The crisis came about in this way: Will Locke had finished his work long before Sam; not that Will was more industrious5, but he had not got half the commissions at only half the price, and that was about the usual division of labour between them. The two men were born to it. Sam's art took the lucrative6 shape of portrait-painting; Will's the side of flower and fruit and landscape painting, which was vilely7 unremunerative then, and allegorical painting, which no one will be at the pains to understand, or, what is more to the purpose, to buy, in this enlightened nineteenth century. Sam, who was thriving already, fell in love with Clarissa Gage8, with her six thousand pounds fortune: there was no premeditation, or expediency9, or cunning, in the matter; it was the luck of the man. But Will Locke could never have done it: he, who could never make a clear subsistence for himself, must attach himself to a penniless, cheery, quick little girl like Dulcie; and where he could not well maintain one, must provide for two at the lowest estimate. Will Locke was going, and there was no talk of his return; Dulcie [Page 135]was helping10 him to put up his sketches11 with her orderly, ready, and respectful hands.
"When we are parted for good, I shall miss you," he said, simply.
Her tender heart throbbed12 with gratitude13, but she only answered, "Are we to be parted for good? Will you never come back to Redwater?"
"I cannot come back like Sam," he affirmed, sadly, not bitterly; "I am not a rising man, Dulcie, though I may paint for future ages."
A bright thought struck Dulcie, softening14 and warming her girlish face, till it was like one of those faces which look out of Fra Angelico's pictures, and express what we are fond of talking about—adoration and beneficence: "Could I paint for the potteries15, Master Locke?" For, in his noble thriftless way, he had initiated16 her into some of the very secrets of his tinting17, and Dulcie was made bold by the feats18 she had achieved.
"What should set you labouring on paltry19 porringers?—you are provided with your bit and sup, Mistress Dulcie."
"I thought it might be fine to help a great painter like you," confessed the gentle lass; very gently, with reluctance20 and pain, for it was wrung21 by compulsion from her maidenliness.
"Do you think so? I love you for thinking it," he said directly: but he would never have done so, brave as he was in his fantasies, without her drawing him on.
However, after that speech, there was no further talk of their parting for good: indeed, Dulcie would do her part; and slave at these "mugs and pigs" to any extent; [Page 136]and all for a look of his painting before he quitted the easel of nights; a walk, hanging upon his arm, up Primrose23 Hill; a seat by his side on the Sundays in the city church where he worshipped. Dulcie did not care to trouble her friends at home with the matter: instead, she had a proud vision of surprising them with the sight of—her husband. "They would be for waiting till they could spare money to buy more clothes, or perhaps a chest of drawers; they could not afford it; no more could Will find means to fly up and down the country. Father dear will be pleased to see him so temperate24: he cannot drink more than a glass of orange-wine, or a sip25 of cherry-brandy; he says it makes his head ache: he prefers the clear, cold water, or at most a dish of chocolate. Mother may jeer26 at him as unmanly; she has a fine spirit, mother: and she may think I might have done better; but mother has grown a little mercenary, and forgotten that she was once young herself, and would have liked to have served a great genius with such a loving heart and such blue eyes as Will's. Ah! the girls will all envy me, when they get a glance from Will's blue eyes: and let them, for he is too good a fellow to look at anybody but his poor ordinary silly wife, and if he did, the odds27 are that he would not see them: could not see whether their hair were black or red. Ah me! I am not sure whether Will always sees me—poor me—and not one of his angels from paradise."
But Dulcie did mean to tell Clary, and to ask her what she would advise her to wear for her wedding-gown, and whether she and Sam Winnington would be best maid and best man. But Clary put her foot through the plan [Page 137]neatly. Clary was in one of her vapourish moods when she inquired one night, "Is Will Locke coming down again, Dulcie? Oh! what ever is he seeking here? What more can we do for him? Nobody wants any more sheep or goats (were they sheep or goats, Dulcie?), or strawberries and currants, unless as mutton, and kid, and preserves. And, Dulcie, you must not stand in your own light, and throw away any more notice upon him; it is wasting your time, and the word of him may keep away others. A match with him would be purely28 preposterous29: even Sam Winnington, who is a great deal more of a scamp, my dear, treats him as a sublime30 simpleton."
What induced Clary to attempt to lock the stable after the steed was stolen? What drove her off all of a sudden on this dreadfully candid31 and prudent32 tack33? She only knew. Possibly it was to ease her own troubled conscience: but with Sam Winnington constantly dangling34 about her skirts, and receiving sufficient encouragement, too, it was hard for Dulcie to bear. She was in a fine passion; she would not tell Clary, after that round of advice; no, not a word. How did she know what Clary would do next? Perhaps forbid Will the house, when he came back from London with the licence, lock her into a room, and write an evil report to her friends? No, Dulcie could keep her own counsel: she was sorry to live in Clary's house, and eat the bread of deceit, but she would not risk Will's happiness as well as her own.
Will Locke reappeared on the scene within a fortnight. The lad did not tell Dulcie, though, that he had walked the most of the way, and that he had rendered himself [Page 138]footsore, in order to be able to count out Dulcie's modest expenses up to town, and perhaps a month's housekeeping beforehand: for that was the extent of his outlook. Will Locke appointed the Vicar to meet him and a young woman in Redwater church, the very morning after his return: there was no use in delay, except to melt down the first money he had hoarded35; and Will and Dulcie were like two children, eager to have the business over and done with, and not to do again by the same parties. The Vicar was quite accustomed to these sudden calls, and he submitted to them with a little groan36. He did not know who the young woman might be, and he did not care; it might be Mistress Cambridge, it might be Mistress Clarissa herself, it might be the still-room maid, or the barmaid at the "Rod and Fly;" it was all one to him. As for the young painter fellow, the quiet lads were as likely to slip into these scrapes as the rattles37; indeed, the chances were rather against them: the Vicar was inclined to cry, "Catch Mr. Sam Winnington in such a corner." But the Vicar was in no way responsible for a youth who was not even his own parishioner; he was not accountable for his not having worldly goods wherewith to endow the young woman whom he was to lead to the altar. Oddly enough, though worldly goods are undoubtedly38 introduced into the service, there are no accompanying awkward questions: such as, "What are your worldly goods, M.?" or, "Have you any worldly goods, M.?" The Vicar did not care at all, except for his incipient39 yawns, and his disordered appetite; he was a rebuke41 to gossips.
[Page 139]When the hour came, Dulcie was distressed42: not about wrongdoing, for the girl had no more idea that she was doing wrong than you have when you write a letter on your own responsibility, and at your own dictation; not at the absence of friends, for in Dulcie's day friends were considered very much in the way on such occasions. Indeed, the best accredited43 and most popular couples would take a start away from their companions and acquaintances, and ride ten miles or so to be married privately44, and so escape all ceremony. Dulcie was troubled by the want of a wedding-gown; yes, a wedding-gown, whether it is to wear well or not, is to a woman what a wig45 is to a barrister, what a uniform is to a soldier. Dulcia's had no existence, not even in a snip46; no one could call a half-worn sacque a wedding-gown, and not even her mother's tabby could be brought out for fear of observation. Only think! a scoured47 silk: how could Dulcie "bridle48" becomingly in a scoured silk? There would have been a certain inappropriateness in its shabbiness in the case of one who had done with the vanities of this world: but a scoured silk beside bridal blushes!—alas, poor Dulcie!
In every other respect, there appears something touching49 as well as humorous in that primitive50 marriage-party on the grey October morning, with the autumn sunbeams, silver not golden, faintly brightening the yellowing vine, over the sexton's house, and the orange and grey lichens51, the only ornaments52 outside the solid old church, with its low, heavy Saxon arches. The Vicar bowed with ceremony, and with a dignified53 and deliberate air, as he recognised Mistress Dulcie; the old clerk and his wrinkled wife [Page 140]stumbled into an apprehension54 that it was Mistress Clarissa Gage's friend who was to have the knot tied all by herself so early: but it was nothing to them either—nothing in comparison with the Christmas dole55. The lad and lass so trustful, so isolated57, making such a tremendous venture, deserved to have the cheery sunshine on their lot, if only for their faith and firmness.
When it was over, Dulcie plucked Will's sleeve, to turn him into the vestry. One must be the guide if not the other, and "it's main often the woman," the old clerk would tell you, with a toothless grin.
Then Dulcie went with Will straight to the "Rod and Fly;" for such was the established rule. These occurrences were so frequent, that they had their etiquette58 cut out for them. From the "Rod and Fly" Will and Dulcie sent the coolest and most composed, the most perfectly59 reasonable and polite of messages, to say they had got married together that morning, and that Mistress Cambridge need not have the trouble of keeping breakfast for Mistress Dulcie. A separate apology was sent from Dulcie for not having procured60 the watercresses which she was to have sought for Cambridge. Further, Mr. and Mrs. Will Locke would expect all of their friends who approved of the step they had taken to come to the "Rod and Fly," and offer their congratulations and drink their healths that morning without fail; as the young couple had to start by the very waggon61 in which they had first set eyes on each other. "Think of that, Will!" Dulcie had exclaimed, breathlessly, as if she was calling his notice to a natural phenomenon. They had now to ask [Page 141]and receive Dulcie's parents' blessing62 before they began housekeeping in Will's lodgings63 in London, on the strength of a month's prices with future orders and outwork from the potteries. Oh! these old easy beginnings! What have we gained by complicating64 them?
Will Locke and Dulcie had cast the die, and, on the first brush of the affair, their friends at Redwater took it as ill as possible: Clarissa was hysterical65, Sam Winnington was as sulky as a bear. If this treatment were to be regarded as a foreshadowing of what the behaviour of the authorities at Fairfax would prove, then the actors in the little drama might shake in their shoes. But Will Locke placidly66 stood the storm they had brewed67, only remembering in years to come some words which Dulcie did not retain for a sun-down. Dulcie was now affronted68 and hurt, now steady as a stepping-stone and erect69 as a sweet-pea, when either of the two assailants dared to blame Will, or to imply that he should have refrained from this mischief70. Why, what could Will have done? What could she have done without him? She was not ashamed to ask that, the moment they reflected upon Will Locke, though she had not borne his name an hour. Oh! child, child!
Notwithstanding, it was very trying to Dulcie when Clary protested that she never would have believed that Dulcie could have stolen such a march upon her; never. Dulcie to deceive her! Dulcie to betray her! Poor Clary! Whom could she turn to for affection and integrity, in the days that might remain to her in this wicked world? She had walked all along the street with its four or five win[Page 142]dows in every gable turned to the thoroughfare, with her handkerchief at her eyes, while the whole town was up, and each window full. She was so spent now, with her exertions72 and her righteous indignation, that she sat fanning herself in the bar: for Will and Dulcie could not even afford a private room to receive their wedding company so summarily assembled. Never was such a business, in Clary's opinion; not that she had not often heard of its like—but to happen to a kind, silly, credulous73 pair, such as Dulcie and Will Locke! Clary sat fanning herself, and casting knots on her pocket-handkerchief, and glancing quickly at Sam Winnington's gloomy, dogged face, so different from the little man's wonted bland74, animated75 countenance76. What on earth could make Sam Winnington take the wilful77 deed so much to heart? Hear him rating Will, whom he had been used to patronize in a careless, gracious style, but upon whom he now turned in strong resentment78. These reproaches were not unprovoked, but they were surely out of bounds; and their matter and manner rankled79 in the breasts of both these men many a day after they had crossed the Rubicon, and travelled far into the country on whose borders they were still pressing.
"You have disgraced yourself and me, sir! You have gone far to ruin the two of us! People will credit us of the same stock: a pair of needy80 and reckless adventurers!"
"Master Winnington, I was willing: I could do what I liked with myself without your leave; and I suppose Will Locke was equally independent," fired up Dulcie.
[Page 143]"We'll never be mistaken for the same grain, Sam Winnington," declared Will Locke, with something like disdain81. "I always knew that we were clean different: and the real substance of the wood will come out more and more distinctly, now that the mere82 bark is rubbed off."
Clary was modified at last; she kissed and sobbed83 over Dulcie, wished her joy sincerely, half promised to visit her in town, and slipped a posy ring from her own hand to the bride's, on the very finger where Will Locke had the face to put the marriage-ring which wedded84 a comely85, sprightly86, affectionate young woman to struggles and disappointments, and a mad contest between spirit and matter. But Sam Winnington would not so much as shake hands with Will; though he did not bear any malice87 against Dulcie, and would have kissed her fingers if she would have allowed it: and the young men, erstwhile comrades, looked so glumly88 and grimly at each other, that it was a universal relief when the great waggon drew up at the inn door.
Dulcie, in another character now, and that even before the fall of the russet leaves—half ashamed but very proud, the little goose! of the quick transformation—stepped into the waggon; the same boxes were piled beside her; Will leapt in after her, and away they rolled. There was nothing more for Dulcie to do but to wave her hand to Clary and Cambridge, and the women of the inn (already fathoms89 deep in her interest), and to realize that she was now a married woman, and had young Will Locke the great painter, in his chrysalis state, to look after.
[Page 144]But why was Sam Winnington so irate90? He had never looked sweet on Dulcie for half a second. Was it not rather that a blundering dreamer like Will Locke had anticipated him, marred91 his tactics, and fatally injured his scientific game? Sam came dropping down upon Redwater whenever he could find leisure, when the snow was on the ground, or when the peaches were plump and juicy, for the next two or three years. If he had not been coming on finely in his profession, heightening his charges five guineas at a time, and if Clary had not possessed92 that six thousand pounds' fortune, they would have done off the matter in a trice, like Will Locke and Dulcie Cowper. Poor Sam! poor Clary!—what an expenditure93 of hours and days and emotions, they contrived94 for themselves! They were often wretched! and they shook each other's faith: it is doubtful if they ever quite recovered it. They were so low occasionally that it must have been dreadfully difficult for them to get up again; they were so bitter that how they became altogether sweet once more, without any lingering remains95 of the acrid96 flavour in their mouths, is scarcely to be imagined. They were good and true in their inmost hearts; but it does appear that some of the tricks of which they were guilty left them less honest human creatures. There was a strong dash of satire97 in Sam's fun afterwards; there was a sharpness in Clary's temper, and a despotism in her dignity. To be sure, Clary always liked Sam's irony98 a thousand times better than another man's charity, and Sam ever thought Clary's impatient, imperious ways far before the cooing of any turtle-dove in the wood; but that was only an indica[Page 145]tion that the real metal was there, not that it was not smirched and corroded99 with rust56.
The first effect of Will and Dulcie's exploit was extremely prejudicial to the second case on the books. Uncle Barnet, a flourishing London barrister, a man with strong lines about his mouth, a wart4 on his forehead, and great laced flaps at his coat pockets, and who was supposed to be vehemently100 irresistible101 in the courts, hurried down to Redwater on purpose to overhaul102 Clary. What sort of doings were those she presided over in her maiden22 house at Redwater? Not the runaway103 marriage of a companion; that occurred every day in the most polite circles; Clary could not fairly be called to account for such a trifle; besides, a girl without a penny might do as she chose. But there was something a vast deal more scandalous lurking104 in the background: there was word of another fellow of the same kidney buzzing about Clary—Clary with her six thousand pounds' fortune, her Uncle Barnet, her youth, her handsome person, her what not? Now, as sure as Uncle Barnet's name was Barnet, as he wore a wig, as there was justice in the country, he would have the law of the fellow. Don't tell him the man was advancing rapidly in his profession. What was a painter's profession?—or the son of a gallant105 Captain Winnington? If a gallant Captain Winnington could do nothing more than gallant, he did not deserve the name; it was a piece of fudge to cheat foolish women with. Yes; he would have the law of the fellow if he buzzed about his niece; he would have the law of Clary if she encouraged him.
What could Clary do? she had been taught to look up [Page 146]to Uncle Barnet; she had seen polite society under his wife's wing; she had obeyed him at once as her Mentor106 and her Mæcenas—as her father and prime-minister. She cried and kissed his hand, and promised not to forget her position, and to be a good girl; and as she was not engaged to Sam Winnington, and did not know for certain that he would return to Redwater for the grass-mowing or the hop-gathering, she thought she might be free to promise also that she would not see him again with her will. Of course, she meant to keep her word if she might; but there are two at a bargain-making: and observe, she said "with her will;" she made no reference to Sam Winnington's pleasure. And yet, arrogant107 as Clary could be on her worst side, she had found her own intentions and purposes knocked down by Sam Winnington's determinations before now.
When Sam Winnington did come down next, Clary had such honour and spirit, that she ordered the door to be shut in his face; but then she cried far more bitterly than she had done to Uncle Barnet, in the same hall where Sam had painted her and jested with her; and somehow her affliction reached Sam's ears, living in a little place like Redwater at the "Rod and Fly" for several days on end.
At last another spice entered into the dish; another puppet appeared on the boards, and increased the disorder40 of the former puppets. The county member did turn up. Clary was a prophet: he came on a visit to his cousin the Justice, and was struck with tall, red and white, and large-eyed Clary; he furbished up an introduction, and offered her the most marked attention.
[Page 147]Mistress Clarissa was in ecstasy108, so her gossips declared, and so she almost persuaded herself, even after she had certain drawbacks to her pleasure, and certain cares intruding109 upon her exultation110; after she was again harassed111 and pestered112 with the inconvenient113 resuscitation114 of that incorrigible115 little plain, vain portrait painter, Sam Winnington. He was plain—he had not the county member's Roman nose; and he was vain—Clary had already mimicked116 the fling of his cravat117, and the wave of his white hands. Clever, smart fellows, like Sam Winnington, are generally coxcombs. Oh, Sam! where, in order to serve your own turn now, be your purple shadows, your creamy whites, your marvellous reading of people's characters, and writing of the same on their faces, their backs, their very hands and feet, which should leave the world your delighted debtor118 long after it had forgotten yon member's mighty119 services?
Clarissa had never danced so many dances with one evening's partner as with the smitten120 member, at the assembly given on the spur of the moment in his honour, whereat Sam Winnington, standing71 with his hat under his arm, and leaning against the carved door, was an observant spectator. He was not sullen121 as when Will Locke and Dulcie tumbled headlong into the pit of matrimony! he was smiling and civil; but his lips were white and his eyes sunken, as if the energetic young painter did not sleep of nights.
Clary was not sincere; she gave that infatuated, tolerably heavy, red-faced, fox-hunting member, own cousin to the Justice, every reason to suppose that she would lend [Page 148]him the most favourable122 ear, when he chose to pay her his addresses, and then afforded him the amplest provocation123 to cry, "Caprice—thy name is woman." She had just sung "Tantivy" to him after supper, when she sailed up to Sam Winnington, and addressed him demurely:—
"I have come to wish you good-night, sir."
"And I to wish you farewell, madam."
"Farewell is a hard word, Master Winnington," returned Clary, with a great tide of colour rushing into her face, and a gasp124 as for breath, and tracing figures nervously125 on the floor with her little shoe and its brave paste-buckle.
"It shall be said though, and that without further delay, unless three very different words be put in its place."
"Sir, you are tyrannous," protested Clary, in a tremulous voice.
"No, Mistress Clarissa, I have had too good cause to know who has been the tyrant126 in this business," declared Sam Winnington, speaking out roundly, as a woman loves to hear a man, though it be to her own condemnation127, "You have used me cruelly, Clarissa Gage; you have abused my faith, wasted the best years of my life, and deceived my affections."
"What were the three words," asked Clary, faint and low.
"'Yours, Sam Winnington;' or else, 'Farewell, Clarissa Gage?'"
"Yours, Sam Winnington."
He caught her so sharp up by the arm at that sentence, that some persons said Mistress Clarissa had staggered [Page 149]and was about to swoon; others, that the vulgar fellow of a painter had behaved like a brute128, pulled her to his side as she was marching past him, and accused her of perjury129 before the whole ball-room. Bold men were apt at that time to seize aggravating130 women (especially if they were the wives of their bosoms) by the hairs of their heads, so that a trifling131 rudeness was little thought of. The county member, however, pricked132 up his long ears, flushed, fiercely stamped to the particular corner, and had a constable133 in his eye to arrest the beggarly offender134; but before he could get at the disputants, he had the mortification135 to see them retreat amicably136 into a side room, and the next thing announced to him was, that Mistress Clarissa had evanished home, before anybody could get rightly at the bottom of the mystery.
Very fortunately, the county member ascertained137 the following day, before he had compromised his pride another hair's-breadth, that the fickle138 damsel had accepted the painter's escort the previous evening, and had admitted the painter at an incredibly early hour the subsequent morning. After such indiscretion, the great man would have nothing more to say to Mistress Clarissa, but departed in great dudgeon, and would never so much as set his foot within Redwater again; not even at the following election.
Uncle Barnet was forced to come round and acknowledge, with a very bad grace, that legislation in heiresses' marriages—in any marriage—is out of the question. No man knew how a marriage would turn out; you might as well pledge yourself for the weather next morning; [Page 150]certainly there were signs for the wise; but were weather almanacs deceptive139 institutions or were they not? The innocent old theory of marriages being made in heaven was the best. Clary was not such a mighty catch after all: a six thousand pounds' fortune was not inexhaustible, and the county member might never have come the length of asking its owner's price. People did talk of a foolish engagement in his youth to one of his yeomen's daughters, and of a wealthy old aunt who ruled the roast; though her well-grown nephew, not being returned for a rotten borough140, voted with dignity for so many thousands of his fellow-subjects in the Commons. Uncle Barnet, with a peculiarly wry141 face, did reluctantly what he did not often advise his clients to do, unless in desperate circumstances—he compromised.
Clary was made a wife in the height of summer, with all the rites142 and ceremonies of the Church, with all the damasks, and laces, and leadings by the tips of the fingers, and lavishings of larkspurs, lupins, and tiger-lilies proper for the occasion, which Dulcie had lost. Nay143, the supper came off at the very "Rod and Fly," with the tap open to the roaring, jubilant public; a score of healths were drunk upstairs with all the honours, the bride and bridegroom being king and queen of the company: even Uncle Barnet owned that Sam Winnington was very complaisant—rather exceed in his complaisance144, he supplemented scornfully; but surely Sam might mend that fault with others in the bright days to come. It is only the modern English who act Hamlet minus the Prince of Denmark; sitting at the bridal feast without bride or bridegroom. [Page 151]They say hearts are often caught on the rebound145, and if all ill-treated suitors spoke146 out warmly yet sternly like Sam Winnington, and did not merely fence about and either sneer147 or whine148, more young fools might be saved, even when at touch-and-go with their folly149, after the merciful fate of Clary and to the benefit of themselves and of society.
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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thwarts
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| 阻挠( thwart的第三人称单数 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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wart
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| n.疣，肉赘；瑕疵 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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vilely
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gage
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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helping
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sketches
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throbbed
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gratitude
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softening
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potteries
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| n.陶器( pottery的名词复数 )；陶器厂；陶土；陶器制造（术） | |
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initiated
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tinting
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feats
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paltry
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reluctance
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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maiden
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primrose
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temperate
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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26
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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27
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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28
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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29
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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30
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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31
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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32
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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33
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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34
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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35
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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37
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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38
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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39
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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40
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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41
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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42
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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43
accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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44
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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45
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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46
snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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47
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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48
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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49
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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50
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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51
lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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52
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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54
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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55
dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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56
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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57
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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58
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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59
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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60
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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61
waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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62
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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63
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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64
complicating
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| 使复杂化( complicate的现在分词 ) | |
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65
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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66
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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67
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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68
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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69
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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70
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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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
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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73
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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74
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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75
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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76
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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77
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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78
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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79
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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81
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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82
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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83
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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84
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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85
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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86
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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87
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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88
glumly
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| adv.忧郁地，闷闷不乐地；阴郁地 | |
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89
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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90
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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91
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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92
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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93
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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94
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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95
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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96
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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97
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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98
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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99
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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100
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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101
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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102
overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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103
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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104
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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105
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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106
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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107
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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108
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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109
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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110
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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111
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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112
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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114
resuscitation
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| n.复活 | |
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115
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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116
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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117
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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118
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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119
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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120
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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121
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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122
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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123
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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124
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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125
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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126
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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127
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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128
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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129
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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130
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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131
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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132
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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133
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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134
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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135
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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136
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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137
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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139
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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140
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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141
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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142
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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143
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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144
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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145
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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146
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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147
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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148
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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149
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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