In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided4 all questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place, from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day and generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,—as for that matter, exceedingly clever for any day and generation; but exceptionally clever for the day and generation to which she belonged. Her life, the mere5 surface of it, if it had been written, would have made a romance, to grow hot and cold over: sixty years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest of New Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf6 of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,—the waves of them all had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic Church had had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what had brought her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said anything about herself, which she never did,—one of her many wisdoms. So quiet, so reserved, so gentle an exterior7 never was known to veil such an imperious and passionate8 nature, brimful of storm, always passing through stress; never thwarted9, except at peril10 of those who did it; adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A tremendous force, wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no stranger would suspect it, to see her gliding11 about, in her scanty12 black gown, with her rosary hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an expression of mingled14 melancholy15 and devotion on her face. She looked simply like a sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable16 and indolent, like her race, but sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont17. Her voice heightened this mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak either loud or fast. There was at times even a curious hesitancy in her speech, which came near being a stammer18, or suggested the measured care with which people speak who have been cured of stammering19. It made her often appear as if she did not known her own mind; at which people sometimes took heart; when, if they had only known the truth, they would have known that the speech hesitated solely20 because the Senora knew her mind so exactly that she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired, or in a way to best attain21 her ends.
About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and the head shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, some discussions which would have been hot and angry ones in any other hands than the Senora's.
Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor Felipe were ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back with the flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture. “There were plenty of sheep on the place to begin with,” he said one morning,—“at least a thousand;” and by the time they were done, Luigo would surely be back with the rest; and as for Senor Felipe's being in bed, had not he, Juan Canito, stood at the packing-bag, and handled the wool, when Senor Felipe was a boy? Why could he not do it again? The Senora did not realize how time was going; there would be no shearers to be hired presently, since the Senora was determined22 to have none but Indians. Of course, if she would employ Mexicans, as all the other ranches23 in the valley did, it would be different; but she was resolved upon having Indians,—“God knows why,” he interpolated surlily, under his breath.
“I do not quite understand you, Juan,” interrupted Senora Moreno at the precise instant the last syllable24 of this disrespectful ejaculation had escaped Juan's lips; “speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf in my old age.”
What gentle, suave25, courteous26 tones! and the calm dark eyes rested on Juan Canito with a look to the fathoming27 of which he was as unequal as one of his own sheep would have been. He could not have told why he instantly and involuntarily said, “Beg your pardon, Senora.”
“Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan,” the Senora replied with exquisite28 gentleness; “it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I have fancied for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did. But about the Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he had positively29 engaged the same band of shearers we had last autumn, Alessandro's band from Temecula? They will wait until we are ready for them. Senor Felipe will send a messenger for them. He thinks them the best shearers in the country. He will be well enough in a week or two, he thinks, and the poor sheep must bear their loads a few days longer. Are they looking well, do you think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one? General Moreno used to say that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a pound, while it was on the sheep's backs.”
“Yes, Senora,” answered the mollified Juan; “the poor beasts look wonderfully well considering the scant13 feed they have had all winter. We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if any. Though, to be sure, there is no telling in what case that—Luigo will bring his flock back.”
The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp30 with which Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a contemptuous epithet31 before Luigo's name.
This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all down as usual to the score of young Senor Felipe.
Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: “Senor Felipe can see no fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I can tell him, he will rue32 it, one of these mornings, when he finds a flock of sheep worse than dead on his hands, and no thanks to anybody but Luigo. While I can have him under my eye, here in the valley, it is all very well; but he is no more fit to take responsibility of a flock, than one of the very lambs themselves. He'll drive them off their feet one day, and starve them the next; and I've known him to forget to give them water. When he's in his dreams, the Virgin33 only knows what he won't do.”
During this brief and almost unprecedented34 outburst of Juan's the Senora's countenance35 had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen it. His eyes had been turned away from her, looking down into the upturned eager face of his favorite collie, who was leaping and gambolling36 and barking at his feet.
“Down, Capitan, down!” he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing37 him; “thou makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but thy voice.”
“I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito,” said the Senora in a sweet but icy tone. “It is not well for one servant to backbite38 another. It gives me great grief to hear such words; and I hope when Father Salvierderra comes, next month, you will not forget to confess this sin of which you have been guilty in thus seeking to injure a fellow-being. If Senor Felipe listens to you, the poor boy Luigo will be cast out homeless on the world some day; and what sort of a deed would that be, Juan Canito, for one Christian39 to do to another? I fear the Father will give you penance40, when he hears what you have said.”
“Senora, it is not to harm the lad,” Juan began, every fibre of his faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice41 of her reproach.
But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no more from him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at her usual slow pace, her head slightly bent42 forward, her rosary lifted in her left hand, and the fingers of the right hand mechanically slipping the beads43.
“Prayers, always prayers!” thought Juan to himself, as his eyes followed her. “If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the straight road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed44 her. But what's a man to do, if he's the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to stand by, and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with everything? Ah, but it was an ill day for the estate when the General died,—an ill day! an ill day! And they may scold me as much as they please, and set me to confessing my sins to the Father; it's very well for them, they've got me to look after matters. Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's a man, maybe; but a boy like him! Bah!” And the old man stamped his foot with a not wholly unreasonable46 irritation47, at the false position in which he felt himself put.
“Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!” he muttered aloud. “Ay, that will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest,”—at which slip of the tongue the pious48 Juan hastily crossed himself,—“and I'll ask him to give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage between this young boy at the head of everything, and a doting49 mother who thinks he has the wisdom of a dozen grown men. The Father knew the place in the olden time. He knows it's no child's play to look after the estate even now, much smaller as it is! An ill day when the old General died, an ill day indeed, the saints rest his soul!” Saying this, Juan shrugged50 his shoulders, and whistling to Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda51 of the south side of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for twenty odd years his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe of a morning. Before he had got half-way across the court-yard, however, a thought struck him. He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the quick sensitiveness of his breed, thought so sudden a change of purpose could only come from something in connection with sheep; and, true to his instinct of duty, pricked52 up his ears, poised53 himself for a full run, and looked up in his master's face waiting for explanation and signal. But Juan did not observe him.
“Ha!” he said, “Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he? Let's see. To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to come off till the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be mass in the chapel54, and each night vespers; and the crowd will be here at least two days longer to feed, for the time they will lose by that and by the confessions55. That's what Senor Felipe is up to. He's a pious lad. I recollect56 now, it was the same way two years ago. Well, well, it is a good thing for those poor Indian devils to get a bit of religion now and then; and it's like old times to see the chapel full of them kneeling, and more than can get in at the door; I doubt not it warms the Senora's heart to see them all there, as if they belonged to the house, as they used to: and now I know when it's to be, I have only to make my arrangements accordingly. It is always in the first week of the month the Father gets here. Yes; she said, 'Senor Felipe will be well enough in a week or two, he thinks.' Ha! ha! It will be nearer two; ten days or thereabouts. I'll begin the booths next week. A plague on that Luigo for not being back here. He's the best hand I have to cut the willow57 boughs58 for the roofs. He knows the difference between one year's growth and another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the silly dreaming head he's got on his shoulders.”
Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor Felipe's purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put him in good humor for the day,—good humor with everybody, and himself most of all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning back against the whitewashed59 wall, his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in the extreme left corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, he was the picture of placid60 content. The troop of youngsters which still swarmed61 around the kitchen quarters of Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable62 as in the grand old days of the General's time, ran back and forth63 across Juan's legs, fell down between them, and picked themselves up by help of clutches at his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen.
“What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?” saucily64 asked Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping her head out of a window, and twitching65 Juan's hair. He was so gray and wrinkled that the maids all felt at ease with him. He seemed to them as old as Methuselah; but he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so safe in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in his veins66 yet, as the under-shepherds could testify.
“The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita,” answered Juan quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a mock bow towards the window.
“He! he! Senorita, indeed!” chuckled67 Margarita's mother, old Marda the cook. “Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the doors of his betters;” and she flung a copper68 saucepan full of not over-clean water so deftly69 past Juan's head, that not a drop touched him, and yet he had the appearance of having been ducked. At which bit of sleight-of-hand the whole court-yard, young and old, babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys, all set up a shout and a cackle, and dispersed70 to the four corners of the yard as if scattered71 by a volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket, the rest of the maids came running,—Anita and Maria, the twins, women forty years old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought home his handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the Little, as she was still called, though she outweighed72 her mother; old Juanita, the oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was said not to know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could tell nothing, having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing except to shell beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was never happy except she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one crop never omitted or stinted73 on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old Juanita they stored every year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans in the pod (tons of them, one would think), enough to feed an army. But then, it was like a little army even now, the Senora's household; nobody ever knew exactly how many women were in the kitchen, or how many men in the fields. There were always women cousins, or brother's wives or widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's husbands or sons, who were stopping on their way up or down the valley. When it came to the pay-roll, Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages; but who were fed and lodged74 under his roof, that was quite another thing. It could not enter into the head of a Mexican gentleman to make either count or account of that. It would be a disgraceful niggardly75 thought.
To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled76. In the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never less than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his gates each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time had indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden rush and muster77 at door and window, which followed on old Marda's letting fly the water at Juan's head, would have thought, “Good heavens, do all those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!” the Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was, “Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the house to help her.” And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to her heart, as she went into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The picture she saw there was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it met her eye, she paused on the threshold for a second,—only a second, however; and nothing could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to have been told that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was saying to him, “Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and are better,” there was welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation, “O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him the face of his father! He is fit for a kingdom!”
The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a king born, whose face, stature78, and bearing would set off a crown or a throne, or any of the things of which the outside of royalty79 is made up, better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said, whether the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the face of his father. So strong a likeness80 is seldom seen. When Felipe once, on the occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the gold-wrought velvet81 mantle82, gayly embroidered83 short breeches fastened at the knee with red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which his father had worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her first look at him,—fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and saw the same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her in distress84, with words of endearment85 and alarm, she fainted again.
“Mother, mother mia,” cried Felipe, “I will not wear them if it makes you feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to their cursed parade;” and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling fingers to unbuckle the sword-belt.
“No, no, Felipe,” faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. “It is my wish that you wear them;” and staggering to her feet, with a burst of tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so many times—never unkissed—buckled, in the days when her husband had bade her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain fates of war. “Wear them!” she cried, with gathering86 fire in her tones, and her eyes dry of tears,—“wear them, and let the American hounds see what a Mexican officer and gentleman looked like before they had set their base, usurping87 feet on our necks!” And she followed him to the gate, and stood erect88, bravely waving her handkerchief as he galloped89 off, till he was out of sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly to her room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the Madonna at the head of her bed, and spent the greater part of the day praying that she might be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discomfited90. From which part of these supplications she derived91 most comfort is easy to imagine.
Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise92 that it was for Father Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the non-appearance of Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have chuckled to himself still more at his perspicacity93, had he overheard the conversation going on between the Senora and her son, at the very time when he, half asleep on the veranda, was, as he would have called it, putting two and two together and convincing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were, and not to be kept in the dark by all their reticence94 and equivocation95.
“Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing,” said the Senora. “I suppose you are still of the same mind about it, Felipe,—that it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As the only chance those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would seem a Christian duty to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is very restive96. He is getting old, and chafes97 a little, I fancy, under your control. He cannot forget that you were a boy on his knee. Now I, for my part, am like to forget that you were ever anything but a man for me to lean on.”
Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming smile of filial affection and gratified manly98 vanity. “Indeed, my mother, if I can be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing more of the saints;” and he took his mother's thin and wasted little hands, both at once, in his own strong right hand, and carried them to his lips as a lover might have done. “You will spoil me, mother,” he said, “you make me so proud.”
“No, Felipe, it is I who am proud,” promptly99 replied the mother; “and I do not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having given me a son wise enough to take his father's place, and guide and protect me through the few remaining years I have to live. I shall die content, seeing you at the head of the estate, and living as a Mexican gentleman should; that is, so far as now remains100 possible in this unfortunate country. But about the sheep-shearing, Felipe. Do you wish to have it begun before the Father is here? Of course, Alessandro is all ready with his band. It is but two days' journey for a messenger to bring him. Father Salvierderra cannot be here before the 10th of the month. He leaves Santa Barbara on the 1st, and he will walk all the way,—a good six days' journey, for he is old now and feeble; then he must stop in Ventura for a Sunday, and a day at the Ortega's ranch, and at the Lopez's,—there, there is a christening. Yes, the 10th is the very earliest that he can be here,—near two weeks from now. So far as your getting up is concerned, it might perhaps be next week. You will be nearly well by that time.”
“Yes, indeed,” laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed and giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts and the fringed canopy101 roof shake and creak; “I am well now, if it were not for this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I believe it would do me good to get out of doors.”
In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. It was a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked in it; and two weeks looked long to wait.
“It is always thus after a fever,” said his mother. “The weakness lasts many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough even in two weeks to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this morning, he stood at the packing-bag when you were a boy, and there was no need of waiting for you for that!”
“He said that, did he!” exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. “The old man is getting insolent102. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing when I please, and not before.”
“I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till the Father comes, would it?” asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if the thing were evenly balanced in her mind. “The Father has not that hold on the younger men he used to have, and I have thought that even in Juan himself I have detected a remissness103. The spirit of unbelief is spreading in the country since the Americans are running up and down everywhere seeking money, like dogs with their noses to the ground! It might vex45 Juan if he knew that you were waiting only for the Father. What do you think?”
“I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits for my pleasure,” answered Felipe, still wrathful, “and that is the end of it.” And so it was; and, moreover, precisely104 the end which Senora Moreno had had in her own mind from the beginning; but not even Juan Canito himself suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her son's. As for Felipe, if any person had suggested to him that it was his mother, and not he, who had decided that the sheep-shearing would be better deferred105 until the arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara, and that nothing should be said on the ranch about this being the real reason of the postponing106, Felipe would have stared in astonishment107, and have thought that person either crazy or a fool.
To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate108 triumph of art. Never to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield109 other men, as instruments, with the same direct and implicit110 response to will that one gets from a hand or a foot,—this is to triumph, indeed: to be as nearly controller and conqueror111 of Fates as fate permits. There have been men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and another, who have sought and studied such a power and have acquired it to a great degree. By it they have manipulated legislators, ambassadors, sovereigns; and have grasped, held, and played with the destinies of empires. But it is to be questioned whether even in these notable instances there has ever been such marvellous completeness of success as is sometimes seen in the case of a woman in whom the power is an instinct and not an attainment112; a passion rather than a purpose. Between the two results, between the two processes, there is just that difference which is always to be seen between the stroke of talent and the stroke of genius.
Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius.
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1
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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7
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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9
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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fathoming
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| 测量 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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33
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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34
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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35
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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36
gambolling
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的现在分词 ) | |
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37
repulsing
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| v.击退( repulse的现在分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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38
backbite
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| v.背后诽谤 | |
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39
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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40
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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41
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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44
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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45
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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46
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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47
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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48
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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49
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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50
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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52
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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53
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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54
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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55
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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56
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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57
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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58
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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59
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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61
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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62
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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65
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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66
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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67
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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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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outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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73
stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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74
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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76
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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78
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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79
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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80
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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81
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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82
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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83
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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84
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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85
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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86
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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87
usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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88
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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89
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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90
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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91
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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92
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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93
perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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94
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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95
equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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96
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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97
chafes
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的第三人称单数 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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98
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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99
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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100
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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101
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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102
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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103
remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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104
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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105
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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106
postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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107
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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108
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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109
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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110
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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111
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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112
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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