"MRS. FLANDERS"--"Poor Betty Flanders"--"Dear Betty"--"She's very attractive still"--"Odd she don't marry again!" "There's Captain Barfoot to be sure--calls every Wednesday as regular as clockwork, and never brings his wife."
"But that's Ellen Barfoot's fault," the ladies of Scarborough said. "She don't put herself out for no one."
"A man likes to have a son--that we know."
"Some tumours1 have to be cut; but the sort my mother had you bear with for years and years, and never even have a cup of tea brought up to you in bed."
(Mrs. Barfoot was an invalid3.)
Elizabeth Flanders, of whom this and much more than this had been said and would be said, was, of course, a widow in her prime. She was half- way between forty and fifty. Years and sorrow between them; the death of Seabrook, her husband; three boys; poverty; a house on the outskirts4 of Scarborough; her brother, poor Morty's, downfall and possible demise-- for where was he? what was he? Shading her eyes, she looked along the road for Captain Barfoot--yes, there he was, punctual as ever; the attentions of the Captain--all ripened5 Betty Flanders, enlarged her figure, tinged6 her face with jollity, and flooded her eyes for no reason that any one could see perhaps three times a day.
True, there's no harm in crying for one's husband, and the tombstone, though plain, was a solid piece of work, and on summer's days when the widow brought her boys to stand there one felt kindly7 towards her. Hats were raised higher than usual; wives tugged8 their husbands' arms. Seabrook lay six foot beneath, dead these many years; enclosed in three shells; the crevices9 sealed with lead, so that, had earth and wood been glass, doubtless his very face lay visible beneath, the face of a young man whiskered, shapely, who had gone out duck-shooting and refused to change his boots.
"Merchant of this city," the tombstone said; though why Betty Flanders had chosen so to call him when, as many still remembered, he had only sat behind an office window for three months, and before that had broken horses, ridden to hounds, farmed a few fields, and run a little wild-- well, she had to call him something. An example for the boys.
Had he, then, been nothing? An unanswerable question, since even if it weren't the habit of the undertaker to close the eyes, the light so soon goes out of them. At first, part of herself; now one of a company, he had merged11 in the grass, the sloping hillside, the thousand white stones, some slanting12, others upright, the decayed wreaths, the crosses of green tin, the narrow yellow paths, and the lilacs that drooped13 in April, with a scent14 like that of an invalid's bedroom, over the churchyard wall. Seabrook was now all that; and when, with her skirt hitched15 up, feeding the chickens, she heard the bell for service or funeral, that was Seabrook's voice--the voice of the dead.
The rooster had been known to fly on her shoulder and peck her neck, so that now she carried a stick or took one of the children with her when she went to feed the fowls16.
"Wouldn't you like my knife, mother?" said Archer17.
Sounding at the same moment as the bell, her son's voice mixed life and death inextricably, exhilaratingly.
"What a big knife for a small boy!" she said. She took it to please him. Then the rooster flew out of the hen-house, and, shouting to Archer to shut the door into the kitchen garden, Mrs. Flanders set her meal down, clucked for the hens, went bustling18 about the orchard19, and was seen from over the way by Mrs. Cranch, who, beating her mat against the wall, held it for a moment suspended while she observed to Mrs. Page next door that Mrs. Flanders was in the orchard with the chickens.
Mrs. Page, Mrs. Cranch, and Mrs. Garfit could see Mrs. Flanders in the orchard because the orchard was a piece of Dods Hill enclosed; and Dods Hill dominated the village. No words can exaggerate the importance of Dods Hill. It was the earth; the world against the sky; the horizon of how many glances can best be computed20 by those who have lived all their lives in the same village, only leaving it once to fight in the Crimea, like old George Garfit, leaning over his garden gate smoking his pipe. The progress of the sun was measured by it; the tint21 of the day laid against it to be judged.
"Now she's going up the hill with little John," said Mrs. Cranch to Mrs. Garfit, shaking her mat for the last time, and bustling indoors. Opening the orchard gate, Mrs. Flanders walked to the top of Dods Hill, holding John by the hand. Archer and Jacob ran in front or lagged behind; but they were in the Roman fortress22 when she came there, and shouting out what ships were to be seen in the bay. For there was a magnificent view --moors24 behind, sea in front, and the whole of Scarborough from one end to the other laid out flat like a puzzle. Mrs. Flanders, who was growing stout25, sat down in the fortress and looked about her.
The entire gamut26 of the view's changes should have been known to her; its winter aspect, spring, summer and autumn; how storms came up from the sea; how the moors shuddered27 and brightened as the clouds went over; she should have noted28 the red spot where the villas29 were building; and the criss-cross of lines where the allotments were cut; and the diamond flash of little glass houses in the sun. Or, if details like these escaped her, she might have let her fancy play upon the gold tint of the sea at sunset, and thought how it lapped in coins of gold upon the shingle30. Little pleasure boats shoved out into it; the black arm of the pier31 hoarded32 it up. The whole city was pink and gold; domed33; mist- wreathed; resonant34; strident. Banjoes strummed; the parade smelt35 of tar36 which stuck to the heels; goats suddenly cantered their carriages through crowds. It was observed how well the Corporation had laid out the flower-beds. Sometimes a straw hat was blown away. Tulips burnt in the sun. Numbers of sponge-bag trousers were stretched in rows. Purple bonnets37 fringed soft, pink, querulous faces on pillows in bath chairs. Triangular38 hoardings were wheeled along by men in white coats. Captain George Boase had caught a monster shark. One side of the triangular hoarding39 said so in red, blue, and yellow letters; and each line ended with three differently coloured notes of exclamation40.
So that was a reason for going down into the Aquarium41, where the sallow blinds, the stale smell of spirits of salt, the bamboo chairs, the tables with ash-trays, the revolving42 fish, the attendant knitting behind six or seven chocolate boxes (often she was quite alone with the fish for hours at a time) remained in the mind as part of the monster shark, he himself being only a flabby yellow receptacle, like an empty Gladstone bag in a tank. No one had ever been cheered by the Aquarium; but the faces of those emerging quickly lost their dim, chilled expression when they perceived that it was only by standing43 in a queue that one could be admitted to the pier. Once through the turnstiles, every one walked for a yard or two very briskly; some flagged at this stall; others at that.
But it was the band that drew them all to it finally; even the fishermen on the lower pier taking up their pitch within its range.
The band played in the Moorish44 kiosk. Number nine went up on the board. It was a waltz tune45. The pale girls, the old widow lady, the three Jews lodging46 in the same boarding-house, the dandy, the major, the horse- dealer47, and the gentleman of independent means, all wore the same blurred48, drugged expression, and through the chinks in the planks49 at their feet they could see the green summer waves, peacefully, amiably50, swaying round the iron pillars of the pier.
But there was a time when none of this had any existence (thought the young man leaning against the railings). Fix your eyes upon the lady's skirt; the grey one will do--above the pink silk stockings. It changes; drapes her ankles--the nineties; then it amplifies--the seventies; now it's burnished51 red and stretched above a crinoline--the sixties; a tiny black foot wearing a white cotton stocking peeps out. Still sitting there? Yes--she's still on the pier. The silk now is sprigged with roses, but somehow one no longer sees so clearly. There's no pier beneath us. The heavy chariot may swing along the turnpike road, but there's no pier for it to stop at, and how grey and turbulent the sea is in the seventeenth century! Let's to the museum. Cannon-balls; arrow- heads; Roman glass and a forceps green with verdigris52. The Rev10. Jaspar Floyd dug them up at his own expense early in the forties in the Roman camp on Dods Hill--see the little ticket with the faded writing on it.
And now, what's the next thing to see in Scarborough?
Mrs. Flanders sat on the raised circle of the Roman camp, patching Jacob's breeches; only looking up as she sucked the end of her cotton, or when some insect dashed at her, boomed in her ear, and was gone.
John kept trotting53 up and slapping down in her lap grass or dead leaves which he called "tea," and she arranged them methodically but absent- mindedly, laying the flowery heads of the grasses together, thinking how Archer had been awake again last night; the church clock was ten or thirteen minutes fast; she wished she could buy Garfit's acre.
"That's an orchid54 leaf, Johnny. Look at the little brown spots. Come, my dear. We must go home. Ar-cher! Ja-cob!"
"Ar-cher! Ja-cob!" Johnny piped after her, pivoting55 round on his heel, and strewing56 the grass and leaves in his hands as if he were sowing seed. Archer and Jacob jumped up from behind the mound57 where they had been crouching58 with the intention of springing upon their mother unexpectedly, and they all began to walk slowly home.
"Who is that?" said Mrs. Flanders, shading her eyes.
"That old man in the road?" said Archer, looking below.
"He's not an old man," said Mrs. Flanders. "He's--no, he's not--I thought it was the Captain, but it's Mr. Floyd. Come along, boys."
"Oh, bother Mr. Floyd!" said Jacob, switching off a thistle's head, for he knew already that Mr. Floyd was going to teach them Latin, as indeed he did for three years in his spare time, out of kindness, for there was no other gentleman in the neighbourhood whom Mrs. Flanders could have asked to do such a thing, and the elder boys were getting beyond her, and must be got ready for school, and it was more than most clergymen would have done, coming round after tea, or having them in his own room --as he could fit it in--for the parish was a very large one, and Mr. Floyd, like his father before him, visited cottages miles away on the moors, and, like old Mr. Floyd, was a great scholar, which made it so unlikely--she had never dreamt of such a thing. Ought she to have guessed? But let alone being a scholar he was eight years younger than she was. She knew his mother--old Mrs. Floyd. She had tea there. And it was that very evening when she came back from having tea with old Mrs. Floyd that she found the note in the hall and took it into the kitchen with her when she went to give Rebecca the fish, thinking it must be something about the boys.
"Mr. Floyd brought it himself, did he?--I think the cheese must be in the parcel in the hall--oh, in the hall--" for she was reading. No, it was not about the boys.
"Yes, enough for fish-cakes to-morrow certainly--Perhaps Captain Barfoot--" she had come to the word "love." She went into the garden and read, leaning against the walnut59 tree to steady herself. Up and down went her breast. Seabrook came so vividly60 before her. She shook her head and was looking through her tears at the little shifting leaves against the yellow sky when three geese, half-running, half-flying, scuttled61 across the lawn with Johnny behind them, brandishing62 a stick.
Mrs. Flanders flushed with anger.
"How many times have I told you?" she cried, and seized him and snatched his stick away from him.
"But they'd escaped!" he cried, struggling to get free.
"You're a very naughty boy. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. I won't have you chasing the geese!" she said, and crumpling63 Mr. Floyd's letter in her hand, she held Johnny fast and herded64 the geese back into the orchard.
"How could I think of marriage!" she said to herself bitterly, as she fastened the gate with a piece of wire. She had always disliked red hair in men, she thought, thinking of Mr. Floyd's appearance, that night when the boys had gone to bed. And pushing her work-box away, she drew the blotting-paper towards her, and read Mr. Floyd's letter again, and her breast went up and down when she came to the word "love," but not so fast this time, for she saw Johnny chasing the geese, and knew that it was impossible for her to marry any one--let alone Mr. Floyd, who was so much younger than she was, but what a nice man--and such a scholar too.
"Dear Mr. Floyd," she wrote.--"Did I forget about the cheese?" she wondered, laying down her pen. No, she had told Rebecca that the cheese was in the hall. "I am much surprised..." she wrote.
But the letter which Mr. Floyd found on the table when he got up early next morning did not begin "I am much surprised," and it was such a motherly, respectful, inconsequent, regretful letter that he kept it for many years; long after his marriage with Miss Wimbush, of Andover; long after he had left the village. For he asked for a parish in Sheffield, which was given him; and, sending for Archer, Jacob, and John to say good-bye, he told them to choose whatever they liked in his study to remember him by. Archer chose a paper-knife, because he did not like to choose anything too good; Jacob chose the works of Byron in one volume; John, who was still too young to make a proper choice, chose Mr. Floyd's kitten, which his brothers thought an absurd choice, but Mr. Floyd upheld him when he said: "It has fur like you." Then Mr. Floyd spoke65 about the King's Navy (to which Archer was going); and about Rugby (to which Jacob was going); and next day he received a silver salver and went--first to Sheffield, where he met Miss Wimbush, who was on a visit to her uncle, then to Hackney--then to Maresfield House, of which he became the principal, and finally, becoming editor of a well-known series of Ecclesiastical Biographies, he retired66 to Hampstead with his wife and daughter, and is often to be seen feeding the ducks on Leg of Mutton Pond. As for Mrs. Flanders's letter--when he looked for it the other day he could not find it, and did not like to ask his wife whether she had put it away. Meeting Jacob in Piccadilly lately, he recognized him after three seconds. But Jacob had grown such a fine young man that Mr. Floyd did not like to stop him in the street.
"Dear me," said Mrs. Flanders, when she read in the Scarborough and Harrogate Courier that the Rev. Andrew Floyd, etc., etc., had been made Principal of Maresfield House, "that must be our Mr. Floyd."
A slight gloom fell upon the table. Jacob was helping67 himself to jam; the postman was talking to Rebecca in the kitchen; there was a bee humming at the yellow flower which nodded at the open window. They were all alive, that is to say, while poor Mr. Floyd was becoming Principal of Maresfield House.
Mrs. Flanders got up and went over to the fender and stroked Topaz on the neck behind the ears.
"Poor Topaz," she said (for Mr. Floyd's kitten was now a very old cat, a little mangy behind the ears, and one of these days would have to be killed).
"Poor old Topaz," said Mrs. Flanders, as he stretched himself out in the sun, and she smiled, thinking how she had had him gelded, and how she did not like red hair in men. Smiling, she went into the kitchen.
Jacob drew rather a dirty pocket-handkerchief across his face. He went upstairs to his room.
The stag-beetle dies slowly (it was John who collected the beetles). Even on the second day its legs were supple68. But the butterflies were dead. A whiff of rotten eggs had vanquished69 the pale clouded yellows which came pelting70 across the orchard and up Dods Hill and away on to the moor23, now lost behind a furze bush, then off again helter-skelter in a broiling71 sun. A fritillary basked72 on a white stone in the Roman camp. From the valley came the sound of church bells. They were all eating roast beef in Scarborough; for it was Sunday when Jacob caught the pale clouded yellows in the clover field, eight miles from home.
Rebecca had caught the death's-head moth2 in the kitchen.
A strong smell of camphor came from the butterfly boxes.
Mixed with the smell of camphor was the unmistakable smell of seaweed. Tawny73 ribbons hung on the door. The sun beat straight upon them.
The upper wings of the moth which Jacob held were undoubtedly74 marked with kidney-shaped spots of a fulvous hue75. But there was no crescent upon the underwing. The tree had fallen the night he caught it. There had been a volley of pistol-shots suddenly in the depths of the wood. And his mother had taken him for a burglar when he came home late. The only one of her sons who never obeyed her, she said.
Morris called it "an extremely local insect found in damp or marshy76 places." But Morris is sometimes wrong. Sometimes Jacob, choosing a very fine pen, made a correction in the margin77.
The tree had fallen, though it was a windless night, and the lantern, stood upon the ground, had lit up the still green leaves and the dead beech78 leaves. It was a dry place. A toad79 was there. And the red underwing had circled round the light and flashed and gone. The red underwing had never come back, though Jacob had waited. It was after twelve when he crossed the lawn and saw his mother in the bright room, playing patience, sitting up.
"How you frightened me!" she had cried. She thought something dreadful had happened. And he woke Rebecca, who had to be up so early.
There he stood pale, come out of the depths of darkness, in the hot room, blinking at the light.
No, it could not be a straw-bordered underwing.
The mowing-machine always wanted oiling. Barnet turned it under Jacob's window, and it creaked--creaked, and rattled80 across the lawn and creaked again.
Now it was clouding over.
Back came the sun, dazzlingly.
It fell like an eye upon the stirrups, and then suddenly and yet very gently rested upon the bed, upon the alarum clock, and upon the butterfly box stood open. The pale clouded yellows had pelted81 over the moor; they had zigzagged82 across the purple clover. The fritillaries flaunted83 along the hedgerows. The blues84 settled on little bones lying on the turf with the sun beating on them, and the painted ladies and the peacocks feasted upon bloody85 entrails dropped by a hawk86. Miles away from home, in a hollow among teasles beneath a ruin, he had found the commas. He had seen a white admiral circling higher and higher round an oak tree, but he had never caught it. An old cottage woman living alone, high up, had told him of a purple butterfly which came every summer to her garden. The fox cubs87 played in the gorse in the early morning, she told him. And if you looked out at dawn you could always see two badgers88. Sometimes they knocked each other over like two boys fighting, she said.
"You won't go far this afternoon, Jacob," said his mother, popping her head in at the door, "for the Captain's coming to say good-bye." It was the last day of the Easter holidays.
Wednesday was Captain Barfoot's day. He dressed himself very neatly89 in blue serge, took his rubber-shod stick--for he was lame90 and wanted two fingers on the left hand, having served his country--and set out from the house with the flagstaff precisely91 at four o'clock in the afternoon.
At three Mr. Dickens, the bath-chair man, had called for Mrs. Barfoot.
"Move me," she would say to Mr. Dickens, after sitting on the esplanade for fifteen minutes. And again, "That'll do, thank you, Mr. Dickens." At the first command he would seek the sun; at the second he would stay the chair there in the bright strip.
An old inhabitant himself, he had much in common with Mrs. Barfoot-- James Coppard's daughter. The drinking-fountain, where West Street joins Broad Street, is the gift of James Coppard, who was mayor at the time of Queen Victoria's jubilee92, and Coppard is painted upon municipal watering-carts and over shop windows, and upon the zinc93 blinds of solicitors94' consulting-room windows. But Ellen Barfoot never visited the Aquarium (though she had known Captain Boase who had caught the shark quite well), and when the men came by with the posters she eyed them superciliously95, for she knew that she would never see the Pierrots, or the brothers Zeno, or Daisy Budd and her troupe96 of performing seals. For Ellen Barfoot in her bath-chair on the esplanade was a prisoner-- civilization's prisoner--all the bars of her cage falling across the esplanade on sunny days when the town hall, the drapery stores, the swimming-bath, and the memorial hall striped the ground with shadow.
An old inhabitant himself, Mr. Dickens would stand a little behind her, smoking his pipe. She would ask him questions--who people were--who now kept Mr. Jones's shop--then about the season--and had Mrs. Dickens tried, whatever it might be--the words issuing from her lips like crumbs97 of dry biscuit.
She closed her eyes. Mr. Dickens took a turn. The feelings of a man had not altogether deserted98 him, though as you saw him coming towards you, you noticed how one knobbed black boot swung tremulously in front of the other; how there was a shadow between his waistcoat and his trousers; how he leant forward unsteadily, like an old horse who finds himself suddenly out of the shafts99 drawing no cart. But as Mr. Dickens sucked in the smoke and puffed100 it out again, the feelings of a man were perceptible in his eyes. He was thinking how Captain Barfoot was now on his way to Mount Pleasant; Captain Barfoot, his master. For at home in the little sitting-room101 above the mews, with the canary in the window, and the girls at the sewing-machine, and Mrs. Dickens huddled102 up with the rheumatics--at home where he was made little of, the thought of being in the employ of Captain Barfoot supported him. He liked to think that while he chatted with Mrs. Barfoot on the front, he helped the Captain on his way to Mrs. Flanders. He, a man, was in charge of Mrs. Barfoot, a woman.
Turning, he saw that she was chatting with Mrs. Rogers. Turning again, he saw that Mrs. Rogers had moved on. So he came back to the bath-chair, and Mrs. Barfoot asked him the time, and he took out his great silver watch and told her the time very obligingly, as if he knew a great deal more about the time and everything than she did. But Mrs. Barfoot knew that Captain Barfoot was on his way to Mrs. Flanders.
Indeed he was well on his way there, having left the tram, and seeing Dods Hill to the south-east, green against a blue sky that was suffused103 with dust colour on the horizon. He was marching up the hill. In spite of his lameness104 there was something military in his approach. Mrs. Jarvis, as she came out of the Rectory gate, saw him coming, and her Newfoundland dog, Nero, slowly swept his tail from side to side.
"Oh, Captain Barfoot!" Mrs. Jarvis exclaimed.
"Good-day, Mrs. Jarvis," said the Captain.
They walked on together, and when they reached Mrs. Flanders's gate Captain Barfoot took off his tweed cap, and said, bowing very courteously105:
"Good-day to you, Mrs. Jarvis."
And Mrs. Jarvis walked on alone.
She was going to walk on the moor. Had she again been pacing her lawn late at night? Had she again tapped on the study window and cried: "Look at the moon, look at the moon, Herbert!"
And Herbert looked at the moon.
Mrs. Jarvis walked on the moor when she was unhappy, going as far as a certain saucer-shaped hollow, though she always meant to go to a more distant ridge106; and there she sat down, and took out the little book hidden beneath her cloak and read a few lines of poetry, and looked about her. She was not very unhappy, and, seeing that she was forty- five, never perhaps would be very unhappy, desperately107 unhappy that is, and leave her husband, and ruin a good man's career, as she sometimes threatened.
Still there is no need to say what risks a clergyman's wife runs when she walks on the moor. Short, dark, with kindling108 eyes, a pheasant's feather in her hat, Mrs. Jarvis was just the sort of woman to lose her faith upon the moors--to confound her God with the universal that is-- but she did not lose her faith, did not leave her husband, never read her poem through, and went on walking the moors, looking at the moon behind the elm trees, and feeling as she sat on the grass high above Scarborough... Yes, yes, when the lark109 soars; when the sheep, moving a step or two onwards, crop the turf, and at the same time set their bells tinkling110; when the breeze first blows, then dies down, leaving the cheek kissed; when the ships on the sea below seem to cross each other and pass on as if drawn111 by an invisible hand; when there are distant concussions112 in the air and phantom113 horsemen galloping114, ceasing; when the horizon swims blue, green, emotional--then Mrs. Jarvis, heaving a sigh, thinks to herself, "If only some one could give me... if I could give some one...." But she does not know what she wants to give, nor who could give it her.
"Mrs. Flanders stepped out only five minutes ago, Captain," said Rebecca. Captain Barfoot sat him down in the arm-chair to wait. Resting his elbows on the arms, putting one hand over the other, sticking his lame leg straight out, and placing the stick with the rubber ferrule beside it, he sat perfectly115 still. There was something rigid116 about him. Did he think? Probably the same thoughts again and again. But were they "nice" thoughts, interesting thoughts? He was a man with a temper; tenacious117, faithful. Women would have felt, "Here is law. Here is order. Therefore we must cherish this man. He is on the Bridge at night," and, handing him his cup, or whatever it might be, would run on to visions of shipwreck118 and disaster, in which all the passengers come tumbling from their cabins, and there is the captain, buttoned in his pea-jacket, matched with the storm, vanquished by it but by none other. "Yet I have a soul," Mrs. Jarvis would bethink her, as Captain Barfoot suddenly blew his nose in a great red bandanna119 handkerchief, "and it's the man's stupidity that's the cause of this, and the storm's my storm as well as his"... so Mrs. Jarvis would bethink her when the Captain dropped in to see them and found Herbert out, and spent two or three hours, almost silent, sitting in the arm-chair. But Betty Flanders thought nothing of the kind.
"Oh, Captain," said Mrs. Flanders, bursting into the drawing-room, "I had to run after Barker's man... I hope Rebecca... I hope Jacob..."
She was very much out of breath, yet not at all upset, and as she put down the hearth-brush which she had bought of the oil-man, she said it was hot, flung the window further open, straightened a cover, picked up a book, as if she were very confident, very fond of the Captain, and a great many years younger than he was. Indeed, in her blue apron120 she did not look more than thirty-five. He was well over fifty.
She moved her hands about the table; the Captain moved his head from side to side, and made little sounds, as Betty went on chattering121, completely at his ease--after twenty years.
"Well," he said at length, "I've heard from Mr. Polegate."
He had heard from Mr. Polegate that he could advise nothing better than to send a boy to one of the universities.
"Mr. Floyd was at Cambridge... no, at Oxford122... well, at one or the other," said Mrs. Flanders.
She looked out of the window. Little windows, and the lilac and green of the garden were reflected in her eyes.
"Archer is doing very well," she said. "I have a very nice report from Captain Maxwell."
"I will leave you the letter to show Jacob," said the Captain, putting it clumsily back in its envelope.
"Jacob is after his butterflies as usual," said Mrs. Flanders irritably123, but was surprised by a sudden afterthought, "Cricket begins this week, of course."
"Edward Jenkinson has handed in his resignation," said Captain Barfoot.
"Then you will stand for the Council?" Mrs. Flanders exclaimed, looking the Captain full in the face.
"Well, about that," Captain Barfoot began, settling himself rather deeper in his chair.
Jacob Flanders, therefore, went up to Cambridge in October, 1906.
收听单词发音 |
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tumours
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moth
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invalid
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outskirts
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ripened
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tinged
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kindly
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tugged
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crevices
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rev
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merged
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slanting
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drooped
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scent
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hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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17
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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18
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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19
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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20
computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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22
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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23
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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24
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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27
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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28
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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29
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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30
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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31
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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32
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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33
domed
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| adj. 圆屋顶的, 半球形的, 拱曲的 动词dome的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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34
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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35
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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36
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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37
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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38
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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39
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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40
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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41
aquarium
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| n.水族馆，养鱼池，玻璃缸 | |
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42
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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43
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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44
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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45
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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46
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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47
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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48
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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49
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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50
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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51
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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52
verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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53
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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54
orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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55
pivoting
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| n.绕轴旋转，绕公共法线旋转v.（似）在枢轴上转动( pivot的现在分词 )；把…放在枢轴上；以…为核心，围绕（主旨）展开 | |
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56
strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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57
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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58
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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59
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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60
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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61
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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62
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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63
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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64
herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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65
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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66
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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67
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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68
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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69
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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70
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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71
broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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72
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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73
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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74
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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75
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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76
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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77
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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78
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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79
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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80
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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81
pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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82
zigzagged
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| adj.呈之字形移动的v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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84
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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85
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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86
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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87
cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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88
badgers
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| n.獾( badger的名词复数 )；獾皮；（大写）獾州人（美国威斯康星州人的别称）；毛鼻袋熊 | |
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89
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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90
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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91
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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92
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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93
zinc
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| n.锌；vt.在...上镀锌 | |
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94
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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95
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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96
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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97
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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98
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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99
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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100
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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101
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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102
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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103
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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105
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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106
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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107
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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108
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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109
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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110
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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111
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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112
concussions
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| n.震荡( concussion的名词复数 )；脑震荡；冲击；震动 | |
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113
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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114
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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115
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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116
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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117
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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118
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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119
bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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120
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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121
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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122
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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123
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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