Janey was in bed for the first few days; she had collapsed6 utterly7. The two blows which had fallen on her almost together had smitten8 her into a kind of numbness9, in which she lay, white and stiff and tearless, through the windy hours. Nigel scarcely ever left her, and he scarcely ever spoke10 to her—they just crouched11 together, she on the bed, he on a chair beside it, their fingers twined, both dumbly busy with the problems of death and anguish12 that had assaulted their lives.
Meantime the routine of the house and farm remained unbroken. The "man" looked after the latter, and through the former moved a figure that seemed strangely out of place. When "Tottie Coughdrop" arrived the morning after Len's death, she proved to be no more or less than a novice14 from St. Margaret's Convent, and finding her ministrations as truly needed as if her patient had been alive, she did not leave on finding him dead.
[Pg 281]
She nursed Janey—at least she did for her the little that Nigel could not do; she dusted and cooked; she made Furlonger eat, the stiffest duty of all. It used to hurt Nigel when he thought how Len would have enjoyed seeing him sit down to supper every night with a nun15.
Novice Unity16 Agnes also undertook all the arrangements for the funeral—which had always been a nightmare to Nigel and Janey. Moreover, the day before, she went to East Grinstead and bought a black skirt and blouse and hat for Janey, who but for her would never have thought of going into mourning at all; and though her charity was not able to overcome her diffidence and buy a mourning suit for Nigel, she sewed black bands on all his coats.
That was how it happened that the funeral of Leonard Furlonger was such a surprise to the inhabitants of the Three Counties. The coffin17 was met at the church door by the choir18 headed by a crucifix, and the service was read by a priest in a black cope. There were hymns19 too—Novice Unity Agnes's favourites, all about as appropriate as "How doth the little busy bee"—and incense20, and a little collection of nuns21, persuaded by the kind-hearted novice to swell22 the scanty23 number of mourners. In fact, as Nigel remarked bitterly, the whole thing was a joke, and it was a shame Len had missed it.
He and Janey walked home alone, arm in arm, through the wet lanes. As usual, they did not speak, but they strained close together as the solitude24 of the fields crept round them. The rain had[Pg 282] cleared, but the wind was still romping25 in the hedges—little tearful spreads of sky showed among the clouds, very pale and rain-washed, soon swallowed up by moving shapes of storm.
Janet went to bed early. She had suddenly found that she could sleep, and her appetite for sleep became abnormal. She woke each morning greedily counting the hours till night. In the old careless days she had never set such store on sleep, because it had meant merely strengthening and resting and refreshing27; now it meant what was more to her than anything else in life—forgetting.
Nigel could not sleep. In his heart the lights were not yet all put out. There were flashes of terror and sparks of desire, and dull flares28 of conjecture29. He had sometimes hesitated whether he should tell Janey his secret, but had drawn30 back on each occasion, urged partly by the thought of adding to her burden, but principally by a feeling of shame. His wonderful dream, which had sustained him so triumphantly31 during six months of work and sacrifice, had now shrivelled into a poor little secret, such as school-girls nurture—a love which must always be hidden and silent and unconsummated.
His brain ached with regrets and revisualisations, quaked with apprehension32 and the knowledge of his own utter helplessness in the face of circumstances. The thought of Lowe's perfidy33 to Janet would rouse in him a sweat of rage from his poor attempts at sleep. Janey stood to Nigel for all that was noble, meek34 and understanding, and that she should be treated heartlessly and lightly by a[Pg 283] scoundrel not worthy36 to black her boots, was a thought that drove him nearly rabid with hate. What was he to do to save Tony from this swine? He knew perfectly37 well how she would look upon him if she heard his story. He remembered the hard, stiff little figure in the garden of Shovelstrode—"You won my friendship under false pretences38." What would she say to the cad who had won by false pretences not only her friendship but her body, her heart and her soul? Yet he could never tell her the truth. He would not betray Janet even to this girl he loved, and a vague accusation39 could easily be denied by Lowe, and was not likely to be believed by Tony.
Often he envied Len—lost in cool sleep, free from responsibilities and problems, eased for ever from the soul-chafing burdens of hate and love.
It was the beginning of July. Sunshine baked on the fields, and drank the green out of the grass, so that the fields were brown, with splashes of yellow where the buttercups still grew. In the hedges the wild elder-rose sent out its sickening sweetness, while from the ditches came the even more cloying40 fragrance41 of the meadowsweet. The haze42 of a great heat veiled the distance from Nigel, as he tramped over the parched43 grass into Kent. He saw the roofs of Scarlets44 and Redpale shimmering45 in the valley of the hammer ponds, but beyond them was a fiery46, thundering dusk, which swallowed up the hills of Cowden in the east.
He walked with bent47 head and arms slack. He[Pg 284] often took these lonely walks, undaunted by either storm or swelter. He knew that Janey missed him, but he could not keep his body still while his mind ran to and fro so desperately48.
His walks were full of dark and furious planning of schemes that came to nothing. He roamed aimlessly through the country, without noticing where he went—except that he half unconsciously avoided the roads and wider lanes. He was desperate because his brain worked so slowly, a cloud seemed to lie on it, and he had a tendency to lose the thread of his ideas after he had followed them a little way.
This afternoon he was wandering towards the valley of the hammer ponds. It was nearly seven when he came to Furnace Wood. The sun was swimming to the west through whorls of heat. A sullen49 glow crawled over the sky, nearly brown in the west. The air hung heavy in the wood, laden50 with the pungency51 of midsummer flowers and grasses—scarcely a leaf stirred, though now and then an unaccountable rustling52 shudder53 passed through the thickets55.
Weariness dropped on Nigel like a cloak—he was used to it. It was not really physical, only the deadly striving of his soul reaching out to his body and exhausting it. He flung himself down in a clump56 of bracken and tansy, sinking down in it, till everything was shut out by the tall, earth-smelling stalks. This was what he often found himself longing57 for with a desperate physical desire—a little corner, cool and quiet and green,[Pg 285] shut off from life, where he could drowse—and forget.
This evening only the first part of his desire was satisfied. He had his corner, but he could not drowse in it. His limbs lay inert58, but his thoughts kicked painfully. His brain hammered with old impressions, which, instead of wearing away with time, each day bored and jarred with renewed power. He was the victim of an abnormally acute mentality—just as to a swollen59 limb the lightest touch is painful, so to Nigel's brain inflamed60 with grief and struggle, every impression was like a blow, an enduring source of agony.
He heard footsteps on the path. No one could see him—it was still quite light in the fields, but in the wood was dusk and a blurring61 of outlines; besides, he was deeply buried in the tall stalks. However, though he could not be seen, he could see, for on the path stood a golden pillar of sunshine into which the footsteps must pass. Nigel wondered if it could be Lowe, returning early for some reason from Shovelstrode. But the steps did not sound heavy enough, and the next minute he saw the white of a woman's dress through the trees. In an instant his limbs had shrunk together, for another of those sickening blows had smitten his brain. The figure had passed out of the pillar of sunset, but he had seen Tony Strife62 as she went by.
She was dressed in white, and wore no hat, only a muslin scarf over her hair. She carried a cloak on her arm, and Furlonger realised that she must be going to dine at Redpale. The sight of Tony—he[Pg 286] had not seen her since he lost her, or rather his dream of her—threw him into a fit of torment63. He flung himself back among the stalks, and rolled there, biting them, suddenly mad with pain.
The next moment he started up. A thud and a low cry came from a few yards further on.
Nigel sprang to his feet. He remembered that not far off the path ran by the mouth of a disused chalk quarry64, from which it was divided only by a very rickety fence. Suppose.... He crashed through the bushes to the path, and dashed along it to the chalk-pit. Something white lay only a few feet from the dreadful brink66.
Just here the path was in darkness—hazel bushes and a dense67 thicket54 of alder68 shut out the sun. For a moment he could not make out clearly what had happened, but was immediately reassured69 by seeing Tony sit up, and try to struggle to her feet.
"What is it?" she cried, hearing his steps behind her. "Who's there?"
"Are you hurt?"
"Oh, Mr. Furlonger...."
She made another struggle to rise, but could not without his hand.
"Are you hurt?" he repeated.
"No-o-o."
"I think you are a little."
He was trembling all over, and hoped she did not notice it.
"I fell over some wire, just here, where the path[Pg 287] is so dark. I might have gone over the edge," she added with a shudder.
"You had a lucky escape—but I'm afraid you're hurt."
"It isn't much. I may have twisted my ankle a bit, that's all."
She stood there in the shadows, her white dress gleaming like a moth70, her face mysterious in the disarray71 of her wrap. Nigel's eyes devoured72 her, while his heart filled itself with inexpressible pain.
"Take my arm," he said huskily, "and I'll help you back to Shovelstrode."
"Oh, no!—I'll go on to Redpale. It's much nearer—if you'll be so kind as to help me."
"But how about getting home?"
"My fiancé, Mr. Lowe, will drive me home. He was to have fetched me too, but at the last moment he had to go up to town, and couldn't be back in time."
"Are you sure you're well enough to go out to dinner?" He hated the idea of taking her to Redpale.
"Oh, quite—this is nothing. Besides, dining at Redpale is just like dining at home—I don't call it going 'out' to dinner."
Furlonger winced73, and gave her his arm, hoping she would not notice how it shook.
They walked slowly out of Furnace Wood, towards the leaden east. Tony limped slightly, and Nigel wanted to carry her, but he dared not risk his patched self-control too far.
"You should never have come all this way[Pg 288] alone," he said gruffly, "these woods by the quarries74 are dangerous."
"I expect my father will be furious when he finds out what I've done. But I hoped that if I walked across the fields, instead of driving round by the road, I—I might meet my fiancé on his way home from the station."
A tremulous archness crept into her voice. Nigel shuddered75.
"I'm pleased I met you," she said gently, after a pause, "because I wanted to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am about your brother."
"Thank you."
"And I want to tell you that I'm so glad about your success in London. I saw in the papers how you distinguished76 yourself at Herr von Gleichroeder's concert."
Nigel did not speak.
"I suppose you'll soon be going back to town?" she went on timidly.
"I don't know. I can't leave my sister."
"But you can take her with you. It would be a pity to throw up your career just when everything looks so promising77."
They were not far from Redpale now. The sunset was creeping over the sky—only the east before them was dark, banked high with thundery vapour. Nigel could still hear Tony speaking, as if in a kind of dream. His thoughts were busy elsewhere.
"Won't you?" repeated Tony for the second time.
"Won't I what?"
[Pg 289]
"Go back to London, and make yourself famous."
"I don't see much chance of that."
"But I do—and so will you when you're not so unhappy. Now, to please me, won't you promise to go back to London and make yourself a great career? You and I used to be friends once—I hope we're friends still—and I shall always be interested in everything you do. I expect to see your name in a very high place some day. Now, for my sake, promise to go back."
"For your sake...."
"Yes—since you won't go for your own."
They had stopped a moment to rest her foot. Nigel lifted his eyes from the grass and looked into hers—wondering. Was it true, was it even possible, that she had never seen his love? She could not, or she would not speak like this—"For my sake." After all, she would never expect him to dare ... that would blind her to much that might have betrayed him had he been worthier78. No, she had not seen his love, and she had never loved him. She had never loved any man but Quentin Lowe—he was her first love, he had lit the first flame in her heart, and that heart was his, in all its purity and burning.
Standing35 there beside her in the sunset, her weight resting deliciously on him as she raised her injured foot from the ground, he realised the change that had come to Tony. Her manner was as entirely79 different from her manner of six months ago at Shovelstrode as that had been different from the manner of those still earlier days at Lingfield[Pg 290] or Brambletye. In those days, during their playtime, Tony had been a school-girl, a delightful80 hoyden81, the best pal26 and fellow-adventurer a man could have. In December, in the garden at Shovelstrode, she had lost that valiant82 girlhood, and at the same time her womanhood was unripe—she had been a crude mixture of girl and woman, sometimes provokingly both, sometimes repellingly neither. But to-day she was woman complete. Both her mind and her body seemed to have stepped out of their green adolescence83. There was a certain dignity of curve about the tall figure resting against him, which Nigel had not seen in the forest or in the garden; there was a clear and confident look in the eyes which in earlier days had been either wistful or timid; there was a heightened colour on the cheeks. Her manner was full of gentle assurance, her speech easy and sympathetic—as utterly different from the crude tactlessness of Christmastide as from the school-girl rattle84 of November.
Yes, Tony was a woman come into her kingdom, proud, sweet, compassionate85 and strong. Quentin Lowe had made her this in the short weeks of his love. Unworthy little cad as he was, he had yet been able to raise her from girlhood to womanhood, to crown her with the diadem86 of her heritage....
"Tony," cried Nigel, caught in a sudden storm of impulse, "do you love Quentin Lowe?"
"Love him!—why, of course.... Let's move on."
[Pg 291]
"You're not angry with me?—I have my reason for asking."
"No, I'm not angry. But what reason can you have?"
"I remember," said Nigel desperately, "what you told me six months ago. You said you couldn't forgive...."
The colour rushed to his face, but he fought on.
"There is something which I think you ought to know about him."
"What do you mean?"
She spoke sharply, but not quite so sharply as he had expected.
"Miss Strife—it's very difficult for me ... but I think I ought——"
"I suppose," she said, her voice faltering87 a little, "you're trying to tell me—you think you ought to tell me—that Quentin hasn't always been quite—quite worthy of himself. I know."
"You know!"
"Yes."
There was silence, broken only by the swish of their footsteps through the grass.
"How did you know?—Who told you?" cried Furlonger suddenly.
"I might ask—how do you know?"
"The girl—was a friend of mine...."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't mistake me. I—I didn't love her—not in that way, I mean. But, Tony—who told you?"
"Quentin."
"My God!"
[Pg 292]
"Why are you so surprised? It was right that he should tell me."
"Of course. But I—I didn't think he would."
Tony hesitated a moment—it struck Nigel that she was considering how far she ought to take him into her confidence. The thought humiliated88 him.
"He did tell me," she said after a pause, "he told me everything, one night, nearly three weeks ago, just before your brother died. He suddenly came to Shovelstrode—very late, after we had all gone upstairs. He wanted to see me—and I came down ... oh, I shall never forget it! He was standing there, all white and tired—and very wet, as if he'd been lying in the grass. He tried to speak, but he couldn't—and I was frightened, like a silly ass3, and I cried ... and then he told me all about himself—and this girl."
"And you?..."
She shuddered.
"I—I told him he must go."
"You told him to go!"—his voice had a hungry catch in it.
"Yes—I was a beast."
Anxiety and scorn strove together in him.
"But you changed your mind."
She nodded.
"Tony!"
"Well, why not?"
"Because it's paltry89 and weak of you—he doesn't deserve your forgiveness—and you've no right to forgive him for what he did to another woman."
[Pg 293]
"Do you think I haven't considered that other woman?"
"You must have. But—egad!—you're so calm about it. Don't you realise what all this means—to her?"
"You think I ought to make him marry her?"
"Of course not—she wouldn't have him if she was paid. But—but how can you marry him, Tony?"
She bit her lip.
"I'm sorry I put things so bluntly, but I'm always a blundering ass when I'm excited. Tony, you're not to marry this man."
By her mounting colour he saw that he had said too much.
"I beg your pardon—I know all this sounds like impertinent interference. But it isn't. I've been worrying about it a lot—about your marrying him. I felt you ought to know...."
"Well, I do know—and I've forgiven him."
"I'm not sure that isn't even worse than your not knowing."
She stared at him in anger and surprise.
"You say that!—you!—the man but for whom perhaps I never should have forgiven him."
Nigel gasped90. "What do you mean?"
"Well, at first, as I told you, I felt I couldn't forgive him. But afterwards I remembered all you said."
"I said!"
"Yes."
"What?—When?"
"Don't you remember that day you came over to[Pg 294] Shovelstrode and said, 'You will have to forgive me a great many things because I am so very hungry'?"
They had stopped again; the fields swelled91 round them, ghostly in the lemon twilight92, and a wistful radiance glowed on Tony's face. He searched her eyes despairingly—he scarcely knew what for. The anger in them had died, and in its place was a beautiful serenity93 and kindliness94. But that was not what he was looking for. His heart was full of hunger and tears, yet he did not hunger or cry for the woman who stood before him, but for the little girl he had known long months ago.
"Quentin used almost the same words as you did," she said, breaking the silence, "he told me how all his life he had been hungry, always craving95 for something good and pure and satisfying, never able to reach it. Then he met this girl, and he thought that he'd find in her all he was seeking. But he found only sorrow—sorrow for them both. He was in despair, in hell—and he believed I could help him out and make him a good man again. Don't you remember how you said that a man's only chance of rising out of the mud was for some woman to give him a hand and help him up?"
Nigel could not find words. A thick, misty96 horror was settling on him. Had those poor pleadings of his dying self then turned against him in his hour of need?
"There was Quentin asking for my help," continued Tony. "Oh, I know I'm no better than other girls, than the girl he used to love, but [Pg 295]somehow I can't help feeling I'm the girl sent to help Quentin. When I told him he must go, he nearly went crazy ... his father said he was afraid he would kill himself ... and I—I was nearly mad too, for I—oh, God! I loved him."
A sounding contralto note swept into her voice; it seemed to swell up from her heart, from her heaving woman's breast on which her hands were folded.
"So I forgave him."
"Tony!..." cried Nigel faintly.
"Yes—I'm grateful to you. I'm afraid that when I saw you at Shovelstrode I was very stupid and stiff—I was a horrid97 little beast, and I couldn't forgive you for what was after all an honour you had done me. Now I see how much your friendship meant to me. But for you, Quentin and I might have been parted for ever."
A stupid rage was tearing Furlonger, and there was a mockery of laughter in it. He saw that his tragedy was after all only a farce98—he was the time-honoured lover of farce, who with infinite pains makes a ladder to his lady's chamber99, and then sees his rival swarm100 up it. There he stood, forlorn, discomfited101, frustrated—but also intensely comic. Perhaps the student was right about Offenbach....
"I'm surprised that you should be so disgusted with me," said Tony.
The ghostly laughter pealed102 again, and at the same time he remembered that "if the man's a sport, he laughs too." He threw back his head, and startled her with a hearty103 laugh.
[Pg 296]
"Mr. Furlonger!"
"I'm sorry—but things struck me suddenly as rather funny."
"How?"
"Oh, I don't suppose they'd strike you the same way. But it seems funny you should care whether I'm disgusted or not."
"I do—of course I do; and I can't see why you are disgusted. After all you said...."
"Damn all I said!—I'm sorry, but I never thought of a case like this." He blushed, remembering the case he had thought of.
They walked down the hill—they could see Redpale now, huddling104 beneath them in its orchards105. The colours of the sunset had grown fainter, and pale, trembling lights burned on the barn-roofs and the pond.
Their feet beat swiftly on the rustling grass. Furlonger's time was short.
"I'm going to try to be a big woman," said Tony softly, "a strong, brave woman; and I don't want to think sentimental106 rot about a perfect knight107 and a spotless hero and all that. I want to be a man's fighting comrade—I want to feel he can't do without me. It was you who first told me that I must take men as I find them—but not leave them so."
"Tony, if only I thought there was any good in him——"
"I tell you there's a mine of good in him. But he's never had a chance till now. Our engagement is to be a very long one, and already I can see a difference in him. It's not I that have done[Pg 297] it—it's his love for me. And all the sorrow he went through, when he thought he'd lost me, seems to have made him gentler and humbler somehow. Quentin has suffered dreadfully"—there was a little click in her throat—"and he wants so much to be good and pure and true. And I've promised to help him, by believing that he can and will do better."
His own words were being mercilessly fired back at him. He remembered how he had first breathed them to her, full of hope and entreaty108. In the face of such artillery109 his rout13 was complete.
"Forgive him, Tony!" he cried. "Forgive him! But oh, forgive me, too!"
They had reached the gate of Redpale Farm. He stopped—he would go no further.
"Tony—forgive me too."
The words broke from his lips in an exceeding bitter cry.
"Forgive you!—what for?"
"For a great deal—for all you know of, and for the more you don't know."
"Of course I forgive you—but I thank you most."
"No, you must forgive me most—are you sure that you forgive me for what you don't know as well as for what you know?"
"Quite sure"—her voice trembled a little, for he was beginning to frighten her.
"Then good-bye."
"Good-bye. I—I hope I haven't brought you very far out of your way."
[Pg 298]
He muttered something unintelligible110, pulled off his cap, and left her.
He walked quickly, pricked111 on by a discovery which was also a triumph. Quentin Lowe had not taken Tony from him after all. The Tony he loved had never known Quentin Lowe, she had been no man's friend but Nigel Furlonger's—and so much his friend that when he had been taken from her she would not stay without him, but herself had gone away. Quentin Lowe loved a beautiful woman—proud and sweet and assured, with just a dash of the prig about her. Nigel had never loved this woman, he had loved a little girl—and the little girl who had been his comrade in the Kentish lanes and the ruins of Brambletye, would never be any man's but his.
He plunged112 recklessly through the fields, and recklessly into Furnace Wood. Lowe could not be far off. He must have missed the fast train from Victoria, but the next one arrived only an hour or so later. Nigel hurried through the wood, now coal dark, and full of a strange dread65 for him—though he did not know of the ghosts which haunted it. As he caught his first glimpse of the faintly crimsoned113 west, he saw a figure outlined against it. Some one was coming down the slope of Furnace Field. It must be Lowe.
The two men met on the rim114 of the wood. It was a moment of blackness for Quentin when he saw the blazing eyes and bitten lips of Furlonger. Strange words broke from his tongue—
"Hast thou found me, O mine enemy!"
[Pg 299]
Nigel's great body towered over him. His lips had shrunk back from his teeth, which gleamed in the dying ugly light. Lowe remembered the other Furlonger who was dead. In Furnace Wood fate would not tamper115 with vengeance116 as at Cowsanish.
Suddenly Nigel spoke.
"Two good women have forgiven you—so I've nothing to say—or do. Pass——"
He moved out of the path, and waved his hand towards the wood.
"Pass——" he said.
Quentin hesitated a moment.
"Won't—won't you shake hands?"
"No. Pass—and for God's sake, pass quickly."
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收听单词发音
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1
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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7
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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8
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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9
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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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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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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22
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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25
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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26
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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27
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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29
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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30
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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31
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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32
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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33
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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34
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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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
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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37
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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38
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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39
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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40
cloying
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| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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41
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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42
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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43
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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44
scarlets
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| 鲜红色，猩红色( scarlet的名词复数 ) | |
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45
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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46
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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47
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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48
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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49
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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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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51
pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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52
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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53
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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54
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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55
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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56
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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57
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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58
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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59
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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62
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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63
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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64
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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65
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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66
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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67
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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68
alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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69
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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70
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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71
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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72
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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73
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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75
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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76
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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77
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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78
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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79
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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80
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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81
hoyden
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| n.野丫头，淘气姑娘 | |
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82
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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83
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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84
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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85
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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86
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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87
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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88
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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89
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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90
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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91
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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92
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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93
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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94
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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95
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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96
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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97
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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98
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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99
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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100
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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101
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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102
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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104
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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105
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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106
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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107
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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108
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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109
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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110
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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111
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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112
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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113
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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114
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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115
tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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116
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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