“Neither at that, nor treble the sum,” responded the gaunt, grizzled and threadbare Peter Goldthwaite. “The fact is, Mr. Brown, you must find another site for your brick block and be content to leave my estate with the present owner. Next summer I intend to put a splendid new mansion3 over the cellar of the old house.”
“Pho, Peter!” cried Mr. Brown as he opened the kitchen door; “content yourself with building castles in the air, where house-lots are cheaper than on earth, to say nothing of the cost of bricks and mortar4. Such foundations are solid enough for your edifices5, while this underneath7 us is just the thing for mine; and so we may both be suited. What say you, again?”
“Precisely8 what I said before, Mr. Brown,” answered Peter Goldthwaite. “And, as for castles in the air, mine may not be as magnificent as that sort of architecture, but perhaps as substantial, Mr. Brown, as the very respectable brick block with dry-goods stores, tailors’ shops and banking-rooms on the lower floor, and lawyers’ offices in the second story, which you are so anxious to substitute.”
“And the cost, Peter? Eh?” said Mr. Brown as he withdrew in something of a pet. “That, I suppose, will be provided for off-hand by drawing a check on Bubble Bank?”
John Brown and Peter Goldthwaite had been jointly9 known to the commercial world between twenty and thirty years before under the firm of Goldthwaite & Brown; which copartnership, however, was speedily dissolved by the natural incongruity10 of its constituent11 parts. Since that event, John Brown, with exactly the qualities of a thousand other John Browns, and by just such plodding12 methods as they used, had prospered13 wonderfully and become one of the wealthiest John Browns on earth. Peter Goldthwaite, on the contrary, after innumerable schemes which ought to have collected all the coin and paper currency of the country into his coffers, was as needy14 a gentleman as ever wore a patch upon his elbow. The contrast between him and his former partner may be briefly15 marked, for Brown never reckoned upon luck, yet always had it, while Peter made luck the main condition of his projects, and always missed it. While the means held out his speculations16 had been magnificent, but were chiefly confined of late years to such small business as adventures in the lottery18. Once he had gone on a gold-gathering19 expedition somewhere to the South, and ingeniously contrived20 to empty his pockets more thoroughly21 than ever, while others, doubtless, were filling theirs with native bullion22 by the handful. More recently he had expended23 a legacy24 of a thousand or two of dollars in purchasing Mexican scrip, and thereby25 became the proprietor26 of a province; which, however, so far as Peter could find out, was situated27 where he might have had an empire for the same money — in the clouds. From a search after this valuable real estate Peter returned so gaunt and threadbare that on reaching New England the scarecrows in the corn-fields beckoned28 to him as he passed by. “They did but flutter in the wind,” quoth Peter Goldthwaite. No, Peter, they beckoned, for the scarecrows knew their brother.
At the period of our story his whole visible income would not have paid the tax of the old mansion in which we find him. It was one of those rusty29, moss-grown, many-peaked wooden houses which are scattered30 about the streets of our elder towns, with a beetle-browed second story projecting over the foundation, as if it frowned at the novelty around it. This old paternal31 edifice6, needy as he was, and though, being centrally situated on the principal street of the town, it would have brought him a handsome sum, the sagacious Peter had his own reasons for never parting with, either by auction32 or private sale. There seemed, indeed, to be a fatality33 that connected him with his birthplace; for, often as he had stood on the verge34 of ruin, and standing35 there even now, he had not yet taken the step beyond it which would have compelled him to surrender the house to his creditors36. So here he dwelt with bad luck till good should come.
Here, then, in his kitchen — the only room where a spark of fire took off the chill of a November evening — poor Peter Goldthwaite had just been visited by his rich old partner. At the close of their interview, Peter, with rather a mortified37 look, glanced downward at his dress, parts of which appeared as ancient as the days of Goldthwaite & Brown. His upper garment was a mixed surtout, woefully faded, and patched with newer stuff on each elbow; beneath this he wore a threadbare black coat, some of the silk buttons of which had been replaced with others of a different pattern; and, lastly, though he lacked not a pair of gray pantaloons, they were very shabby ones, and had been partially38 turned brown by the frequent toasting of Peter’s shins before a scanty39 fire. Peter’s person was in keeping with his goodly apparel. Gray-headed, hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked and lean-bodied, he was the perfect picture of a man who had fed on windy schemes and empty hopes till he could neither live on such unwholesome trash nor stomach more substantial food. But, withal, this Peter Goldthwaite, crack-brained simpleton as, perhaps, he was, might have cut a very brilliant figure in the world had he employed his imagination in the airy business of poetry instead of making it a demon40 of mischief41 in mercantile pursuits. After all, he was no bad fellow, but as harmless as a child, and as honest and honorable, and as much of the gentleman which Nature meant him for, as an irregular life and depressed42 circumstances will permit any man to be.
As Peter stood on the uneven43 bricks of his hearth44 looking round at the disconsolate45 old kitchen his eyes began to kindle46 with the illumination of an enthusiasm that never long deserted47 him. He raised his hand, clenched48 it and smote49 it energetically against the smoky panel over the fireplace.
“The time is come,” said he; “with such a treasure at command, it were folly50 to be a poor man any longer. Tomorrow morning I will begin with the garret, nor desist till I have torn the house down.”
Deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark cavern51, sat a little old woman mending one of the two pairs of stockings wherewith Peter Goldthwaite kept his toes from being frost-bitten. As the feet were ragged52 past all darning, she had cut pieces out of a cast-off flannel53 petticoat to make new soles. Tabitha Porter was an old maid upward of sixty years of age, fifty-five of which she had sat in that same chimney-corner, such being the length of time since Peter’s grandfather had taken her from the almshouse. She had no friend but Peter, nor Peter any friend but Tabitha; so long as Peter might have a shelter for his own head, Tabitha would know where to shelter hers, or, being homeless elsewhere, she would take her master by the hand and bring him to her native home, the almshouse. Should it ever be necessary, she loved him well enough to feed him with her last morsel54 and clothe him with her under-petticoat. But Tabitha was a queer old woman, and, though never infected with Peter’s flightiness, had become so accustomed to his freaks and follies55 that she viewed them all as matters of course. Hearing him threaten to tear the house down, she looked quietly up from her work.
“Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter,” said she.
“The sooner we have it all down, the better,” said Peter Goldthwaite. “I am tired to death of living in this cold, dark, windy, smoky, creaking, groaning56, dismal57 old house. I shall feel like a younger man when we get into my splendid brick mansion, as, please Heaven, we shall by this time next autumn. You shall have a room on the sunny side, old Tabby, finished and furnished as best may suit your own notions.”
“I should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen,” answered Tabitha. “It will never be like home to me till the chimney-corner gets as black with smoke as this, and that won’t be these hundred years. How much do you mean to lay out on the house, Mr. Peter?”
“What is that to the purpose?” exclaimed Peter, loftily. “Did not my great-grand-uncle, Peter Goldthwaite, who died seventy years ago, and whose namesake I am, leave treasure enough to build twenty such?”
“I can’t say but he did, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, threading her needle.
Tabitha well understood that Peter had reference to an immense hoard58 of the precious metals which was said to exist somewhere in the cellar or walls, or under the floors, or in some concealed59 closet or other out-of-the-way nook of the old house. This wealth, according to tradition, had been accumulated by a former Peter Goldthwaite whose character seems to have borne a remarkable60 similitude to that of the Peter of our story. Like him, he was a wild projector61, seeking to heap up gold by the bushel and the cart-load instead of scraping it together coin by coin. Like Peter the second, too, his projects had almost invariably failed, and, but for the magnificent success of the final one, would have left him with hardly a coat and pair of breeches to his gaunt and grizzled person. Reports were various as to the nature of his fortunate speculation17, one intimating that the ancient Peter had made the gold by alchemy; another, that he had conjured62 it out of people’s pockets by the black art; and a third — still more unaccountable — that the devil had given him free access to the old provincial63 treasury64. It was affirmed, however, that some secret impediment had debarred him from the enjoyment65 of his riches, and that he had a motive66 for concealing67 them from his heir, or, at any rate, had died without disclosing the place of deposit. The present Peter’s father had faith enough in the story to cause the cellar to be dug over. Peter himself chose to consider the legend as an indisputable truth, and amid his many troubles had this one consolation68 — that, should all other resources fail, he might build up his fortunes by tearing his house down. Yet, unless he felt a lurking69 distrust of the golden tale, it is difficult to account for his permitting the paternal roof to stand so long, since he had never yet seen the moment when his predecessor’s treasure would not have found plenty of room in his own strong-box. But now was the crisis. Should he delay the search a little longer, the house would pass from the lineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, to remain in its burial-place till the ruin of the aged70 walls should discover it to strangers of a future generation.
“Yes,” cried Peter Goldthwaite, again; “tomorrow I will set about it.”
The deeper he looked at the matter, the more certain of success grew Peter. His spirits were naturally so elastic71 that even now, in the blasted autumn of his age, he could often compete with the springtime gayety of other people. Enlivened by his brightening prospects72, he began to caper73 about the kitchen like a hobgoblin, with the queerest antics of his lean limbs and gesticulations of his starved features. Nay75, in the exuberance76 of his feelings, he seized both of Tabitha’s hands and danced the old lady across the floor till the oddity of her rheumatic motions set him into a roar of laughter, which was echoed back from the rooms and chambers77, as if Peter Goldthwaite were laughing in every one. Finally, he bounded upward, almost out of sight, into the smoke that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor again, endeavored to resume his customary gravity.
“To-morrow, at sunrise,” he repeated, taking his lamp to retire to bed, “I’ll see whether this treasure be hid in the wall of the garret.”
“And, as we’re out of wood, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, puffing79 and panting with her late gymnastics, “as fast as you tear the house down I’ll make a fire with the pieces.”
Gorgeous that night were the dreams of Peter Goldthwaite. At one time he was turning a ponderous80 key in an iron door not unlike the door of a sepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a vault81 heaped up with gold coin as plentifully82 as golden corn in a granary. There were chased goblets83, also, and tureens, salvers, dinner-dishes and dish-covers of gold or silver-gilt, besides chains and other jewels, incalculably rich, though tarnished84 with the damps of the vault; for, of all the wealth that was irrevocably lost to man, whether buried in the earth or sunken in the sea, Peter Goldthwaite had found it in this one treasure-place. Anon he had returned to the old house as poor as ever, and was received at the door by the gaunt and grizzled figure of a man whom he might have mistaken for himself, only that his garments were of a much elder fashion. But the house, without losing its former aspect, had been changed into a palace of the precious metals. The floors, walls and ceilings were of burnished85 silver; the doors, the window-frames, the cornices, the balustrades and the steps of the staircase, of pure gold; and silver, with gold bottoms, were the chairs, and gold, standing on silver legs, the high chests of drawers, and silver the bedsteads, with blankets of woven gold and sheets of silver tissue. The house had evidently been transmuted86 by a single touch, for it retained all the marks that Peter remembered, but in gold or silver instead of wood, and the initials of his name — which when a boy he had cut in the wooden door-post — remained as deep in the pillar of gold. A happy man would have been Peter Goldthwaite except for a certain ocular deception87 which, whenever he glanced backward, caused the house to darken from its glittering magnificence into the sordid88 gloom of yesterday.
Up betimes rose Peter, seized an axe89, hammer and saw which he had placed by his bedside, and hied him to the garret. It was but scantily90 lighted up as yet by the frosty fragments of a sunbeam which began to glimmer91 through the almost opaque92 bull-eyes of the window. A moralizer might find abundant themes for his speculative93 and impracticable wisdom in a garret. There is the limbo94 of departed fashions, aged trifles of a day and whatever was valuable only to one generation of men, and which passed to the garret when that generation passed to the grave — not for safekeeping, but to be out of the way. Peter saw piles of yellow and musty account-books in parchment covers, wherein creditors long dead and buried had written the names of dead and buried debtors95 in ink now so faded that their moss-grown tombstones were more legible. He found old moth-eaten garments, all in rags and tatters, or Peter would have put them on. Here was a naked and rusty sword — not a sword of service, but a gentleman’s small French rapier — which had never left its scabbard till it lost it. Here were canes96 of twenty different sorts, but no gold-headed ones, and shoebuckles of various pattern and material, but not silver nor set with precious stones. Here was a large box full of shoes with high heels and peaked toes. Here, on a shelf, were a multitude of phials half filled with old apothecary’s stuff which, when the other half had done its business on Peter’s ancestors, had been brought hither from the death-chamber78. Here — not to give a longer inventory97 of articles that will never be put up at auction — was the fragment of a full-length looking-glass which by the dust and dimness of its surface made the picture of these old things look older than the reality. When Peter, not knowing that there was a mirror there, caught the faint traces of his own figure, he partly imagined that the former Peter Goldthwaite had come back either to assist or impede98 his search for the hidden wealth. And at that moment a strange notion glimmered99 through his brain that he was the identical Peter who had concealed the gold, and ought to know whereabout it lay. This, however, he had unaccountably forgotten.
“Well, Mr. Peter!” cried Tabitha, on the garret stairs. “Have you torn the house down enough to heat the teakettle?”
“Not yet, old Tabby,” answered Peter, “but that’s soon done, as you shall see.” With the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, and laid about him so vigorously that the dust flew, the boards crashed, and in a twinkling the old woman had an apron100 full of broken rubbish.
“We shall get our winter’s wood cheap,” quoth Tabitha.
The good work being thus commenced, Peter beat down all before him, smiting101 and hewing102 at the joints103 and timbers, unclenching spike-nails, ripping and tearing away boards, with a tremendous racket from morning till night. He took care, however, to leave the outside shell of the house untouched, so that the neighbors might not suspect what was going on.
Never, in any of his vagaries104, though each had made him happy while it lasted, had Peter been happier than now. Perhaps, after all, there was something in Peter Goldthwaite’s turn of mind which brought him an inward recompense for all the external evil that it caused. If he were poor, ill-clad, even hungry and exposed, as it were, to be utterly105 annihilated106 by a precipice107 of impending108 ruin, yet only his body remained in these miserable109 circumstances, while his aspiring110 soul enjoyed the sunshine of a bright futurity. It was his nature to be always young, and the tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. Gray hairs were nothing — no, nor wrinkles nor infirmity; he might look old, indeed, and be somewhat disagreeably connected with a gaunt old figure much the worse for wear, but the true, the essential Peter was a young man of high hopes just entering on the world. At the kindling111 of each new fire his burnt-out youth rose afresh from the old embers and ashes. It rose exulting112 now. Having lived thus long — not too long, but just to the right age — a susceptible113 bachelor with warm and tender dreams, he resolved, so soon as the hidden gold should flash to light, to go a-wooing and win the love of the fairest maid in town. What heart could resist him? Happy Peter Goldthwaite!
Every evening — as Peter had long absented himself from his former lounging-places at insurance offices, news-rooms, and book-stores, and as the honor of his company was seldom requested in private circles — he and Tabitha used to sit down sociably114 by the kitchen hearth. This was always heaped plentifully with the rubbish of his day’s labor115. As the foundation of the fire there would be a goodly-sized back-log of red oak, which after being sheltered from rain or damp above a century still hissed116 with the heat and distilled117 streams of water from each end, as if the tree had been cut down within a week or two. Next there were large sticks, sound, black and heavy, which had lost the principle of decay and were indestructible except by fire, wherein they glowed like red-hot bars of iron. On this solid basis Tabitha would rear a lighter118 structure, composed of the splinters of door-panels, ornamented119 mouldings, and such quick combustibles, which caught like straw and threw a brilliant blaze high up the spacious120 flue, making its sooty sides visible almost to the chimney-top. Meantime, the gloom of the old kitchen would be chased out of the cobwebbed corners and away from the dusky cross-beams overhead, and driven nobody could tell whither, while Peter smiled like a gladsome man and Tabitha seemed a picture of comfortable age. All this, of course, was but an emblem121 of the bright fortune which the destruction of the house would shed upon its occupants.
While the dry pine was flaming and crackling like an irregular discharge of fairy-musketry, Peter sat looking and listening in a pleasant state of excitement; but when the brief blaze and uproar122 were succeeded by the dark-red glow, the substantial heat and the deep singing sound which were to last throughout the evening, his humor became talkative. One night — the hundredth time — he teased Tabitha to tell him something new about his great-granduncle.
“You have been sitting in that chimney-corner fifty-five years, old Tabby, and must have heard many a tradition about him,” said Peter. “Did not you tell me that when you first came to the house there was an old woman sitting where you sit now who had been housekeeper123 to the famous Peter Goldthwaite?”
“So there was, Mr. Peter,” answered Tabitha, “and she was near about a hundred years old. She used to say that she and old Peter Goldthwaite had often spent a sociable124 evening by the kitchen fire — pretty much as you and I are doing now, Mr. Peter.”
“The old fellow must have resembled me in more points than one,” said Peter, complacently125, “or he never would have grown so rich. But methinks he might have invested the money better than he did. No interest! nothing but good security! and the house to be torn down to come at it! What made him hide it so snug, Tabby?”
“Because he could not spend it,” said Tabitha, “for as often as he went to unlock the chest the Old Scratch came behind and caught his arm. The money, they say, was paid Peter out of his purse, and he wanted Peter to give him a deed of this house and land, which Peter swore he would not do.”
“Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner,” remarked Peter. “But this is all nonsense, Tabby; I don’t believe the story.”
“Well, it may not be just the truth,” said Tabitha, “for some folks say that Peter did make over the house to the Old Scratch, and that’s the reason it has always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. And as soon as Peter had given him the deed the chest flew open, and Peter caught up a handful of the gold. But, lo and behold126! there was nothing in his fist but a parcel of old rags.”
“Hold your tongue, you silly old Tabby!” cried Peter, in great wrath127. “They were as good golden guineas as ever bore the effigies128 of the king of England. It seems as if I could recollect129 the whole circumstance, and how I, or old Peter, or whoever it was, thrust in my hand, or his hand, and drew it out all of a blaze with gold. Old rags indeed!”
But it was not an old woman’s legend that would discourage Peter Goldthwaite. All night long he slept among pleasant dreams, and awoke at daylight with a joyous130 throb131 of the heart which few are fortunate enough to feel beyond their boyhood. Day after day he labored132 hard without wasting a moment except at meal-times, when Tabitha summoned him to the pork and cabbage, or such other sustenance133 as she had picked up or Providence134 had sent them. Being a truly pious135 man, Peter never failed to ask a blessing136 — if the food were none of the best, then so much the more earnestly, as it was more needed — nor to return thanks, if the dinner had been scanty, yet for the good appetite which was better than a sick stomach at a feast. Then did he hurry back to his toil137, and in a moment was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from the old walls, though sufficiently138 perceptible to the ear by the clatter139 which he raised in the midst of it.
How enviable is the consciousness of being usefully employed! Nothing troubled Peter, or nothing but those phantoms140 of the mind which seem like vague recollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments141. He often paused with his axe uplifted in the air, and said to himself, “Peter Goldthwaite, did you never strike this blow before?” or “Peter, what need of tearing the whole house down? Think a little while, and you will remember where the gold is hidden.” Days and weeks passed on, however, without any remarkable discovery. Sometimes, indeed, a lean gray rat peeped forth142 at the lean gray man, wondering what devil had got into the old house, which had always been so peaceable till now. And occasionally Peter sympathized with the sorrows of a female mouse who had brought five or six pretty, little, soft and delicate young ones into the world just in time to see them crushed by its ruin. But as yet no treasure.
By this time, Peter, being as determined143 as fate and as diligent144 as time, had made an end with the uppermost regions and got down to the second story, where he was busy in one of the front chambers. It had formerly145 been the state-bedchamber, and was honored by tradition as the sleeping-apartment of Governor Dudley and many other eminent146 guests. The furniture was gone. There were remnants of faded and tattered147 paper-hangings, but larger spaces of bare wall ornamented with charcoal148 sketches149, chiefly of people’s heads in profile. These being specimens151 of Peter’s youthful genius, it went more to his heart to obliterate152 them than if they had been pictures on a church wall by Michael Angelo. One sketch150, however, and that the best one, affected153 him differently. It represented a ragged man partly supporting himself on a spade and bending his lean body over a hole in the earth, with one hand extended to grasp something that he had found. But close behind him, with a fiendish laugh on his features, appeared a figure with horns, a tufted tail and a cloven hoof154.
“Avaunt, Satan!” cried Peter. “The man shall have his gold.” Uplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such a blow on the head as not only demolished155 him, but the treasure-seeker also, and caused the whole scene to vanish like magic. Moreover, his axe broke quite through the plaster and laths and discovered a cavity.
“Mercy on us, Mr. Peter! Are you quarrelling with the Old Scratch?” said Tabitha, who was seeking some fuel to put under the dinner-pot.
Without answering the old woman, Peter broke down a further space of the wall, and laid open a small closet or cupboard on one side of the fireplace, about breast-high from the ground. It contained nothing but a brass156 lamp covered with verdigris157, and a dusty piece of parchment. While Peter inspected the latter, Tabitha seized the lamp and began to rub it with her apron.
“There is no use in rubbing it, Tabitha,” said Peter. “It is not Aladdin’s lamp, though I take it to be a token of as much luck. Look here, Tabby!”
Tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her nose, which was saddled with a pair of iron-bound spectacles. But no sooner had she begun to puzzle over it than she burst into a chuckling158 laugh, holding both her hands against her sides.
“You can’t make a fool of the old woman,” cried she. “This is your own handwriting, Mr. Peter, the same as in the letter you sent me from Mexico.”
“There is certainly a considerable resemblance,” said Peter, again examining the parchment. “But you know yourself, Tabby, that this closet must have been plastered up before you came to the house or I came into the world. No; this is old Peter Goldthwaite’s writing. These columns of pounds, shillings and pence are his figures, denoting the amount of the treasure, and this, at the bottom, is doubtless a reference to the place of concealment160. But the ink has either faded or peeled off, so that it is absolutely illegible161. What a pity!”
“Well, this lamp is as good as new. That’s some comfort,” said Tabitha.
“A lamp!” thought Peter. “That indicates light on my researches.”
For the present Peter felt more inclined to ponder on this discovery than to resume his labors162. After Tabitha had gone down stairs he stood poring over the parchment at one of the front windows, which was so obscured with dust that the sun could barely throw an uncertain shadow of the casement163 across the floor. Peter forced it open and looked out upon the great street of the town, while the sun looked in at his old house. The air, though mild, and even warm, thrilled Peter as with a dash of water.
It was the first day of the January thaw164. The snow lay deep upon the housetops, but was rapidly dissolving into millions of water-drops, which sparkled downward through the sunshine with the noise of a summer shower beneath the eaves. Along the street the trodden snow was as hard and solid as a pavement of white marble, and had not yet grown moist in the spring-like temperature. But when Peter thrust forth his head, he saw that the inhabitants, if not the town, were already thawed165 out by this warm day, after two or three weeks of winter weather. It gladdened him — a gladness with a sigh breathing through it — to see the stream of ladies gliding166 along the slippery sidewalks with their red cheeks set off by quilted hoods167, boas and sable168 capes169 like roses amidst a new kind of foliage170. The sleigh bells jingled171 to and fro continually, sometimes announcing the arrival of a sleigh from Vermont laden172 with the frozen bodies of porkers or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two; sometimes, of a regular marketman with chickens, geese and turkeys, comprising the whole colony of a barn-yard; and sometimes, of a farmer and his dame173 who had come to town partly for the ride, partly to go a-shopping and partly for the sale of some eggs and butter. This couple rode in an old-fashioned square sleigh which had served them twenty winters and stood twenty summers in the sun beside their door. Now a gentleman and lady skimmed the snow in an elegant car shaped somewhat like a cockle-shell; now a stage-sleigh with its cloth curtains thrust aside to admit the sun dashed rapidly down the street, whirling in and out among the vehicles that obstructed174 its passage; now came round a corner the similitude of Noah’s ark on runners, being an immense open sleigh with seats for fifty people and drawn175 by a dozen horses. This spacious receptacle was populous176 with merry maids and merry bachelors, merry girls and boys and merry old folks, all alive with fun and grinning to the full width of their mouths. They kept up a buzz of babbling177 voices and low laughter, and sometimes burst into a deep, joyous shout which the spectators answered with three cheers, while a gang of roguish boys let drive their snow-balls right among the pleasure-party. The sleigh passed on, and when concealed by a bend of the street was still audible by a distant cry of merriment.
Never had Peter beheld178 a livelier scene than was constituted by all these accessories — the bright sun, the flashing water-drops, the gleaming snow, the cheerful multitude, the variety of rapid vehicles and the jingle-jangle of merry bells which made the heart dance to their music. Nothing dismal was to be seen except that peaked piece of antiquity179 Peter Goldthwaite’s house, which might well look sad externally, since such a terrible consumption was preying180 on its insides. And Peter’s gaunt figure, half visible in the projecting second story, was worthy181 of his house.
“Peter! How goes it, friend Peter?” cried a voice across the street as Peter was drawing in his head. “Look out here, Peter!”
Peter looked, and saw his old partner, Mr. John Brown, on the opposite sidewalk, portly and comfortable, with his furred cloak thrown open, disclosing a handsome surtout beneath. His voice had directed the attention of the whole town to Peter Goldthwaite’s window, and to the dusty scarecrow which appeared at it.
“I say, Peter!” cried Mr. Brown, again; “what the devil are you about there, that I hear such a racket whenever I pass by? You are repairing the old house, I suppose, making a new one of it? Eh?”
“Too late for that, I am afraid, Mr. Brown,” replied Peter. “If I make it new, it will be new inside and out, from the cellar upward.”
“Had not you better let me take the job?” said Mr. Brown, significantly.
“Not yet,” answered Peter, hastily shutting the window; for ever since he had been in search of the treasure he hated to have people stare at him.
As he drew back, ashamed of his outward poverty, yet proud of the secret wealth within his grasp, a haughty182 smile shone out on Peter’s visage with precisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid chamber. He endeavored to assume such a mien183 as his ancestor had probably worn when he gloried in the building of a strong house for a home to many generations of his posterity184. But the chamber was very dark to his snow-dazzled eyes, and very dismal, too, in contrast with the living scene that he had just looked upon. His brief glimpse into the street had given him a forcible impression of the manner in which the world kept itself cheerful and prosperous by social pleasures and an intercourse185 of business, while he in seclusion186 was pursuing an object that might possibly be a phantasm by a method which most people would call madness. It is one great advantage of a gregarious187 mode of life that each person rectifies188 his mind by other minds and squares his conduct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost in eccentricity189. Peter Goldthwaite had exposed himself to this influence by merely looking out of the window. For a while he doubted whether there were any hidden chest of gold, and in that case whether it was so exceedingly wise to tear the house down only to be convinced of its non-existence.
But this was momentary190. Peter the Destroyer resumed the task which Fate had assigned him, nor faltered191 again till it was accomplished192. In the course of his search he met with many things that are usually found in the ruins of an old house, and also with some that are not. What seemed most to the purpose was a rusty key which had been thrust into a chink of the wall, with a wooden label appended to the handle, bearing the initials “P.G.” Another singular discovery was that of a bottle of wine walled up in an old oven. A tradition ran in the family that Peter’s grandfather, a jovial193 officer in the old French war, had set aside many dozens of the precious liquor for the benefit of topers then unborn. Peter needed no cordial to sustain his hopes, and therefore kept the wine to gladden his success. Many half-pence did he pick up that had been lost through the cracks of the floor, and some few Spanish coins, and the half of a broken sixpence which had doubtless been a love-token. There was likewise a silver coronation medal of George III. But old Peter Goldthwaite’s strong-box fled from one dark corner to another, or otherwise eluded194 the second Peter’s clutches till, should he seek much farther, he must burrow195 into the earth.
We will not follow him in his triumphant196 progress step by step. Suffice it that Peter worked like a steam-engine and finished in that one winter the job which all the former inhabitants of the house, with time and the elements to aid them, had only half done in a century. Except the kitchen, every room and chamber was now gutted197. The house was nothing but a shell, the apparition198 of a house, as unreal as the painted edifices of a theatre. It was like the perfect rind of a great cheese in which a mouse had dwelt and nibbled199 till it was a cheese no more. And Peter was the mouse.
What Peter had torn down, Tabitha had burnt up, for she wisely considered that without a house they should need no wood to warm it, and therefore economy was nonsense. Thus the whole house might be said to have dissolved in smoke and flown up among the clouds through the great black flue of the kitchen chimney. It was an admirable parallel to the feat74 of the man who jumped down his own throat.
On the night between the last day of winter and the first of spring every chink and cranny had been ransacked200 except within the precincts of the kitchen. This fated evening was an ugly one. A snow-storm had set in some hours before, and was still driven and tossed about the atmosphere by a real hurricane which fought against the house as if the prince of the air in person were putting the final stroke to Peter’s labors. The framework being so much weakened and the inward props201 removed, it would have been no marvel202 if in some stronger wrestle203 of the blast the rotten walls of the edifice and all the peaked roofs had come crashing down upon the owner’s head. He, however, was careless of the peril204, but as wild and restless as the night itself, or as the flame that quivered up the chimney at each roar of the tempestuous205 wind.
“The wine, Tabitha,” he cried — “my grandfather’s rich old wine! We will drink it now.”
Tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in the chimney-corner and placed the bottle before Peter, close beside the old brass lamp which had likewise been the prize of his researches. Peter held it before his eyes, and, looking through the liquid medium, beheld the kitchen illuminated206 with a golden glory which also enveloped207 Tabitha and gilded208 her silver hair and converted her mean garments into robes of queenly splendor209. It reminded him of his golden dream.
“Mr. Peter,” remarked Tabitha, “must the wine be drunk before the money is found?”
“The money is found!” exclaimed Peter, with a sort of fierceness. “The chest is within my reach; I will not sleep till I have turned this key in the rusty lock. But first of all let us drink.”
There being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the neck of the bottle with old Peter Goldthwaite’s rusty key, and decapitated the sealed cork210 at a single blow. He then filled two little china teacups which Tabitha had brought from the cupboard. So clear and brilliant was this aged wine that it shone within the cups and rendered the sprig of scarlet211 flowers at the bottom of each more distinctly visible than when there had been no wine there. Its rich and delicate perfume wasted itself round the kitchen.
“Drink, Tabitha!” cried Peter. “Blessings on the honest old fellow who set aside this good liquor for you and me! And here’s to Peter Goldthwaite’s memory!”
“And good cause have we to remember him,” quoth Tabitha as she drank.
How many years, and through what changes of fortune and various calamity212, had that bottle hoarded213 up its effervescent joy, to be quaffed214 at last by two such boon-companions! A portion of the happiness of a former age had been kept for them, and was now set free in a crowd of rejoicing visions to sport amid the storm and desolation of the present time. Until they have finished the bottle we must turn our eyes elsewhere.
It so chanced that on this stormy night Mr. John Brown found himself ill at ease in his wire-cushioned arm-chair by the glowing grate of anthracite which heated his handsome parlor215. He was naturally a good sort of a man, and kind and pitiful whenever the misfortunes of others happened to reach his heart through the padded vest of his own prosperity. This evening he had thought much about his old partner, Peter Goldthwaite, his strange vagaries and continual ill-luck, the poverty of his dwelling216 at Mr. Brown’s last visit, and Peter’s crazed and haggard aspect when he had talked with him at the window.
“Poor fellow!” thought Mr. John Brown. “Poor crack-brained Peter Goldthwaite! For old acquaintance’ sake I ought to have taken care that he was comfortable this rough winter.” These feelings grew so powerful that, in spite of the inclement217 weather, he resolved to visit Peter Goldthwaite immediately.
The strength of the impulse was really singular. Every shriek218 of the blast seemed a summons, or would have seemed so had Mr. Brown been accustomed to hear the echoes of his own fancy in the wind. Much amazed at such active benevolence219, he huddled220 himself in his cloak, muffled221 his throat and ears in comforters and handkerchiefs, and, thus fortified222, bade defiance223 to the tempest. But the powers of the air had rather the best of the battle. Mr. Brown was just weathering the corner by Peter Goldthwaite’s house when the hurricane caught him off his feet, tossed him face downward into a snow-bank and proceeded to bury his protuberant224 part beneath fresh drifts. There seemed little hope of his reappearance earlier than the next thaw. At the same moment his hat was snatched away and whirled aloft into some far-distant region whence no tidings have as yet returned.
Nevertheless Mr. Brown contrived to burrow a passage through the snow-drift, and with his bare head bent225 against the storm floundered onward226 to Peter’s door. There was such a creaking and groaning and rattling227, and such an ominous228 shaking, throughout the crazy edifice that the loudest rap would have been inaudible to those within. He therefore entered without ceremony, and groped his way to the kitchen. His intrusion even there was unnoticed. Peter and Tabitha stood with their backs to the door, stooping over a large chest which apparently229 they had just dragged from a cavity or concealed closet on the left side of the chimney. By the lamp in the old woman’s hand Mr. Brown saw that the chest was barred and clamped with iron, strengthened with iron plates and studded with iron nails, so as to be a fit receptacle in which the wealth of one century might be hoarded up for the wants of another.
Peter Goldthwaite was inserting a key into the lock.
“Oh, Tabitha,” cried he, with tremulous rapture230, “how shall I endure the effulgence231? The gold! — the bright, bright gold! Methinks I can remember my last glance at it just as the iron-plated lid fell down. And ever since, being seventy years, it has been blazing in secret and gathering its splendor against this glorious moment. It will flash upon us like the noonday sun.”
“Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter!” said Tabitha, with somewhat less patience than usual. “But, for mercy’s sake, do turn the key!”
And with a strong effort of both hands Peter did force the rusty key through the intricacies of the rusty lock. Mr. Brown, in the mean time, had drawn near and thrust his eager visage between those of the other two at the instant that Peter threw up the lid. No sudden blaze illuminated the kitchen.
“What’s here?” exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her spectacles and holding the lamp over the open chest. “Old Peter Goldthwaite’s hoard of old rags!”
“Pretty much so, Tabby,” said Mr. Brown, lifting a handful of the treasure.
Oh what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had Peter Goldthwaite raised to scare himself out of his scanty wits withal! Here was the semblance159 of an incalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town and build every street anew, but which, vast as it was, no sane232 man would have given a solid sixpence for. What, then, in sober earnest, were the delusive233 treasures of the chest? Why, here were old provincial bills of credit and treasury notes and bills of land-banks, and all other bubbles of the sort, from the first issue — above a century and a half ago — down nearly to the Revolution. Bills of a thousand pounds were intermixed with parchment pennies, and worth no more than they.
“And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite’s treasure!” said John Brown. “Your namesake, Peter, was something like yourself; and when the provincial currency had depreciated234 fifty or seventy-five per cent, he bought it up in expectation of a rise. I have heard my grandfather say that old Peter gave his father a mortgage of this very house and land to raise cash for his silly project. But the currency kept sinking till nobody would take it as a gift, and there was old Peter Goldthwaite, like Peter the second, with thousands in his strong-box and hardly a coat to his back. He went mad upon the strength of it. But never mind, Peter; it is just the sort of capital for building castles in the air.”
“The house will be down about our ears,” cried Tabitha as the wind shook it with increasing violence.
“Let it fall,” said Peter, folding his arms, as he seated himself upon the chest.
“No, no, my old friend Peter!” said John Brown. “I have house-room for you and Tabby, and a safe vault for the chest of treasure. To-morrow we will try to come to an agreement about the sale of this old house; real estate is well up, and I could afford you a pretty handsome price.”
“And I,” observed Peter Goldthwaite, with reviving spirits, “have a plan for laying out the cash to great advantage.”
“Why, as to that,” muttered John Brown to himself, “we must apply to the next court for a guardian235 to take care of the solid cash; and if Peter insists upon speculating, he may do it to his heart’s content with old Peter Goldthwaite’s treasure.”
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1
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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3
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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7
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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8
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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9
jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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10
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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11
constituent
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| n.选民；成分，组分；adj.组成的，构成的 | |
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12
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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13
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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15
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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16
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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17
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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18
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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19
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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20
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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21
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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22
bullion
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| n.金条，银条 | |
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23
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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24
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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25
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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27
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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28
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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30
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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31
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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32
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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33
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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34
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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35
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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36
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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37
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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38
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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39
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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40
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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41
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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42
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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43
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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44
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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45
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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46
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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47
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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48
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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50
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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51
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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52
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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53
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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54
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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55
follies
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| 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 ) | |
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56
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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57
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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58
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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59
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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60
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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61
projector
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| n.投影机，放映机，幻灯机 | |
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62
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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63
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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64
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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65
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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66
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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67
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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68
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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69
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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70
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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71
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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72
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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73
caper
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| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
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74
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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75
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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76
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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77
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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78
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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79
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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80
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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81
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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82
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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83
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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84
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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85
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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86
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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88
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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89
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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90
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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91
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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92
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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93
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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94
limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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95
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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96
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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97
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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98
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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99
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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101
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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102
hewing
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的现在分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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103
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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104
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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105
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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106
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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107
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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108
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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109
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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110
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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111
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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112
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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113
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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114
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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115
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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116
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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117
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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118
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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119
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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121
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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122
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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123
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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124
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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125
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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126
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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127
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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128
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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129
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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130
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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131
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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132
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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133
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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134
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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135
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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136
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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137
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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138
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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139
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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140
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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141
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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142
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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143
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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144
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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145
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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146
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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147
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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148
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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149
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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150
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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151
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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152
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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153
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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154
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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155
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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156
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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157
verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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158
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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159
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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160
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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161
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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162
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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163
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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164
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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165
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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166
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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167
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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168
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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169
capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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170
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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171
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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172
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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173
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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174
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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175
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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176
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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177
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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178
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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179
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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180
preying
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| v.掠食( prey的现在分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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181
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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182
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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183
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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184
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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185
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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186
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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187
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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188
rectifies
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| 改正，矫正( rectify的第三人称单数 )； 精馏 | |
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189
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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190
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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191
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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192
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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193
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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194
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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195
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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196
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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197
gutted
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| adj.容易消化的v.毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的过去式和过去分词 )；取出…的内脏 | |
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198
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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199
nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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200
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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201
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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202
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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203
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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204
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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205
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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207
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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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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quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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220
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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221
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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222
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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effulgence
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| n.光辉 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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depreciated
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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