Autumn set in, and the red dahlias which kept the warm light alive in their bosoms1 so late into the evening died in the night, and the morning had nothing but brown balls of rottenness to show.
They called me as I passed the post-office door in Eberwich one evening, and they gave me a letter for my mother. The distorted, sprawling2 handwriting perplexed3 me with a dim uneasiness; I put the letter away, and forgot it. I remembered it later in the evening, when I wished to recall something to interest my mother. She looked at the handwriting, and began hastily and nervously4 to tear open the envelope; she held it away from her in the light of the lamp, and with eyes drawn5 half closed, tried to scan it. So I found her spectacles, but she did not speak her thanks, and her hand trembled. She read the short letter quickly; then she sat down, and read it again, and continued to look at it.
"What is it mother?" I asked.
She did not answer, but continued staring at the letter. I went up to her, and put my hand on her shoulder, feeling very uncomfortable. She took no notice of me, beginning to murmur6: "Poor Frank—Poor Frank." That was my father's name.
"But what is it mother?—tell me what's the matter!"
She turned and looked at me as if I were a stranger; she got up, and began to walk about the room; then she left the room, and I heard her go out of the house.
The letter had fallen on to the floor. I picked it up. The handwriting was very broken. The address gave a village some few miles away; the date was three days before.
"My Dear Lettice:
"You will want to know I am gone. I can hardly last a day or two—my kidneys are nearly gone.
"I came over one day. I didn't see you, but I saw the girl by the window, and I had a few words with the lad. He never knew, and he felt nothing. I think the girl might have done. If you knew how awfully7 lonely I am, Lettice—how awfully I have been, you might feel sorry.
"I have saved what I could, to pay you back. I have had the worst of it Lettice, and I'm glad the end has come. I have had the worst of it.
"Good-bye—for ever—your husband,
"FRANK BEARDSALL."
I was numbed8 by this letter of my father's. With almost agonised effort I strove to recall him, but I knew that my image of a tall, handsome, dark man with pale grey eyes was made up from my mother's few words, and from a portrait I had once seen.
The marriage had been unhappy. My father was of frivolous9, rather vulgar character, but plausible10, having a good deal of charm. He was a liar11, without notion of honesty, and he had deceived my mother thoroughly12. One after another she discovered his mean dishonesties and deceits, and her soul revolted from him, and because the illusion of him had broken into a thousand vulgar fragments, she turned away with the scorn of a woman who finds her romance has been a trumpery13 tale. When he left her for other pleasures—Lettie being a baby of three years, while I was five—she rejoiced bitterly. She had heard of him indirectly—and of him nothing good, although he prospered—but he had never come to see her or written to her in all the eighteen years.
In a while my mother came in. She sat down, pleating up the hem14 of her black apron15, and smoothing it out again.
"You know," she said, "he had a right to the children, and I've kept them all the time."
"He could have come," said I.
"I set them against him, I have kept them from him, and he wanted them. I ought to be by him now—I ought to have taken you to him long ago."
"But how could you, when you knew nothing of him?"
"He would have come—he wanted to come—I have felt it for years. But I kept him away. I know I have kept him away. I have felt it, and he has. Poor Frank—he'll see his mistakes now. He would not have been as cruel as I have been——"
"This makes me know. I have felt in myself a long time that he was suffering; I have had the feeling of him in me. I knew, yes, I did know he wanted me, and you, I felt it. I have had the feeling of him upon me this last three months especially . . . I have been cruel to him."
"Well—we'll go to him now, shall we?" I said.
"To-morrow—to-morrow," she replied, noticing me really for the first time. "I go in the morning."
"And I'll go with you."
"Yes—in the morning. Lettie has her party to Chatsworth—don't tell her—we won't tell her."
"No," said I.
Shortly after, my mother went upstairs. Lettie came in rather late from Highclose; Leslie did not come in. In the morning they were going with a motor party into Matloch and Chatsworth, and she was excited, and did not observe anything.
After all, mother and I could not set out until the warm tempered afternoon. The air was full of a soft yellowness when we stepped down from the train at Cossethay. My mother insisted on walking the long two miles to the village. We went slowly along the road, lingering over the little red flowers in the high hedge-bottom up the hillside. We were reluctant to come to our destination. As we came in sight of the little grey tower of the church, we heard the sound of braying17, brassy music. Before us, filling a little croft, the Wakes was in full swing.
Some wooden horses careered gaily19 round, and the swingboats leaped into the mild blue sky. We sat upon the stile, my mother and I, and watched. There were booths, and cocoanut shies and round-abouts scattered20 in the small field. Groups of children moved quietly from attraction to attraction. A deeply tanned man came across the field swinging two dripping buckets of water. Women looked from the doors of their brilliant caravans21, and lean dogs rose lazily and settled down again under the steps. The fair moved slowly, for all its noise. A stout22 lady, with a husky masculine voice invited the excited children into her peep show. A swarthy man stood with his thin legs astride on the platform of the roundabouts, and sloping backwards23, his mouth distended24 with a row of fingers, he whistled astonishingly to the coarse row of the organ, and his whistling sounded clear, like the flight of a wild goose high over the chimney tops, as he was carried round and round. A little fat man with an ugly swelling25 on his chest stood screaming from a filthy26 booth to a crowd of urchins27, bidding them challenge a big, stolid29 young man who stood with folded arms, his fists pushing out his biceps. On being asked if he would undertake any of these prospective30 challenges, this young man nodded, not having yet attained31 a talking stage:—yes he would take two at a time, screamed the little fat man with the big excrescence on his chest, pointing at the cowering32 lads and girls. Further off, Punch's quaint33 voice could be heard when the cocoanut man ceased grinding out screeches34 from his rattle35. The cocoanut man was wroth, for these youngsters would not risk a penny shy, and the rattle yelled like a fiend. A little girl came along to look at us, daintily licking an ice-cream sandwich. We were uninteresting, however, so she passed on to stare at the caravans.
We had almost gathered courage to cross the wakes, when the cracked bell of the church sent its note falling over the babble36.
"One—two—three"—had it really sounded three! Then it rang on a lower bell—"One—two—three." A passing bell for a man! I looked at my mother—she turned away from me.
The organ flared37 on—the husky woman came forward to make another appeal. Then there was a lull39. The man with the lump on his chest had gone inside the rag to spar with the solid fellow. The cocoanut man had gone to the "Three Tunns" in fury, and a brazen40 girl of seventeen or so was in charge of the nuts. The horses careered round, carrying two frightened boys.
Suddenly the quick, throbbing41 note of the low bell struck again through the din28. I listened—but could not keep count. One, two, three, four—for the third time that great lad had determined42 to go on the horses, and they had started while his foot was on the step, and he had been foiled—eight, nine, ten—no wonder that whistling man had such a big Adam's apple—I wondered if it hurt his neck when he talked, being so pointed—nineteen, twenty—the girl was licking more ice-cream, with precious, tiny licks—twenty-five, twenty-six—I wondered if I did count to twenty-six mechanically. At this point I gave it up, and watched for Lord Tennyson's bald head to come spinning round on the painted rim43 of the round-abouts, followed by a red-faced Lord Roberts, and a villainous looking Disraeli.
"Fifty-one——" said my mother. "Come—come along."
We hurried through the fair, towards the church; towards a garden where the last red sentinels looked out from the top of the holly-hock spires44. The garden was a tousled mass of faded pink chrysanthemums45, and weak-eyed Michaelmas daisies, and spectre stalks of holly-hock. It belonged to a low, dark house, which crouched46 behind a screen of yews48. We walked along to the front. The blinds were down, and in one room we could see the stale light of candles burning.
"It's Mrs. May's," replied the boy.
"Does she live alone?" I asked.
"She 'ad French Carlin—but he's dead—an she's letten th' candles ter keep th' owd lad off'n 'im."
We went to the house and knocked.
"An ye come about him?" hoarsely49 whispered a bent50 old woman, looking up with very blue eyes, nodding her old head with its velvet51 net significantly towards the inner room.
"Yes——" said my mother, "we had a letter."
"Ay, poor fellow—he's gone, missis," and the old lady shook her head. Then she looked at us curiously52, leaned forward, and, putting her withered53 old hand on my mother's arm, her hand with its dark blue veins54, she whispered in confidence, "and the candles 'as gone out twice. 'E wor a funny feller, very funny!"
"I must come in and settle things—I am his nearest relative," said my mother, trembling.
"Yes—I must 'a dozed55, for when I looked up, it wor black darkness. Missis, I dursn't sit up wi' 'im no more, an' many a one I've laid out. Eh, but his sufferin's, Missis—poor feller—eh, Missis!"—she lifted her ancient hands, and looked up at my mother, with her eyes so intensely blue.
"Do you know where he kept his papers?" asked my mother.
"Yis, I axed Father Burns about it; he said we mun pray for 'im. I bought him candles out o' my own pocket. He wor a rum feller, he wor!" and again she shook her grey head mournfully. My mother took a step forward.
"Did ye want to see 'im?" asked the old woman with half timid questioning.
"Yes," replied my mother, with a vigorous nod. She perceived now that the old lady was deaf.
We followed the woman into the kitchen, a long, low room, dark, with drawn blinds.
"Sit ye down," said the old lady in the same low tone, as if she were speaking to herself:
"Ye are his sister, 'appen?"
My mother shook her head.
"Oh—his brother's wife!" persisted the old lady.
We shook our heads.
"Sit ye there a minute," she said, and trotted57 off. She banged the door, and jarred a chair as she went. When she returned, she set down a bottle and two glasses with a thump58 on the table in front of us. Her thin, skinny wrist seemed hardly capable of carrying the bottle.
"It's one as he'd only just begun of—'ave a drop to keep ye up—do now, poor thing," she said, pushing the bottle to my mother and hurrying off, returning with the sugar and the kettle. We refused.
"'E won't want it no more, poor feller—an it's good, Missis, he allers drank it good. Ay—an' 'e 'adn't a drop the last three days, poor man, poor feller, not a drop. Come now, it'll stay ye, come now." We refused.
"'T's in there," she whispered, pointing to a closed door in a dark corner of the gloomy kitchen. I stumbled up a little step, and went plunging59 against a rickety table on which was a candle in a tall brass18 candlestick. Over went the candle, and it rolled on the floor, and the brass holder60 fell with much clanging.
"Eh!—Eh! Dear—Lord, Dear—Heart. Dear—Heart!" wailed61 the old woman. She hastened trembling round to the other side of the bed, and relit the extinguished candle at the taper62 which was still burning. As she returned, the light glowed on her old, wrinkled face, and on the burnished63 knobs of the dark mahogany bedstead, while a stream of wax dripped down on to the floor. By the glimmering65 light of the two tapers66 we could see the outlined form under the counterpane. She turned back the hem and began to make painful wailing67 sounds. My heart was beating heavily, and I felt choked. I did not want to look—but I must. It was the man I had seen in the woods—with the puffiness gone from his face. I felt the great wild pity, and a sense of terror, and a sense of horror, and a sense of awful littleness and loneliness among a great empty space. I felt beyond myself as if I were a mere68 fleck69 drifting unconsciously through the dark. Then I felt my mother's arm round my shoulders, and she cried pitifully, "Oh, my son, my son!"
I shivered, and came back to myself. There were no tears in my mother's face, only a great pleading. "Never mind, mother—never mind," I said incoherently.
She rose and covered the face again, and went round to the old lady, and held her still, and stayed her little wailings. The woman wiped from her cheeks the few tears of old age, and pushed her grey hair smooth under the velvet network.
"Where are all his things?" asked mother.
"Eh?" said the old lady, lifting up her ear.
"Are all his things here?" repeated mother in a louder tone.
"Here?"—the woman waved her hand round the room. It contained the great mahogany bedstead naked of hangings, a desk, and an oak chest, and two or three mahogany chairs. "I couldn't get him upstairs; he's only been here about a three week."
"Where's the key to the desk?" said my mother loudly in the woman's ear.
"Yes," she replied—"it's his desk." She looked at us, perplexed and doubtful, fearing she had misunderstood us. This was dreadful.
"Key!" I shouted. "Where is the key?"
Her old face was full of trouble as she shook her head. I took it that she did not know.
"Where are his clothes? Clothes" I repeated pointing to my coat. She understood, and muttered, "I'll fetch 'em ye."
We should have followed her as she hurried upstairs through a door near the head of the bed, had we not heard a heavy footstep in the kitchen, and a voice saying: "Is the old lady going to drink with the Devil? Hullo, Mrs. May, come and drink with me!" We heard the tinkle70 of the liquor poured into a glass, and almost immediately the light tap of the empty tumbler on the table.
"I'll see what the old girl's up to," he said, and the heavy tread came towards us. Like me, he stumbled at the little step, but escaped collision with the table.
"Damn that fool's step," he said heartily71. It was the doctor—for he kept his hat on his head, and did not hesitate to stroll about the house. He was a big, burly, red-faced man.
"I beg your pardon," he said, observing my mother. My mother bowed.
"Mrs. Beardsall?" he asked, taking off his hat.
My mother bowed.
"I posted a letter to you. You are a relative of his—of poor old Carlin's?"—he nodded sideways towards the bed.
"The nearest," said my mother.
"I was very much surprised to hear from him," said my mother.
"Yes, I guess he's not been much of a one for writing to his friends. He's had a bad time lately. You have to pay some time or other. We bring them on ourselves—silly devils as we are.—I beg your pardon."
There was a moment of silence, during which the doctor sighed, and then began to whistle softly.
"Well—we might be more comfortable if we had the blind up," he said, letting daylight in among the glimmer64 of the tapers as he spoke73.
"At any rate," he said, "you won't have any trouble settling up—no debts or anything of that. I believe there's a bit to leave—so it's not so bad. Poor devil—he was very down at the last; but we have to pay at one end or the other. What on earth is the old girl after?" he asked, looking up at the raftered ceiling, which was rumbling74 and thundering with the old lady's violent rummaging75.
"We wanted the key of his desk," said my mother.
"Oh—I can find you that—and the will. He told me where they were, and to give them you when you came. He seemed to think a lot of you. Perhaps he might ha' done better for himself——"
Here we heard the heavy tread of the old lady coming downstairs. The doctor went to the foot of the stairs.
"Hello, now—be careful!" he bawled76. The poor old woman did as he expected, and trod on the braces77 of the trousers she was trailing, and came crashing into his arms. He set her tenderly down, saying, "Not hurt, are you?—no!" and he smiled at her and shook his head.
"Eh, doctor—Eh, doctor—bless ye, I'm thankful ye've come. Ye'll see to 'em now, will ye?"
"Yes—" he nodded in his bluff78, winning way, and hurrying into the kitchen, he mixed her a glass of whisky, and brought one for himself, saying to her, "There you are—'twas a nasty shaking for you."
The poor old woman sat in a chair by the open door of the staircase, the pile of clothing tumbled about her feet. She looked round pitifully at us and at the daylight struggling among the candle light, making a ghostly gleam on the bed where the rigid79 figure lay unmoved; her hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold her glass.
The doctor gave us the keys, and we rifled the desk and the drawers, sorting out all the papers. The doctor sat sipping80 and talking to us all the time.
"Yes," he said, "he's only been here about two years. Felt himself beginning to break up then, I think. He'd been a long time abroad; they always called him Frenchy." The doctor sipped82 and reflected, and sipped again, "Ay—he'd run the rig in his day—used to dream dreadfully. Good thing the old woman was so deaf. Awful, when a man gives himself away in his sleep; played the deuce with him, knowing it." Sip81, sip, sip—and more reflections—and another glass to be mixed.
"But he was a jolly decent fellow—generous, open-handed. The folks didn't like him, because they couldn't get to the bottom of him; they always hate a thing they can't fathom83. He was close, there's no mistake—save when he was asleep sometimes." The doctor looked at his glass and sighed.
"However—we shall miss him—shan't we, Mrs. May?" he bawled suddenly, startling us, making us glance at the bed.
He lit his pipe and puffed84 voluminously in order to obscure the attraction of his glass. Meanwhile we examined the papers. There were very few letters—one or two addressed to Paris. There were many bills, and receipts, and notes—business, all business.
There was hardly a trace of sentiment among all the litter. My mother sorted out such papers as she considered valuable; the others, letters and missives which she glanced at cursorily85 and put aside, she took into the kitchen and burned. She seemed afraid to find out too much.
"Ay," he said, "there are two ways. You can burn your lamp with a big draught87, and it'll flare38 away, till the oil's gone, then it'll stink88 and smoke itself out. Or you can keep it trim on the kitchen table, dirty your fingers occasionally trimming it up, and it'll last a long time, and sink out mildly." Here he turned to his glass, and finding it empty, was awakened89 to reality.
"Anything I can do, Madam?" he asked.
"No, thank you."
"Ay, I don't suppose there's much to settle. Nor many tears to shed—when a fellow spends his years an' his prime on the Lord knows who, you can't expect those that remember him young to feel his loss too keenly. He'd had his fling in his day, though, ma'am. Ay—must ha' had some rich times. No lasting90 satisfaction in it though—always wanting, craving91. There's nothing like marrying—you've got your dish before you then, and you've got to eat it." He lapsed92 again into reflection, from which he did not rouse till we had locked up the desk, burned the useless papers, put the others into my pockets and the black bag, and were standing93 ready to depart. Then the doctor looked up suddenly and said:
"But what about the funeral?"
Then he noticed the weariness of my mother's look, and he jumped up, and quickly seized his hat, saying:
"Come across to my wife and have a cup of tea. Buried in these dam holes a fellow gets such a boor94. Do come—my little wife is lonely—come just to see her."
My mother smiled and thanked him. We turned to go. My mother hesitated in her walk; on the threshold of the room she glanced round at the bed, but she went on.
Outside, in the fresh air of the fading afternoon, I could not believe it was true. It was not true, that sad, colourless face with grey beard, wavering in the yellow candle-light. It was a lie,—that wooden bedstead, that deaf woman, they were fading phrases of the untruth. That yellow blaze of little sunflowers was true, and the shadow from the sun-dial on the warm old almshouses—that was real. The heavy afternoon sunlight came round us warm and reviving; we shivered, and the untruth went out of our veins, and we were no longer chilled.
The doctor's house stood sweetly among the beech95 trees, and at the iron fence in front of the little lawn a woman was talking to a beautiful Jersey96 cow that pushed its dark nose through the fence from the field beyond. She was a little, dark woman with vivid colouring; she rubbed the nose of the delicate animal, peeped right into the dark eyes, and talked in a lovable Scottish speech; talked as a mother talks softly to her child.
When she turned round in surprise to greet us there was still the softness of a rich affection in her eyes. She gave us tea, and scones97, and apply jelly, and all the time we listened with delight to her voice, which was musical as bees humming in the lime trees. Though she said nothing significant we listened to her attentively98.
Her husband was merry and kind. She glanced at him with quick glances of apprehension99, and her eyes avoided him. He, in his merry, frank way, chaffed her, and praised her extravagantly100, and teased her again. Then he became a trifle uneasy. I think she was afraid he had been drinking; I think she was shaken with horror when she found him tipsy, and bewildered and terrified when she saw him drunk. They had no children. I noticed he ceased to joke when she became a little constrained101. He glanced at her often, and looked somewhat pitiful when she avoided his looks, and he grew uneasy, and I could see he wanted to go away.
"I had better go with you to see the vicar, then," he said to me, and we left the room, whose windows looked south, over the meadows, the room where dainty little water-colours, and beautiful bits of embroidery102, and empty flower vases, and two dirty novels from the town library, and the closed piano, and the odd cups, and the chipped spout103 of the teapot causing stains on the cloth—all told one story.
We went to the joiner's and ordered the coffin104, and the doctor had a glass of whisky on it; the graveyard105 fees were paid, and the doctor sealed the engagement with a drop of brandy; the vicar's port completed the doctor's joviality106, and we went home.
This time the disquiet107 in the little woman's dark eyes could not dispel108 the doctor's merriment. He rattled109 away, and she nervously twisted her wedding ring. He insisted on driving us to the station, in spite of our alarm.
"But you will be quite safe with him," said his wife, in her caressing110 Highland111 speech. When she shook hands at parting I noticed the hardness of the little palm;—and I have always hated an old, black alpaca dress.
It is such a long way home from the station at Eberwich. We rode part way in the bus; then we walked. It is a very long way for my mother, when her steps are heavy with trouble.
Rebecca was out by the rhododendrons looking for us. She hurried to us all solicitous112, and asked mother if she had had tea.
"But you'll do with another cup," she said, and ran back into the house.
She came into the dining-room to take my mother's bonnet113 and coat. She wanted us to talk; she was distressed114 on my mother's behalf; she noticed the blackness that lay under her eyes, and she fidgeted about, unwilling115 to ask anything, yet uneasy and anxious to know.
"Lettie has been home," she said.
"And gone back again?" asked mother.
"She only came to change her dress. She put the green poplin on. She wondered where you'd gone."
"What did you tell her?"
"I said you'd just gone out a bit. She said she was glad. She was as lively as a squirrel."
Rebecca looked wistfully at my mother. At length the latter said:
"He's dead, Rebecca. I have seen him."
"Now thank God for that—no more need to worry over him."
"Well!—He died all alone, Rebecca—all alone."
"But I've had the children, I've had the children—we won't tell Lettie, Rebecca."
"No 'm." Rebecca left the room.
"You and Lettie will have the money," said mother to me. There was a sum of four thousand pounds or so. It was left to my mother; or, in default to Lettie and me.
"Well, mother—if it's ours, it's yours."
There was silence for some minutes, then she said, "You might have had a father——"
"We're thankful we hadn't, mother. You spared us that."
"But how can you tell?" said my mother.
"I can," I replied. "And I am thankful to you."
"If ever you feel scorn for one who is near you rising in your throat, try and be generous, my lad."
"Well——" said I.
"Yes," she replied, "we'll say no more. Sometime you must tell Lettie—you tell her."
I did tell her, a week or so afterwards.
"Who knows?" she asked, her face hardening.
"Mother, Becky, and ourselves."
"Nobody else?"
"No."
"Then it's a good thing he is out of the way if he was such a nuisance to mother. Where is she?"
"Upstairs."
Lettie ran to her.
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1
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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2
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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5
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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23
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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24
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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26
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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27
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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28
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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29
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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30
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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31
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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32
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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33
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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34
screeches
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| n.尖锐的声音( screech的名词复数 )v.发出尖叫声( screech的第三人称单数 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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35
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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36
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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37
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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38
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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39
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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40
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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41
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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42
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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43
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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44
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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45
chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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46
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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48
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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49
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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50
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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51
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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52
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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53
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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54
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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55
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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57
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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58
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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59
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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60
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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61
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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63
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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64
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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65
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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66
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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67
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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69
fleck
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| n.斑点，微粒 vt.使有斑点，使成斑驳 | |
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70
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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71
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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72
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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73
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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74
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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75
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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76
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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77
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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78
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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79
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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80
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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81
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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82
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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84
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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85
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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86
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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87
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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88
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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89
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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90
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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91
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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92
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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93
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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94
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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95
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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96
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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97
scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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98
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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99
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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100
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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101
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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102
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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103
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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104
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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105
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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106
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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107
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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108
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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109
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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110
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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111
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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112
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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113
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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114
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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115
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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116
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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