’s new creations and others of that ilk. I must a tale unfold; Tom came in yesterday and began to rave16 about the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede’s last novel, A Bad Un to Beat. He says all the Smart Set are talking of it, and it seems the police have to regulate the crowd at Mudie’s. You know I read everything Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I set out Miggs directly to beg, borrow or steal a copy, and I confess I burnt the midnight oil before I laid it down. Now, mind you get it, you will find it so awfully17 chic18.” Nearly all the novelists on Messrs Beit’s list were ladies, their works all ran to three volumes, and all of them pleased the Press, the Review, and Miranda of Smart Society. One of these books, Millicent’s Marriage, by Sarah Pocklington Sanders, was pronounced fit to lie on the school-room table, on the drawing-room bookshelf, or beneath the pillow of the most gently nurtured19 of our daughters. “This,” the reviewer went on, “is high praise, especially in these days when we are deafened20 by the loud-voiced clamor of self-styled ‘artists.’ We would warn the young men who prate21 so persistently22 of style and literature, construction and prose harmonies, that we believe the English reading public will have none of them. Harmless amusement, a gentle flow of domestic interest, a faithful reproduction of the open and manly24 life of the hunting field, pictures of innocent and healthy English girlhood such as Miss Sanders here affords us; these are the topics that will always find a welcome in our homes, which remain bolted and barred against the abandoned artist and the scrofulous stylist.”
He turned over the pages of the little book and chuckled25 in high relish26; he discovered an honest enthusiasm, a determination to strike a blow for the good and true that refreshed and exhilarated. A beaming face, spectacled and whiskered probably, an expansive waistcoat, and a tender heart, seemed to shine through the words which Messrs Beit had quoted; and the alliteration27 of the final sentence; that was good too; there was style for you if you wanted it. The champion of the blushing cheek and the gushing28 eye showed that he too could handle the weapons of the enemy if he cared to trouble himself with such things. Lucian leant back and roared with indecent laughter till the tabby tom-cat who had succeeded to the poor dead beasts looked up reproachfully from his sunny corner, with a face like the reviewer’s, innocent and round and whiskered. At last he turned to his parcel and drew out some half-dozen sheets of manuscript, and began to read in a rather desponding spirit; it was pretty obvious, he thought, that the stuff was poor and beneath the standard of publication. The book had taken a year and a half in the making; it was a pious29 attempt to translate into English prose the form and mystery of the domed30 hills, the magic of occult valleys, the sound of the red swollen31 brook32 swirling33 through leafless woods. Day-dreams and toil34 at nights had gone into the eager pages, he had labored36 hard to do his very best, writing and rewriting, weighing his cadences37, beginning over and over again, grudging38 no patience, no trouble if only it might be pretty good; good enough to print and sell to a reading public which had become critical. He glanced through the manuscript in his hand, and to his astonishment39, he could not help thinking that in its measure it was decent work. After three months his prose seemed fresh and strange as if it had been wrought40 by another man, and in spite of himself he found charming things, and impressions that were not commonplace. He knew how weak it all was compared with his own conceptions; he had seen an enchanted41 city, awful, glorious, with flame smitten42 about its battlements, like the cities of the Sangraal, and he had molded his copy in such poor clay as came to his hand; yet, in spite of the gulf43 that yawned between the idea and the work, he knew as he read that the thing accomplished44 was very far from a failure. He put back the leaves carefully, and glanced again at Messrs Beit’s list. It had escaped his notice that A Bad Un to Beat was in its third three-volume edition. It was a great thing, at all events, to know in what direction to aim, if he wished to succeed. If he worked hard, he thought, he might some day win the approval of the coy and retiring Miranda of Smart Society; that modest maiden45 might in his praise interrupt her task of disinterested46 advertisement, her philanthropic counsels to “go to Jumper’s, and mind you ask for Mr. C. Jumper, who will show you the lovely blue paper with the yellow spots at ten shillings the piece.” He put down the pamphlet, and laughed again at the books and the reviewers: so that he might not weep. This then was English fiction, this was English criticism, and farce47, after all, was but an ill-played tragedy.
The rejected manuscript was hidden away, and his father quoted Horace’s maxim48 as to the benefit of keeping literary works for some time “in the wood.” There was nothing to grumble49 at, though Lucian was inclined to think the duration of the reader’s catarrh a little exaggerated. But this was a trifle; he did not arrogate50 to himself the position of a small commercial traveler, who expects prompt civility as a matter of course, and not at all as a favor. He simply forgot his old book, and resolved that he would make a better one if he could. With the hot fit of resolution, the determination not to be snuffed out by one refusal upon him, he began to beat about in his mind for some new scheme. At first it seemed that he had hit upon a promising51 subject; he began to plot out chapters and scribble52 hints for the curious story that had entered his mind, arranging his circumstances and noting the effects to be produced with all the enthusiasm of the artist. But after the first breath the aspect of the work changed; page after page was tossed aside as hopeless, the beautiful sentences he had dreamed of refused to be written, and his puppets remained stiff and wooden, devoid53 of life or motion. Then all the old despairs came back, the agonies of the artificer who strives and perseveres54 in vain; the scheme that seemed of amorous55 fire turned to cold hard ice in his hands. He let the pen drop from his fingers, and wondered how he could have ever dreamed of writing books. Again, the thought occurred that he might do something if he could only get away, and join the sad procession in the murmuring London streets, far from the shadow of those awful hills. But it was quite impossible; the relative who had once promised assistance was appealed to, and wrote expressing his regret that Lucian had turned out a “loafer,” wasting his time in scribbling57, instead of trying to earn his living. Lucian felt rather hurt at this letter, but the parson only grinned grimly as usual. He was thinking of how he signed a check many years before, in the days of his prosperity, and the check was payable58 to this didactic relative, then in but a poor way, and of a thankful turn of mind.
The old rejected manuscript had almost passed out of his recollection. It was recalled oddly enough. He was looking over the Reader, and enjoying the admirable literary criticisms, some three months after the return of his book, when his eye was attracted by a quoted passage in one of the notices. The thought and style both wakened memory, the cadences were familiar and beloved. He read through the review from the beginning; it was a very favorable one, and pronounced the volume an immense advance on Mr. Ritson’s previous work. “Here, undoubtedly60, the author has discovered a vein61 of pure metal,” the reviewer added, “and we predict that he will go far.” Lucian had not yet reached his father’s stage, he was unable to grin in the manner of that irreverent parson. The passage selected for high praise was taken almost word for word from the manuscript now resting in his room, the work that had not reached the high standard of Messrs Beit & Co., who, curiously62 enough, were the publishers of the book reviewed in the Reader. He had a few shillings in his possession, and wrote at once to a bookseller in London for a copy of The Chorus in Green, as the author had oddly named the book. He wrote on June 21st and thought he might fairly expect to receive the interesting volume by the 24th; but the postman, true to his tradition, brought nothing for him, and in the afternoon he resolved to walk down to Caermaen, in case it might have come by a second post; or it might have been mislaid at the office; they forgot parcels sometimes, especially when the bag was heavy and the weather hot. This 24th was a sultry and oppressive day; a grey veil of cloud obscured the sky, and a vaporous mist hung heavily over the land, and fumed63 up from the valleys. But at five o’clock, when he started, the clouds began to break, and the sunlight suddenly streamed down through the misty64 air, making ways and channels of rich glory, and bright islands in the gloom. It was a pleasant and shining evening when, passing by devious65 back streets to avoid the barbarians66 (as he very rudely called the respectable inhabitants of the town), he reached the post-office; which was also the general shop.
“Yes, Mr. Taylor, there is something for you, sir,” said the man. “Williams the postman forgot to take it up this morning,” and he handed over the packet. Lucian took it under his arm and went slowly through the ragged67 winding68 lanes till he came into the country. He got over the first stile on the road, and sitting down in the shelter of a hedge, cut the strings69 and opened the parcel. The Chorus in Green was got up in what reviewers call a dainty manner: a bronze-green cloth, well-cut gold lettering, wide margins70 and black “old-face” type, all witnessed to the good taste of Messrs Beit & Co. He cut the pages hastily and began to read. He soon found that he had wronged Mr. Ritson — that old literary hand had by no means stolen his book wholesale71, as he had expected. There were about two hundred pages in the pretty little volume, and of these about ninety were Lucian’s, dovetailed into a rather different scheme with skill that was nothing short of exquisite. And Mr. Ritson’s own work was often very good; spoilt here and there for some tastes by the “cataloguing” method, a somewhat materialistic72 way of taking an inventory73 of the holy country things; but, for that very reason, contrasting to a great advantage with Lucian’s hints and dreams and note of haunting. And here and there Mr. Ritson had made little alterations74 in the style of the passages he had conveyed, and most of these alterations were amendments75, as Lucian was obliged to confess, though he would have liked to argue one or two points with his collaborator76 and corrector. He lit his pipe and leant back comfortably in the hedge, thinking things over, weighing very coolly his experience of humanity, his contact with the “society” of the countryside, the affair of the The Chorus in Green, and even some little incidents that had struck him as he was walking through the streets of Caermaen that evening. At the post-office, when he was inquiring for his parcel, he had heard two old women grumbling77 in the street; it seemed, so far as he could make out, that both had been disappointed in much the same way. One was a Roman Catholic, hardened, and beyond the reach of conversion79; she had been advised to ask alms of the priests, “who are always creeping and crawling about.” The other old sinner was a Dissenter80, and, “Mr. Dixon has quite enough to do to relieve good Church people.”
Mrs. Dixon, assisted by Henrietta, was, it seemed, the lady high almoner, who dispensed81 these charities. As she said to Mrs. Colley, they would end by keeping all the beggars in the county, and they really couldn’t afford it. A large family was an expensive thing, and the girls must have new frocks. “Mr. Dixon is always telling me and the girls that we must not demoralize the people by indiscriminate charity.” Lucian had heard of these sage59 counsels, and through it them as he listened to the bitter complaints of the gaunt, hungry old women. In the back street by which he passed out of the town he saw a large “healthy” boy kicking a sick cat; the poor creature had just strength enough to crawl under an outhouse door; probably to die in torments82. He did not find much satisfaction in thrashing the boy, but he did it with hearty83 good will. Further on, at the corner where the turnpike used to be, was a big notice, announcing a meeting at the school-room in aid of the missions to the Portuguese84. “Under the Patronage85 of the Lord Bishop86 of the Diocese,” was the imposing87 headline; the Reverend Merivale Dixon, vicar of Caermaen, was to be in the chair, supported by Stanley Gervase, Esq., J.P., and by many of the clergy88 and gentry89 of the neighborhood. Senhor Diabo, “formerly a Romanist priest, now an evangelist in Lisbon,” would address the meeting. “Funds are urgently needed to carry on this good work,” concluded the notice. So he lay well back in the shade of the hedge, and thought whether some sort of an article could not be made by vindicating90 the terrible Yahoos; one might point out that they were in many respects a simple and unsophisticated race, whose faults were the result of their enslaved position, while such virtues91 as they had were all their own. They might be compared, he thought, much to their advantage, with more complex civilizations. There was no hint of anything like the Beit system of publishing in existence amongst them; the great Yahoo nation would surely never feed and encourage a scabby Houyhnhnm, expelled for his foulness93 from the horse-community, and the witty94 dean, in all his minuteness, had said nothing of “safe” Yahoos. On reflection, however, he did not feel quite secure of this part of his defense95; he remembered that the leading brutes96 had favorites, who were employed in certain simple domestic offices about their masters, and it seemed doubtful whether the contemplated97 vindication98 would not break down on this point. He smiled queerly to himself as he thought of these comparisons, but his heart burned with a dull fury. Throwing back his unhappy memory, he recalled all the contempt and scorn he had suffered; as a boy he had heard the masters murmuring their disdain99 of him and of his desire to learn other than ordinary school work. As a young man he had suffered the insolence100 of these wretched people about him; their cackling laughter at his poverty jarred and grated in his ears; he saw the acrid101 grin of some miserable102 idiot woman, some creature beneath the swine in intelligence and manners, merciless, as he went by with his eyes on the dust, in his ragged clothes. He and his father seemed to pass down an avenue of jeers103 and contempt, and contempt from such animals as these! This putrid104 filth105, molded into human shape, made only to fawn106 on the rich and beslaver them, thinking no foulness too foul92 if it were done in honor of those in power and authority; and no refined cruelty of contempt too cruel if it were contempt of the poor and humble and oppressed; it was to this obscene and ghastly throng107 that he was something to be pointed78 at. And these men and women spoke9 of sacred things, and knelt before the awful altar of God, before the altar of tremendous fire, surrounded as they professed108 by Angels and Archangels and all the Company of Heaven; and in their very church they had one aisle109 for the rich and another for the poor. And the species was not peculiar110 to Caermaen; the rich business men in London and the successful brother author were probably amusing themselves at the expense of the poor struggling creature they had injured and wounded; just as the “healthy” boy had burst into a great laugh when the miserable sick cat cried out in bitter agony, and trailed its limbs slowly, as it crept away to die. Lucian looked into his own life and his own will; he saw that in spite of his follies111, and his want of success, he had not been consciously malignant112, he had never deliberately113 aided in oppression, or looked on it with enjoyment114 and approval, and he felt that when he lay dead beneath the earth, eaten by swarming115 worms, he would be in a purer company than now, when he lived amongst human creatures. And he was to call this loathsome116 beast, all sting and filth, brother! “I had rather call the devils my brothers,” he said in his heart, “I would fare better in hell.” Blood was in his eyes, and as he looked up the sky seemed of blood, and the earth burned with fire.
The sun was sinking low on the mountain when he set out on the way again. Burrows117, the doctor, coming home in his trap, met him a little lower on the road, and gave him a friendly good-night.
“A long way round on this road, isn’t it?” said the doctor. “As you have come so far, why don’t you try the short cut across the fields? You will find it easily enough; second stile on the left hand, and then go straight ahead.”
He thanked Dr. Burrows and said he would try the short cut, and Burrows span on homeward. He was a gruff and honest bachelor, and often felt very sorry for the lad, and wished he could help him. As he drove on, it suddenly occurred to him that Lucian had an awful look on his face, and he was sorry he had not asked him to jump in, and to come to supper. A hearty slice of beef, with strong ale, whisky and soda118 afterwards, a good pipe, and certain Rabelaisian tales which the doctor had treasured for many years, would have done the poor fellow a lot of good, he was certain. He half turned round on his seat, and looked to see if Lucian were still in sight, but he had passed the corner, and the doctor drove on, shivering a little; the mists were beginning to rise from the wet banks of the river.
Lucian trailed slowly along the road, keeping a look out for the stile the doctor had mentioned. It would be a little of an adventure, he thought, to find his way by an unknown track; he knew the direction in which his home lay, and he imagined he would not have much difficulty in crossing from one stile to another. The path led him up a steep bare field, and when he was at the top, the town and the valley winding up to the north stretched before him. The river was stilled at the flood, and the yellow water, reflecting the sunset, glowed in its deep pools like dull brass119. These burning pools, the level meadows fringed with shuddering120 reeds, the long dark sweep of the forest on the hill, were all clear and distinct, yet the light seemed to have clothed them with a new garment, even as voices from the streets of Caermaen sounded strangely, mounting up thin with the smoke. There beneath him lay the huddled121 cluster of Caermaen, the ragged and uneven122 roofs that marked the winding and sordid123 streets, here and there a pointed gable rising above its meaner fellows; beyond he recognized the piled mounds124 that marked the circle of the amphitheatre, and the dark edge of trees that grew where the Roman wall whitened and waxed old beneath the frosts and rains of eighteen hundred years. Thin and strange, mingled125 together, the voices came up to him on the hill; it was as if an outland race inhabited the ruined city and talked in a strange language of strange and terrible things. The sun had slid down the sky, and hung quivering over the huge dark dome23 of the mountain like a burnt sacrifice, and then suddenly vanished. In the afterglow the clouds began to writhe126 and turn scarlet127, and shone so strangely reflected in the pools of the snake-like river, that one would have said the still waters stirred, the fleeting128 and changing of the clouds seeming to quicken the stream, as if it bubbled and sent up gouts of blood. But already about the town the darkness was forming; fast, fast the shadows crept upon it from the forest, and from all sides banks and wreaths of curling mist were gathering129, as if a ghostly leaguer were being built up against the city, and the strange race who lived in its streets. Suddenly there burst out from the stillness the clear and piercing music of the réveillé, calling, recalling, iterated, reiterated130, and ending with one long high fierce shrill131 note with which the steep hills rang. Perhaps a boy in the school band was practicing on his bugle132, but for Lucian it was magic. For him it was the note of the Roman trumpet133, tuba mirum spargens sonum, filling all the hollow valley with its command, reverberated134 in dark places in the far forest, and resonant135 in the old graveyards136 without the walls. In his imagination he saw the earthen gates of the tombs broken open, and the serried137 legion swarming to the eagles. Century by century they passed by; they rose, dripping, from the river bed, they rose from the level, their armor shone in the quiet orchard138, they gathered in ranks and companies from the cemetery139, and as the trumpet sounded, the hill fort above the town gave up its dead. By hundreds and thousands the ghostly battle surged about the standard, behind the quaking mist, ready to march against the moldering walls they had built so many years before.
He turned sharply; it was growing very dark, and he was afraid of missing his way. At first the path led him by the verge140 of a wood; there was a noise of rustling141 and murmuring from the trees as if they were taking evil counsel together. A high hedge shut out the sight of the darkening valley, and he stumbled on mechanically, without taking much note of the turnings of the track, and when he came out from the wood shadow to the open country, he stood for a moment quite bewildered and uncertain. A dark wild twilight142 country lay before him, confused dim shapes of trees near at hand, and a hollow below his feet, and the further hills and woods were dimmer, and all the air was very still. Suddenly the darkness about him glowed; a furnace fire had shot up on the mountain, and for a moment the little world of the woodside and the steep hill shone in a pale light, and he thought he saw his path beaten out in the turf before him. The great flame sank down to a red glint of fire, and it led him on down the ragged slope, his feet striking against ridges143 of ground, and falling from beneath him at a sudden dip. The bramble bushes shot out long prickly vines, amongst which he was entangled144, and lower he was held back by wet bubbling earth. He had descended145 into a dark and shady valley, beset146 and tapestried147 with gloomy thickets148; the weird150 wood noises were the only sounds, strange, unutterable mutterings, dismal151, inarticulate. He pushed on in what he hoped was the right direction, stumbling from stile to gate, peering through mist and shadow, and still vainly seeking for any known landmark152. Presently another sound broke upon the grim air, the murmur56 of water poured over stones, gurgling against the old misshapen roots of trees, and running clear in a deep channel. He passed into the chill breath of the brook, and almost fancied he heard two voices speaking in its murmur; there seemed a ceaseless utterance153 of words, an endless argument. With a mood of horror pressing on him, he listened to the noise of waters, and the wild fancy seized him that he was not deceived, that two unknown beings stood together there in the darkness and tried the balances of his life, and spoke his doom154. The hour in the matted thicket149 rushed over the great bridge of years to his thought; he had sinned against the earth, and the earth trembled and shook for vengeance155. He stayed still for a moment, quivering with fear, and at last went on blindly, no longer caring for the path, if only he might escape from the toils156 of that dismal shuddering hollow. As he plunged157 through the hedges the bristling158 thorns tore his face and hands; he fell amongst stinging-nettles and was pricked159 as he beat out his way amidst the gorse. He raced headlong, his head over his shoulder, through a windy wood, bare of undergrowth; there lay about the ground moldering stumps160, the relics161 of trees that had thundered to their fall, crashing and tearing to earth, long ago; and from these remains162 there flowed out a pale thin radiance, filling the spaces of the sounding wood with a dream of light. He had lost all count of the track; he felt he had fled for hours, climbing and descending163, and yet not advancing; it was as if he stood still and the shadows of the land went by, in a vision. But at last a hedge, high and straggling, rose before him, and as he broke through it, his feet slipped, and he fell headlong down a steep bank into a lane. He lay still, half-stunned, for a moment, and then rising unsteadily, he looked desperately164 into the darkness before him, uncertain and bewildered. In front it was black as a midnight cellar, and he turned about, and saw a glint in the distance, as if a candle were flickering165 in a farm-house window. He began to walk with trembling feet towards the light, when suddenly something pale started out from the shadows before him, and seemed to swim and float down the air. He was going down hill, and he hastened onwards, and he could see the bars of a stile framed dimly against the sky, and the figure still advanced with that gliding166 motion. Then, as the road declined to the valley, the landmark he had been seeking appeared. To his right there surged up in the darkness the darker summit of the Roman fort, and the streaming fire of the great full moon glowed through the bars of the wizard oaks, and made a halo shine about the hill. He was now quite close to the white appearance, and saw that it was only a woman walking swiftly down the lane; the floating movement was an effect due to the somber167 air and the moon’s glamour168. At the gate, where he had spent so many hours gazing at the fort, they walked foot to foot, and he saw it was Annie Morgan.
“Good evening, Master Lucian,” said the girl, “it’s very dark, sir, indeed.”
“Good evening, Annie,” he answered, calling her by her name for the first time, and he saw that she smiled with pleasure. “You are out late, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir; but I’ve been taking a bit of supper to old Mrs. Gibbon. She’s been very poorly the last few days, and there’s nobody to do anything for her.”
Then there were really people who helped one another; kindness and pity were not mere169 myths, fictions of “society,” as useful as Doe and Roe170, and as non-existent. The thought struck Lucian with a shock; the evening’s passion and delirium171, the wild walk and physical fatigue172 had almost shattered him in body and mind. He was “degenerate,” decadent173, and the rough rains and blustering174 winds of life, which a stronger man would have laughed at and enjoyed, were to him “hail-storms and fire-showers.” After all, Messrs Beit, the publishers, were only sharp men of business, and these terrible Dixons and Gervases and Colleys merely the ordinary limited clergy and gentry of a quiet country town; sturdier sense would have dismissed Dixon as an old humbug175, Stanley Gervase, Esquire, J.P., as a “bit of a bounder,” and the ladies as “rather a shoddy lot.” But he was walking slowly now in painful silence, his heavy, lagging feet striking against the loose stones. He was not thinking of the girl beside him; only something seemed to swell176 and grow and swell within his heart; it was all the torture of his days, weary hopes and weary disappointment, scorn rankling177 and throbbing178, and the thought “I had rather call the devils my brothers and live with them in hell.” He choked and gasped179 for breath, and felt involuntary muscles working in his face, and the impulses of a madman stirring him; he himself was in truth the realization180 of the vision of Caermaen that night, a city with moldering walls beset by the ghostly legion. Life and the world and the laws of the sunlight had passed away, and the resurrection and kingdom of the dead began. The Celt assailed181 him, becoming from the weird wood he called the world, and his far-off ancestors, the “little people,” crept out of their caves, muttering charms and incantations in hissing182 inhuman183 speech; he was beleaguered184 by desires that had slept in his race for ages.
“I am afraid you are very tired, Master Lucian. Would you like me to give you my hand over this rough bit?”
He had stumbled against a great round stone and had nearly fallen. The woman’s hand sought his in the darkness; as he felt the touch of the soft warm flesh he moaned, and a pang shot through his arm to his heart. He looked up and found he had only walked a few paces since Annie had spoken; he had thought they had wandered for hours together. The moon was just mounting above the oaks, and the halo round the dark hill brightened. He stopped short, and keeping his hold of Annie’s hand, looked into her face. A hazy185 glory of moonlight shone around them and lit up their eyes. He had not greatly altered since his boyhood; his face was pale olive in color, thin and oval; marks of pain had gathered about the eyes, and his black hair was already stricken with grey. But the eager, curious gaze still remained, and what he saw before him lit up his sadness with a new fire. She stopped too, and did not offer to draw away, but looked back with all her heart. They were alike in many ways; her skin was also of that olive color, but her face was sweet as a beautiful summer night, and her black eyes showed no dimness, and the smile on the scarlet lips was like a flame when it brightens a dark and lonely land.
“You are sorely tired, Master Lucian, let us sit down here by the gate.”
It was Lucian who spoke next: “My dear, my dear.” And their lips were together again, and their arms locked together, each holding the other fast. And then the poor lad let his head sink down on his sweetheart’s breast, and burst into a passion of weeping. The tears streamed down his face, and he shook with sobbing186, in the happiest moment that he had ever lived. The woman bent187 over him and tried to comfort him, but his tears were his consolation188 and his triumph. Annie was whispering to him, her hand laid on his heart; she was whispering beautiful, wonderful words, that soothed189 him as a song. He did not know what they meant.
“Annie, dear, dear Annie, what are you saying to me? I have never heard such beautiful words. Tell me, Annie, what do they mean?”
She laughed, and said it was only nonsense that the nurses sang to the children.
“No, no, you are not to call me Master Lucian any more,” he said, when they parted, “you must call me Lucian; and I, I worship you, my dear Annie.”
He fell down before her, embracing her knees, and adored, and she allowed him, and confirmed his worship. He followed slowly after her, passing the path which led to her home with a longing190 glance. Nobody saw any difference in Lucian when he reached the rectory. He came in with his usual dreamy indifference191, and told how he had lost his way by trying the short cut. He said he had met Dr. Burrows on the road, and that he had recommended the path by the fields. Then, as dully as if he had been reading some story out of a newspaper, he gave his father the outlines of the Beit case, producing the pretty little book called The Chorus in Green. The parson listened in amazement192.
“You mean to tell me that you wrote this book?” he said. He was quite roused.
“No; not all of it. Look; that bit is mine, and that; and the beginning of this chapter. Nearly the whole of the third chapter is by me.”
He closed the book without interest, and indeed he felt astonished at his father’s excitement. The incident seemed to him unimportant.
“And you say that eighty or ninety pages of this book are yours, and these scoundrels have stolen your work?”
“Well, I suppose they have. I’ll fetch the manuscript, if you would like to look at it.”
The manuscript was duly produced, wrapped in brown paper, with Messrs Beit’s address label on it, and the post-office dated stamps.
“And the other book has been out a month.” The parson, forgetting the sacerdotal office, and his good habit of grinning, swore at Messrs Beit and Mr. Ritson, calling them damned thieves, and then began to read the manuscript, and to compare it with the printed book.
“Why, it’s splendid work. My poor fellow,” he said after a while, “I had no notion you could write so well. I used to think of such things in the old days at Oxford193; ‘old Bill,’ the tutor, used to praise my essays, but I never wrote anything like this. And this infernal ruffian of a Ritson has taken all your best things and mixed them up with his own rot to make it go down. Of course you’ll expose the gang?”
Lucian was mildly amused; he couldn’t enter into his father’s feelings at all. He sat smoking in one of the old easy chairs, taking the rare relish of a hot grog with his pipe, and gazing out of his dreamy eyes at the violent old parson. He was pleased that his father liked his book, because he knew him to be a deep and sober scholar and a cool judge of good letters; but he laughed to himself when he saw the magic of print. The parson had expressed no wish to read the manuscript when it came back in disgrace; he had merely grinned, said something about boomerangs, and quoted Horace with relish. Whereas now, before the book in its neat case, lettered with another man’s name, his approbation194 of the writing and his disapproval195 of the “scoundrels,” as he called them, were loudly expressed, and, though a good smoker196, he blew and puffed197 vehemently198 at his pipe.
“You’ll expose the rascals199, of course, won’t you?” he said again.
“Oh no, I think not. It really doesn’t matter much, does it? After all, there are some very weak things in the book; doesn’t it strike you as ‘young?’ I have been thinking of another plan, but I haven’t done much with it lately. But I believe I’ve got hold of a really good idea this time, and if I can manage to see the heart of it I hope to turn out a manuscript worth stealing. But it’s so hard to get at the core of an idea — the heart, as I call it,” he went on after a pause. “It’s like having a box you can’t open, though you know there’s something wonderful inside. But I do believe I’ve a fine thing in my hands, and I mean to try my best to work it.”
Lucian talked with enthusiasm now, but his father, on his side, could not share these ardors. It was his part to be astonished at excitement over a book that was not even begun, the mere ghost of a book flitting elusive200 in the world of unborn masterpieces and failures. He had loved good letters, but he shared unconsciously in the general belief that literary attempt is always pitiful, though he did not subscribe201 to the other half of the popular faith — that literary success is a matter of very little importance. He thought well of books, but only of printed books; in manuscripts he put no faith, and the paulo-post-futurum tense he could not in any manner conjugate202. He returned once more to the topic of palpable interest.
“But about this dirty trick these fellows have played on you. You won’t sit quietly and bear it, surely? It’s only a question of writing to the papers.”
“They wouldn’t put the letter in. And if they did, I should only get laughed at. Some time ago a man wrote to the Reader, complaining of his play being stolen. He said that he had sent a little one-act comedy to Burleigh, the great dramatist, asking for his advice. Burleigh gave his advice and took the idea for his own very successful play. So the man said, and I daresay it was true enough. But the victim got nothing by his complaint. ‘A pretty state of things,’ everybody said. ‘Here’s a Mr. Tomson, that no one has ever heard of, bothers Burleigh with his rubbish, and then accuses him of petty larceny203. Is it likely that a man of Burleigh’s position, a playwright204 who can make his five thousand a year easily, would borrow from an unknown Tomson?’ I should think it very likely, indeed,” Lucian went on, chuckling205, “but that was their verdict. No; I don’t think I’ll write to the papers.”
“Well, well, my boy, I suppose you know your own business best. I think you are mistaken, but you must do as you like.”
“It’s all so unimportant,” said Lucian, and he really thought so. He had sweeter things to dream of, and desired no communion of feeling with that madman who had left Caermaen some few hours before. He felt he had made a fool of himself, he was ashamed to think of the fatuity206 of which he had been guilty, such boiling hatred207 was not only wicked, but absurd. A man could do no good who put himself into a position of such violent antagonism208 against his fellow-creatures; so Lucian rebuked209 his heart, saying that he was old enough to know better. But he remembered that he had sweeter things to dream of; there was a secret ecstasy210 that he treasured and locked tight away, as a joy too exquisite even for thought till he was quite alone; and then there was that scheme for a new book that he had laid down hopelessly some time ago; it seemed to have arisen into life again within the last hour; he understood that he had started on a false tack211, he had taken the wrong aspect of his idea. Of course the thing couldn’t be written in that way; it was like trying to read a page turned upside down; and he saw those characters he had vainly sought suddenly disambushed, and a splendid inevitable212 sequence of events unrolled before him.
It was a true resurrection; the dry plot he had constructed revealed itself as a living thing, stirring and mysterious, and warm as life itself. The parson was smoking stolidly213 to all appearance, but in reality he was full of amazement at his own son, and now and again he slipped sly furtive214 glances towards the tranquil215 young man in the arm-chair by the empty hearth216. In the first place, Mr. Taylor was genuinely impressed by what he had read of Lucian’s work; he had so long been accustomed to look upon all effort as futile217 that success amazed him. In the abstract, of course, he was prepared to admit that some people did write well and got published and made money, just as other persons successfully backed an outsider at heavy odds218; but it had seemed as improbable that Lucian should show even the beginnings of achievement in one direction as in the other. Then the boy evidently cared so little about it; he did not appear to be proud of being worth robbing, nor was he angry with the robbers.
He sat back luxuriously219 in the disreputable old chair, drawing long slow wreaths of smoke, tasting his whisky from time to time, evidently well at ease with himself. The father saw him smile, and it suddenly dawned upon him that his son was very handsome; he had such kind gentle eyes and a kind mouth, and his pale cheeks were flushed like a girl’s. Mr. Taylor felt moved. What a harmless young fellow Lucian had been; no doubt a little queer and different from others, but wholly inoffensive and patient under disappointment. And Miss Deacon, her contribution to the evening’s discussion had been characteristic; she had remarked, firstly, that writing was a very unsettling occupation, and secondly220, that it was extremely foolish to entrust221 one’s property to people of whom one knew nothing. Father and son had smiled together at these observations, which were probably true enough. Mr. Taylor at last left Lucian along; he shook hands with a good deal of respect, and said, almost deferentially222:
“You mustn’t work too hard, old fellow. I wouldn’t stay up too late, if I were you, after that long walk. You must have gone miles out of your way.”
“I’m not tired now, though. I feel as if I could write my new book on the spot”; and the young man laughed a gay sweet laugh that struck the father as a new note in his son’s life.
He sat still a moment after his father had left the room. He cherished his chief treasure of thought in its secret place; he would not enjoy it yet. He drew up a chair to the table at which he wrote or tried to write, and began taking pens and paper from the drawer. There was a great pile of ruled paper there; all of it used, on one side, and signifying many hours of desperate scribbling, of heart-searching and rack of his brain; an array of poor, eager lines written by a waning223 fire with waning hope; all useless and abandoned. He took up the sheets cheerfully, and began in delicious idleness to look over these fruitless efforts. A page caught his attention; he remembered how he wrote it while a November storm was dashing against the panes224; and there was another, with a queer blot225 in one corner; he had got up from his chair and looked out, and all the earth was white fairyland, and the snowflakes whirled round and round in the wind. Then he saw the chapter begun of a night in March: a great gale226 blew that night and rooted up one of the ancient yews227 in the churchyard. He had heard the trees shrieking228 in the woods, and the long wail229 of the wind, and across the heaven a white moon fled awfully before the streaming clouds. And all these poor abandoned pages now seemed sweet, and past unhappiness was transmuted230 into happiness, and the nights of toil were holy. He turned over half a dozen leaves and began to sketch231 out the outlines of the new book on the unused pages; running out a skeleton plan on one page, and dotting fancies, suggestions, hints on others. He wrote rapidly, overjoyed to find that loving phrases grew under his pen; a particular scene he had imagined filled him with desire; he gave his hand free course, and saw the written work glowing; and action and all the heat of existence quickened and beat on the wet page. Happy fancies took shape in happier words, and when at last he leant back in his chair he felt the stir and rush of the story as if it had been some portion of his own life. He read over what he had done with a renewed pleasure in the nimble and flowing workmanship, and as he put the little pile of manuscript tenderly in the drawer he paused to enjoy the anticipation232 of tomorrow’s labor35.
And then — but the rest of the night was given to tender and delicious things, and when he went up to bed a scarlet dawn was streaming from the east.
收听单词发音 |
1
agonizing
|
|
| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
wretch
|
|
| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
pangs
|
|
| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
conning
|
|
| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
dreaded
|
|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
vivacity
|
|
| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
rave
|
|
| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
chic
|
|
| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
nurtured
|
|
| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
deafened
|
|
| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
prate
|
|
| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
persistently
|
|
| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
dome
|
|
| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
chuckled
|
|
| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
relish
|
|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
alliteration
|
|
| n.（诗歌的）头韵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
gushing
|
|
| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
domed
|
|
| adj. 圆屋顶的, 半球形的, 拱曲的 动词dome的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
swollen
|
|
| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
brook
|
|
| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
swirling
|
|
| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
toil
|
|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
labor
|
|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
labored
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
cadences
|
|
| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
grudging
|
|
| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
wrought
|
|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
enchanted
|
|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
smitten
|
|
| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
gulf
|
|
| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
maiden
|
|
| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
disinterested
|
|
| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
farce
|
|
| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
maxim
|
|
| n.格言，箴言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
grumble
|
|
| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
arrogate
|
|
| v.冒称具有...权利，霸占 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
promising
|
|
| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
scribble
|
|
| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
devoid
|
|
| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
perseveres
|
|
| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
amorous
|
|
| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
scribbling
|
|
| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
payable
|
|
| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
sage
|
|
| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
undoubtedly
|
|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
vein
|
|
| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
fumed
|
|
| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
misty
|
|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
devious
|
|
| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
barbarians
|
|
| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
ragged
|
|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
strings
|
|
| n.弦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
margins
|
|
| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
wholesale
|
|
| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
materialistic
|
|
| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
inventory
|
|
| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
alterations
|
|
| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
amendments
|
|
| （法律、文件的）改动( amendment的名词复数 )； 修正案； 修改； （美国宪法的）修正案 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
collaborator
|
|
| n.合作者，协作者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
grumbling
|
|
| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
conversion
|
|
| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
dissenter
|
|
| n.反对者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
dispensed
|
|
| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
torments
|
|
| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
Portuguese
|
|
| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
patronage
|
|
| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
imposing
|
|
| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
clergy
|
|
| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
gentry
|
|
| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
vindicating
|
|
| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的现在分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
virtues
|
|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
foul
|
|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
foulness
|
|
| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
witty
|
|
| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
defense
|
|
| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
brutes
|
|
| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
contemplated
|
|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
vindication
|
|
| n.洗冤，证实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
disdain
|
|
| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
insolence
|
|
| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
acrid
|
|
| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
jeers
|
|
| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
putrid
|
|
| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
filth
|
|
| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
fawn
|
|
| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
throng
|
|
| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
aisle
|
|
| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
follies
|
|
| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
malignant
|
|
| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
deliberately
|
|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
swarming
|
|
| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
loathsome
|
|
| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
burrows
|
|
| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
soda
|
|
| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
brass
|
|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
shuddering
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
huddled
|
|
| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
uneven
|
|
| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
sordid
|
|
| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
mounds
|
|
| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
writhe
|
|
| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
scarlet
|
|
| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
fleeting
|
|
| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
gathering
|
|
| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
reiterated
|
|
| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
shrill
|
|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
bugle
|
|
| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
trumpet
|
|
| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
reverberated
|
|
| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
resonant
|
|
| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
graveyards
|
|
| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
serried
|
|
| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
orchard
|
|
| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
cemetery
|
|
| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
verge
|
|
| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
rustling
|
|
| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
ridges
|
|
| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
entangled
|
|
| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
beset
|
|
| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
tapestried
|
|
| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
148
thickets
|
|
| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
thicket
|
|
| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
weird
|
|
| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
landmark
|
|
| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
doom
|
|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
toils
|
|
| 网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
plunged
|
|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
bristling
|
|
| a.竖立的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
pricked
|
|
| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
stumps
|
|
| （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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
relics
|
|
| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
descending
|
|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
flickering
|
|
| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
gliding
|
|
| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
somber
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
glamour
|
|
| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
roe
|
|
| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
delirium
|
|
| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
decadent
|
|
| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
blustering
|
|
| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
humbug
|
|
| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
swell
|
|
| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
rankling
|
|
| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
throbbing
|
|
| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
realization
|
|
| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
assailed
|
|
| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
hissing
|
|
| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
inhuman
|
|
| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
beleaguered
|
|
| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
hazy
|
|
| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
sobbing
|
|
| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
soothed
|
|
| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
193
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
approbation
|
|
| n.称赞；认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
disapproval
|
|
| n.反对，不赞成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
smoker
|
|
| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
197
puffed
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
198
vehemently
|
|
| adv. 热烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
199
rascals
|
|
| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
200
elusive
|
|
| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
201
subscribe
|
|
| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
202
conjugate
|
|
| vt.使成对，使结合；adj.共轭的，成对的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
203
larceny
|
|
| n.盗窃（罪） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
204
playwright
|
|
| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
205
chuckling
|
|
| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
206
fatuity
|
|
| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
207
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
208
antagonism
|
|
| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
209
rebuked
|
|
| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
210
ecstasy
|
|
| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
211
tack
|
|
| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
212
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
213
stolidly
|
|
| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
214
furtive
|
|
| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
215
tranquil
|
|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
216
hearth
|
|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
217
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
218
odds
|
|
| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
219
luxuriously
|
|
| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
220
secondly
|
|
| adv.第二，其次 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
221
entrust
|
|
| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
222
deferentially
|
|
| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
223
waning
|
|
| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
224
panes
|
|
| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
225
blot
|
|
| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
226
gale
|
|
| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
227
yews
|
|
| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
228
shrieking
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
229
wail
|
|
| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
230
transmuted
|
|
| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
231
sketch
|
|
| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
232
anticipation
|
|
| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |