No other hand was there to raise—to aid, no other voice to question kindly5, no other brain to concert measures; he had to do it all himself. This utter dependence6 of the speechless, bleeding youth (as a youth he regarded him) on his benevolence7 secured that benevolence most effectually. Well did Mr. Yorke like to have power, and to use it. He had now between his hands power over a fellow-creature's life. It suited him.
No less perfectly8 did it suit his saturnine9 better half. The incident was quite in her way and to her taste. Some women would have been terror-struck to see a gory10 man brought in over their threshold, and laid down in their hall in the "howe of the night." There, you would suppose, was subject-matter for hysterics. No. Mrs. Yorke went into hysterics when Jessie would not leave the garden to come to her knitting, or when Martin proposed starting for Australia, with a view to realize freedom and escape the tyranny of Matthew; but an attempted murder near her door—a half-murdered man in her best bed—set her straight, cheered her spirits, gave her cap the dash of a turban.
Mrs. Yorke was just the woman who, while rendering11 miserable12 the drudging life of a simple maid-servant, would492 nurse like a heroine a hospital full of plague patients. She almost loved Moore. Her tough heart almost yearned13 towards him when she found him committed to her charge—left in her arms, as dependent on her as her youngest-born in the cradle. Had she seen a domestic or one of her daughters give him a draught14 of water or smooth his pillow, she would have boxed the intruder's ears. She chased Jessie and Rose from the upper realm of the house; she forbade the housemaids to set their foot in it.
Now, if the accident had happened at the rectory gates, and old Helstone had taken in the martyr15, neither Yorke nor his wife would have pitied him. They would have adjudged him right served for his tyranny and meddling16. As it was, he became, for the present, the apple of their eye.
Strange! Louis Moore was permitted to come—to sit down on the edge of the bed and lean over the pillow; to hold his brother's hand, and press his pale forehead with his fraternal lips; and Mrs. Yorke bore it well. She suffered him to stay half the day there; she once suffered him to sit up all night in the chamber17; she rose herself at five o'clock of a wet November morning, and with her own hands lit the kitchen fire, and made the brothers a breakfast, and served it to them herself. Majestically18 arrayed in a boundless19 flannel20 wrapper, a shawl, and her nightcap, she sat and watched them eat, as complacently21 as a hen beholds22 her chickens feed. Yet she gave the cook warning that day for venturing to make and carry up to Mr. Moore a basin of sago-gruel; and the housemaid lost her favour because, when Mr. Louis was departing, she brought him his surtout aired from the kitchen, and, like a "forward piece" as she was, helped him on with it, and accepted in return a smile, a "Thank you, my girl," and a shilling. Two ladies called one day, pale and anxious, and begged earnestly, humbly23, to be allowed to see Mr. Moore one instant. Mrs. Yorke hardened her heart, and sent them packing—not without opprobrium24.
But how was it when Hortense Moore came? Not so bad as might have been expected. The whole family of the Moores really seemed to suit Mrs. Yorke so as no other family had ever suited her. Hortense and she possessed25 an exhaustless mutual26 theme of conversation in the corrupt27 propensities28 of servants. Their views of this class were similar; they watched them with the same suspicion, and judged them with the same severity. Hortense, too, from493 the very first showed no manner of jealousy29 of Mrs. Yorke's attentions to Robert—she let her keep the post of nurse with little interference; and, for herself, found ceaseless occupation in fidgeting about the house, holding the kitchen under surveillance, reporting what passed there, and, in short, making herself generally useful. Visitors they both of them agreed in excluding sedulously30 from the sickroom. They held the young mill-owner captive, and hardly let the air breathe or the sun shine on him.
Mr. MacTurk, the surgeon to whom Moore's case had been committed, pronounced his wound of a dangerous, but, he trusted, not of a hopeless character. At first he wished to place with him a nurse of his own selection; but this neither Mrs. Yorke nor Hortense would hear of. They promised faithful observance of directions. He was left, therefore, for the present in their hands.
Doubtless they executed the trust to the best of their ability; but something got wrong. The bandages were displaced or tampered31 with; great loss of blood followed. MacTurk, being summoned, came with steed afoam. He was one of those surgeons whom it is dangerous to vex—abrupt in his best moods, in his worst savage32. On seeing Moore's state he relieved his feelings by a little flowery language, with which it is not necessary to strew33 the present page. A bouquet34 or two of the choicest blossoms fell on the unperturbed head of one Mr. Graves, a stony35 young assistant he usually carried about with him; with a second nosegay he gifted another young gentleman in his train—an interesting fac-simile of himself, being indeed his own son; but the full corbeille of blushing bloom fell to the lot of meddling womankind, en masse.
For the best part of one winter night himself and satellites were busied about Moore. There at his bedside, shut up alone with him in his chamber, they wrought37 and wrangled38 over his exhausted39 frame. They three were on one side of the bed, and Death on the other. The conflict was sharp; it lasted till day broke, when the balance between the belligerents40 seemed so equal that both parties might have claimed the victory.
At dawn Graves and young MacTurk were left in charge of the patient, while the senior went himself in search of additional strength, and secured it in the person of Mrs. Horsfall, the best nurse on his staff. To this woman he gave Moore in charge, with the sternest injunctions respecting494 the responsibility laid on her shoulders. She took this responsibility stolidly41, as she did also the easy-chair at the bedhead. That moment she began her reign42.
Mrs. Horsfall had one virtue—orders received from MacTurk she obeyed to the letter. The ten commandments were less binding43 in her eyes than her surgeon's dictum. In other respects she was no woman, but a dragon. Hortense Moore fell effaced44 before her; Mrs. Yorke withdrew—crushed; yet both these women were personages of some dignity in their own estimation, and of some bulk in the estimation of others. Perfectly cowed by the breadth, the height, the bone, and the brawn45 of Mrs. Horsfall, they retreated to the back parlour. She, for her part, sat upstairs when she liked, and downstairs when she preferred it. She took her dram three times a day, and her pipe of tobacco four times.
As to Moore, no one now ventured to inquire about him. Mrs. Horsfall had him at dry-nurse. It was she who was to do for him, and the general conjecture46 now ran that she did for him accordingly.
Morning and evening MacTurk came to see him. His case, thus complicated by a new mischance, was become one of interest in the surgeon's eyes. He regarded him as a damaged piece of clockwork, which it would be creditable to his skill to set agoing again. Graves and young MacTurk—Moore's sole other visitors—contemplated47 him in the light in which they were wont49 to contemplate48 the occupant for the time being of the dissecting-room at Stilbro' Infirmary.
Robert Moore had a pleasant time of it—in pain, in danger, too weak to move, almost too weak to speak, a sort of giantess his keeper, the three surgeons his sole society. Thus he lay through the diminishing days and lengthening50 nights of the whole drear month of November.
In the commencement of his captivity51 Moore used feebly to resist Mrs. Horsfall. He hated the sight of her rough bulk, and dreaded52 the contact of her hard hands; but she taught him docility53 in a trice. She made no account whatever of his six feet, his manly54 thews and sinews; she turned him in his bed as another woman would have turned a babe in its cradle. When he was good she addressed him as "my dear" and "honey," and when he was bad she sometimes shook him. Did he attempt to speak when MacTurk was there, she lifted her hand and bade him "Hush55!" like495 a nurse checking a forward child. If she had not smoked, if she had not taken gin, it would have been better, he thought; but she did both. Once, in her absence, he intimated to MacTurk that "that woman was a dram-drinker."
"Pooh! my dear sir, they are all so," was the reply he got for his pains. "But Horsfall has this virtue," added the surgeon—"drunk or sober, she always remembers to obey me."
At length the latter autumn passed; its fogs, its rains withdrew from England their mourning and their tears; its winds swept on to sigh over lands far away. Behind November came deep winter—clearness, stillness, frost accompanying.
A calm day had settled into a crystalline evening. The world wore a North Pole colouring; all its lights and tints56 looked like the reflets[A] of white, or violet, or pale green gems57. The hills wore a lilac blue; the setting sun had purple in its red; the sky was ice, all silvered azure58; when the stars rose, they were of white crystal, not gold; gray, or cerulean, or faint emerald hues—cool, pure, and transparent—tinged the mass of the landscape.
[A] Find me an English word as good, reader, and I will gladly dispense59 with the French word. "Reflections" won't do.
What is this by itself in a wood no longer green, no longer even russet, a wood neutral tint—this dark blue moving object? Why, it is a schoolboy—a Briarfield grammar-school boy—who has left his companions, now trudging60 home by the highroad, and is seeking a certain tree, with a certain mossy mound61 at its root, convenient as a seat. Why is he lingering here? The air is cold and the time wears late. He sits down. What is he thinking about? Does he feel the chaste62 charm Nature wears to-night? A pearl-white moon smiles through the gray trees; does he care for her smile?
Impossible to say; for he is silent, and his countenance63 does not speak. As yet it is no mirror to reflect sensation, but rather a mask to conceal64 it. This boy is a stripling of fifteen—slight, and tall of his years. In his face there is as little of amenity65 as of servility, his eye seems prepared to note any incipient66 attempt to control or overreach him, and the rest of his features indicate faculties67 alert for resistance. Wise ushers68 avoid unnecessary interference with496 that lad. To break him in by severity would be a useless attempt; to win him by flattery would be an effort worse than useless. He is best let alone. Time will educate and experience train him.
Professedly Martin Yorke (it is a young Yorke, of course) tramples69 on the name of poetry. Talk sentiment to him, and you would be answered by sarcasm70. Here he is, wandering alone, waiting duteously on Nature, while she unfolds a page of stern, of silent, and of solemn poetry beneath his attentive71 gaze.
Being seated, he takes from his satchel72 a book—not the Latin grammar, but a contraband73 volume of fairy tales. There will be light enough yet for an hour to serve his keen young vision. Besides, the moon waits on him; her beam, dim and vague as yet, fills the glade74 where he sits.
He reads. He is led into a solitary75 mountain region; all round him is rude and desolate76, shapeless, and almost colourless. He hears bells tinkle77 on the wind. Forth78-riding from the formless folds of the mist dawns on him the brightest vision—a green-robed lady, on a snow-white palfrey. He sees her dress, her gems, and her steed. She arrests him with some mysterious question. He is spell-bound, and must follow her into fairyland.
A second legend bears him to the sea-shore. There tumbles in a strong tide, boiling at the base of dizzy cliffs. It rains and blows. A reef of rocks, black and rough, stretches far into the sea. All along, and among, and above these crags dash and flash, sweep and leap, swells79, wreaths, drifts of snowy spray. Some lone36 wanderer is out on these rocks, treading with cautious step the wet, wild seaweed; glancing down into hollows where the brine lies fathoms80 deep and emerald clear, and seeing there wilder and stranger and huger vegetation than is found on land, with treasure of shells—some green, some purple, some pearly—clustered in the curls of the snaky plants. He hears a cry. Looking up and forward, he sees, at the bleak81 point of the reef, a tall, pale thing—shaped like man, but made of spray—transparent, tremulous, awful. It stands not alone. They are all human figures that wanton in the rocks—a crowd of foam-women—a band of white, evanescent Nereids.
Hush! Shut the book; hide it in the satchel. Martin hears a tread. He listens. No—yes. Once more the dead leaves, lightly crushed, rustle82 on the wood path. Martin watches; the trees part, and a woman issues forth.
She is a lady dressed in dark silk, a veil covering her face. Martin never met a lady in this wood before—nor any female, save, now and then, a village girl come to gather nuts. To-night the apparition83 does not displease84 him. He observes, as she approaches, that she is neither old nor plain, but, on the contrary, very youthful; and, but that he now recognizes her for one whom he has often wilfully85 pronounced ugly, he would deem that he discovered traits of beauty behind the thin gauze of that veil.
She passes him and says nothing. He knew she would. All women are proud monkeys, and he knows no more conceited86 doll than that Caroline Helstone. The thought is hardly hatched in his mind when the lady retraces87 those two steps she had got beyond him, and raising her veil, reposes88 her glance on his face, while she softly asks, "Are you one of Mr. Yorke's sons?"
No human evidence would ever have been able to persuade Martin Yorke that he blushed when thus addressed; yet blush he did, to the ears.
"I am," he said bluntly, and encouraged himself to wonder, superciliously89, what would come next.
"You are Martin, I think?" was the observation that followed.
It could not have been more felicitous90. It was a simple sentence—very artlessly, a little timidly, pronounced; but it chimed in harmony to the youth's nature. It stilled him like a note of music.
Martin had a keen sense of his personality; he felt it right and sensible that the girl should discriminate91 him from his brothers. Like his father, he hated ceremony. It was acceptable to hear a lady address him as "Martin," and not Mr. Martin or Master Martin, which form would have lost her his good graces for ever. Worse, if possible, than ceremony was the other extreme of slipshod familiarity. The slight tone of bashfulness, the scarcely perceptible hesitation92, was considered perfectly in place.
"I am Martin," he said.
"Are your father and mother well?" (it was lucky she did not say papa and mamma; that would have undone93 all); "and Rose and Jessie?"
"I suppose so."
"My cousin Hortense is still at Briarmains?"
"Oh yes."
Martin gave a comic half-smile and demi-groan. The498 half-smile was responded to by the lady, who could guess in what sort of odour Hortense was likely to be held by the young Yorkes.
"Does your mother like her?"
"It is cold to-night."
"Why are you out so late?"
"I lost my way in this wood."
Now, indeed, Martin allowed himself a refreshing95 laugh of scorn.
"I never was here before, and I believe I am trespassing97 now. You might inform against me if you chose, Martin, and have me fined. It is your father's wood."
"I should think I knew that. But since you are so simple as to lose your way, I will guide you out."
"You need not. I have got into the track now. I shall be right. Martin" (a little quickly), "how is Mr. Moore?"
"Going to die. Nothing can save him. All hope flung overboard!"
She put her veil aside. She looked into his eyes, and said, "To die!"
"To die. All along of the women, my mother and the rest. They did something about his bandages that finished everything. He would have got better but for them. I am sure they should be arrested, cribbed, tried, and brought in for Botany Bay, at the very least."
The questioner, perhaps, did nor hear this judgment99. She stood motionless. In two minutes, without another word, she moved forwards; no good-night, no further inquiry100. This was not amusing, nor what Martin had calculated on. He expected something dramatic and demonstrative. It was hardly worth while to frighten the girl if she would not entertain him in return. He called, "Miss Helstone!"
She did not hear or turn. He hastened after and overtook her.
"Come; are you uneasy about what I said?"
"You know nothing about death, Martin; you are too young for me to talk to concerning such a thing."
"Did you believe me? It's all flummery! Moore eats like three men. They are always making sago or tapioca or something good for him. I never go into the kitchen but there is a saucepan on the fire, cooking him some dainty. I think I will play the old soldier, and be fed on the fat of the land like him."
"Martin! Martin!" Here her voice trembled, and she stopped.
"It is exceedingly wrong of you, Martin. You have almost killed me."
Again she stopped. She leaned against a tree, trembling, shuddering101, and as pale as death.
Martin contemplated her with inexpressible curiosity. In one sense it was, as he would have expressed it, "nuts" to him to see this. It told him so much, and he was beginning to have a great relish102 for discovering secrets. In another sense it reminded him of what he had once felt when he had heard a blackbird lamenting103 for her nestlings, which Matthew had crushed with a stone, and that was not a pleasant feeling. Unable to find anything very appropriate to say in order to comfort her, he began to cast about in his mind what he could do. He smiled. The lad's smile gave wondrous104 transparency to his physiognomy.
"Eureka!" he cried. "I'll set all straight by-and-by. You are better now, Miss Caroline. Walk forward," he urged.
Not reflecting that it would be more difficult for Miss Helstone than for himself to climb a wall or penetrate105 a hedge, he piloted her by a short cut which led to no gate. The consequence was he had to help her over some formidable obstacles, and while he railed at her for helplessness, he perfectly liked to feel himself of use.
"Martin, before we separate, assure me seriously, and on your word of honour, that Mr. Moore is better."
"How very much you think of that Moore!"
"You may tell them he is well enough, only idle. You may tell them that he takes mutton chops for dinner, and the best of arrowroot for supper. I intercepted107 a basin myself one night on its way upstairs, and ate half of it."
"And who waits on him, Martin? who nurses him?"
"Nurses him? The great baby! Why, a woman as round and big as our largest water-butt—a rough, hard-favoured500 old girl. I make no doubt she leads him a rich life. Nobody else is let near him. He is chiefly in the dark. It is my belief she knocks him about terribly in that chamber. I listen at the wall sometimes when I am in bed, and I think I hear her thumping108 him. You should see her fist. She could hold half a dozen hands like yours in her one palm. After all, notwithstanding the chops and jellies he gets, I would not be in his shoes. In fact, it is my private opinion that she eats most of what goes up on the tray to Mr. Moore. I wish she may not be starving him."
"You never see him, I suppose, Martin?"
"I? No. I don't care to see him, for my own part."
Silence again.
"Did not you come to our house once with Mrs. Pryor, about five weeks since, to ask after him?" again inquired Martin.
"Yes."
"I dare say you wished to be shown upstairs?"
"Ay! she declined. I heard it all. She treated you as it is her pleasure to treat visitors now and then. She behaved to you rudely and harshly."
"She was not kind; for you know, Martin, we are relations, and it is natural we should take an interest in Mr. Moore. But here we must part; we are at your father's gate."
"Very well, what of that? I shall walk home with you."
"They will miss you, and wonder where you are."
"Let them. I can take care of myself, I suppose."
Martin knew that he had already incurred112 the penalty of a lecture, and dry bread for his tea. No matter; the evening had furnished him with an adventure. It was better than muffins and toast.
He walked home with Caroline. On the way he promised to see Mr. Moore, in spite of the dragon who guarded his chamber, and appointed an hour on the next day when Caroline was to come to Briarmains Wood and get tidings of him. He would meet her at a certain tree. The scheme led to nothing; still he liked it.
Having reached home, the dry bread and the lecture were duly administered to him, and he was dismissed to bed at an early hour. He accepted his punishment with the toughest stoicism.
Ere ascending113 to his chamber he paid a secret visit to the dining-room, a still, cold, stately apartment, seldom used, for the family customarily dined in the back parlour. He stood before the mantelpiece, and lifted his candle to two pictures hung above—female heads: one, a type of serene114 beauty, happy and innocent; the other, more lovely, but forlorn and desperate.
"She looked like that," he said, gazing on the latter sketch115, "when she sobbed116, turned white, and leaned against the tree."
"I suppose," he pursued, when he was in his room, and seated on the edge of his pallet-bed—"I suppose she is what they call 'in love'—yes, in love with that long thing in the next chamber. Whisht! is that Horsfall clattering117 him? I wonder he does not yell out. It really sounds as if she had fallen on him tooth and nail; but I suppose she is making the bed. I saw her at it once. She hit into the mattresses118 as if she was boxing. It is queer, Zillah (they call her Zillah)—Zillah Horsfall is a woman, and Caroline Helstone is a woman; they are two individuals of the same species—not much alike though. Is she a pretty girl, that Caroline? I suspect she is; very nice to look at—something so clear in her face, so soft in her eyes. I approve of her looking at me; it does me good. She has long eyelashes. Their shadow seems to rest where she gazes, and to instil119 peace and thought. If she behaves well, and continues to suit me as she has suited me to-day, I may do her a good turn. I rather relish the notion of circumventing120 my mother and that ogress old Horsfall. Not that I like humouring Moore; but whatever I do I'll be paid for, and in coin of my own choosing. I know what reward I will claim—one displeasing121 to Moore, and agreeable to myself."
He turned into bed.
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1
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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38
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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40
belligerents
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| n.交战的一方（指国家、集团或个人）( belligerent的名词复数 ) | |
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41
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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42
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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43
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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44
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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45
brawn
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| n.体力 | |
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46
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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47
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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48
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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49
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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50
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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51
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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52
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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53
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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54
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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55
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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56
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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57
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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58
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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59
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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60
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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61
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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62
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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63
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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64
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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65
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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66
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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67
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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68
ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
tramples
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| 踩( trample的第三人称单数 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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70
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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71
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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72
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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73
contraband
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| n.违禁品，走私品 | |
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74
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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75
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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77
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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78
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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79
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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80
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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81
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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82
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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83
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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84
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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85
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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86
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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87
retraces
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| v.折回( retrace的第三人称单数 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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88
reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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89
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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90
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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91
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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92
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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93
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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94
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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95
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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96
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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97
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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98
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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99
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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100
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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101
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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102
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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103
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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104
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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105
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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106
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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107
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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108
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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109
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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110
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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111
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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113
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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114
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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115
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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116
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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117
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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118
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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119
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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120
circumventing
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| v.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的现在分词 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行 | |
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121
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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