“Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep agin, honey,” said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's eyelids1, and compelling them down. “We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n' we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer needn't be afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter sleep, honey.”
The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way, and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint question that came,—“Felipe?”
“Yes, dear! I am here, too,” breathed Felipe; “go to sleep. We will not leave you!”
And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her life.
“Ther longer she kin2 sleep, ther better,” said Aunt Ri, with a sigh, deep-drawn3 like a groan4. “I allow I dread5 ter see her reely come to. 'T'll be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!”
But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude6 had been gathering7 in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle constancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs8 are made; this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were those of old, who “had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being destitute9, afflicted10, tormented11, wandered in deserts and in mountains, and in dens12 and caves of the earth.”
When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatific13 smile that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, “How did you find me, dear Felipe?” It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an audible sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again, and tried to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes, she whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe, “Alessandro.” A convulsion passed over her face as she spoke14 the word, and the tears flowed.
Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly15 responded: “Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good fur ye; 'n' Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong 'n' well, 'n' tote ye out er this—” Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive16 in her vocabulary answered her need at that moment. “I allow ye kin go 'n a week, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git ter talkin', thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. Yeow jest shet up, honey. We'll look arter everythin'.”
Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips framed the words, “With you?”
“Yes, dear, home with me,” said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. “I have been searching for you all this time.”
An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than continued anxiety. “I am alone, dear Ramona,” he whispered. “There is no one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead a year.”
The eyes dilated17, then filled with sympathetic tears. “Dear Felipe!” she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one inspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty18, waiting for Ramona. Not only her child to live for, but to “take care of Felipe”! Ramona would not die! Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and duty, on the side of life,—the battle was won, and won quickly, too.
To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked on Aunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin19 to a superstitious20 reverence21. They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb by means of which she had wrought22 the marvellous cure; but they had made repeated experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be that there had been some potent23 spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would hardly believe her when, in answer to their persistent24 questioning, she reiterated25 the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water and “old man,” which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which, when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the leaves.
Rumors26 about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like water, and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything, anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the atmosphere of that lonely country loomed27 into colossal28 proportions. He had travelled all over California, with four horses, in search of her. He was only waiting till she was well, to take her to his home in the south; and then he was going to arrest the man who had murdered her husband, and have him hanged,—yes, hanged! Small doubt about that; or, if the law cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senor would see him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard these tales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges; but the bullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were like Indians in their vengeance29. Time did not tire them, and their memories were long. Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper get the better of him on that lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody but he himself knew,—nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did not know the bitter whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward with no hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge and jury, to justify30 his act, was an entire fabrication of his own, and that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by Alessandro, and those were, “Senor, I will explain;” and that even after the first shot had pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his throat, he had still run a step or two farther, with his hand uplifted deprecatingly, and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the ground dead. Callous31 as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his mind that killing32 an Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading anguish33 in Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to recall this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who had appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still more unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad34 to remorse35. There was another thing, too, which to his great wonder had been apparently36 overlooked by everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing of it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the only clew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was that the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony37 in the corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for a horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, more than once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact of Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity38, might be made to tell against him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was as cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separate in human nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense39 and apprehension40, he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever, at least for a few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the way. He lost no time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well he did not, for it was only three days after he had disappeared, that Felipe walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries41 relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in the matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar. And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of the case, and went on to say, “If Farrar's testimony42 is true, Ramona's, the wife's, must be false,” and “at any rate, her testimony would not be worth a straw with any jury,” Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, “She of whom you speak is my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can find that man, I will shoot him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a San Diego County jury will hang me for ridding the country of such a brute43!” and Felipe would have been as good as his word. It was a wise thing Farrar had done in making his escape.
When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young Merrill. “Fled ther country, hez he?” she said. “Wall, he kin flee ez many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeow folks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but I say 'tis; an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore yer die: ef 'tain't brung one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind what I say, 'n' don't yeow furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet's lighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk44, but he's got the Lawd arter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve in hangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't want to see no man hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want to see no man shot down, nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyar Feeleepy, he's thet highstrung, he'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any minnit, quicker'n lightnin', ef he'd ketched him; so it's better all raound he's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet Injun he murdered 'll foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long arter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow. He'll be jest like a man I knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a mite45 then, but I never forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds46, East Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence between 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o' ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' then the women took it up,—ther childun's mothers, yer know,—'n' they got fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they fit; 'n' Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he picked a querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter47 pieces. They hed him up for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever did, but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free; 'n' he lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like he never hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he, 'Jake,'—they allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'—'Jake,' sed he, 'I can't stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the country's clar'd ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n' I've got Claiborne allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but he's a walkin' in it, by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with him ter one side, 'n' my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's ther very words I heered him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but I didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy, 'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz bigger then, a gal48 grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,—I heern him,—'Wal,' sez he, 'did Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll never git shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.' Yer see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz. 'T least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said 't wuz Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this miser'ble Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er shot, er erry which way, ter git out er his misery49.”
Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words. They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a stratum51, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character of the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such strata,—the training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain by successions of unrelated and violent experiences, like geological deposits. Underneath52 the exterior53 crust of the most hardened and ruffianly nature often remains—its forms not yet quite fossilized—a realm full of the devout54 customs, doctrines55, religious influences, which the boy knew, and the man remembers, By sudden upheaval56, in some great catastrophe57 or struggle in his mature life, these all come again into the light. Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in his childhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he is thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling and speech by this clashing of the old and new man within him. It was much in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote58 upon young Merrill. He was not many years removed from the sound of a preaching of the straitest New England Calvinism. The wild frontier life had drawn him in and under, as in a whirlpool; but he was New Englander yet at heart.
“That's so, Aunt Ri!” he exclaimed. “That's so! I don't s'pose a man that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor in the next nuther, without he repents59; but ye see this horse-stealin' business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way you can fix it; everybody admits that. A feller that's caught horse-stealin' had ought to be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, in this country!”
A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. “I hain't no patience left with yer,” she said, “er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this Injun, he wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. D'yer think ef he'd ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in the corral, same ez, yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n' the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur ennybody ter see?”
“Left his own horse, so he did!” retorted Merrill. “A poor, miserable60, knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; 'n' Jim's horse was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that.”
“Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin',” persisted Aunt Ri. “I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap61 er hosses. What I say is, he wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used ter hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet left his name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n' fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum! I allow me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur I allow we air bound to querril ef we dew;” and nothing that Merrill said could draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death. But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speech eloquent62. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The last vestige63 of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in the presence of their simple-hearted friendliness64. “I'll never hear a word said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day,” she said. “The way the pore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur Ramony, beat all ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound more'n most. 'N' they wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they didn't know, till Feeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she had any folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha' taken care on her till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez took care on among them, they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thing left. Thet's ther way they air raised; I allow white folks might take a lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done talkin' again Injuns, naow, don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all thet, 't won't make any difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody b'leeve ennythin' 'n this world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet way tew; I allow I hain't got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull66 world could see what I've seen! Thet's all!”
It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed. Heartily67 as the kindly68 people rejoiced in her having found such a protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's and Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude69 towards them, they were yet conscious of a loss,—of a void. The gulf70 between them and the rest of the world seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation71 deepened, their hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as their sister,—one of them; as such, she would have had share in all their life had to offer. But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship and deprivation72; and she was being borne away from it, like one rescued, not so much from death, as from a life worse than death.
The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days suckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier73 babe that Ramona's should not suffer. “Sister, you have given me my child,” she cried; “I can never thank you; I will pray for you all my life.”
She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a little child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than hers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity74 of acceptance which had characterized her daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene75 and sunny then,—serene under trials, sunny in her routine of little duties,—had kept her serene through all the afflictions, and calm, if not sunny, under all the burdens of her later life; and it did not desert her even now.
Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration76 as her dry, humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. “I allow I donno but I sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew,” she said, “ef I wuz ter live 'long side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n human. 'T beats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum would say she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kin see, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uv prayin' to picters, 'n' strings77 er beads78, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thet keeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'n it's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor agin Injuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, these days. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git through!”
The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a treason and ingratitude79. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at it. “Dear girl,” he thought; “it is the nearest she has ever come to knowing what a mother's love is like!” And he lingered in San Bernardino week after week, on the pretence80 that Ramona was not yet strong enough to bear the journey home, when in reality his sole motive81 for staying was his reluctance82 to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome83 and cheering companionship.
Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife. She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadful morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her favorite pattern, the “hit-er-miss” pattern, as she called it; no set stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the indiscriminately mixed tints84, woven back and forth85, on a warp86 of a single color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious87 blending of the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject, too, of not unphilosophical reflection.
“Wall,” she said, “it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's 'hit' oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way ther breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when they air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter be with heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss' pattren we air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon how 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd think; come ter sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought 't wuz gwine ter be; but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a 'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't never nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come, 'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter see 't done. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I larned thet lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper, jest ther wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin see it's what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I wuz told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a bawn fool gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I'll take ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight along.”
When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independent arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding88 the time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to give, and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent himself at home.
“I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet,” she said; “I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered. We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' her brother. He's tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well off.”
Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did not come to see him; he had expected to hear from her.
“Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef she wuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' to no jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so.”
“Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me,” said the Agent. “I was going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly89 to bring the case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed.”
“Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns, I notice,” broke in Aunt Ri; “hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' the marshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeour doin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell—them wuz thar words—thet sold whiskey ter Injuns.”
“That's so!” said the Agent. “So I am; I am determined90 to break up this vile91 business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin and a shame.”
“Thet's so, I allow ter yeow,” said Aunt Ri. “Thar ain't any gainsayin' thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail fur sellin' whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef he goes 'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' cur'us abaout thet.”
“That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri,” he said. “I have no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have.”
“What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?” broke in Aunt Ri.
The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logical method of questioning was inconvenient92.
“I only mean that they are under my charge,” he said. “I don't mean that they belong to me in any way.”
“Wall, I allow not,” retorted Aunt Ri, “enny more 'n I dew. They air airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've been 'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had my eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet they call the Agency doctor,—what's he got ter do?”
“To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick,” replied the Agent, promptly.
“Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,—thet's why he put his name down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuz high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv out er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, 'n' pore; 'n' he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little gal, 'n' the docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur askin.' 'N' they set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she died afore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all the rest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spells till arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. I wouldn't hev no sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow. Pr'aps yer never heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't bleeve yer knowed it, or ye'd hev made him go.”
“No, Aunt Ri,” said the Agent; “I could not have done that; he is only required to doctor such Indians as come here.”
“I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all,” said Aunt Ri; “'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I expect he gits well paid?” and she paused for an answer. None came. The Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary the Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard93 prescriptions94 to Indians he never saw.
After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: “Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I allow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these Injuns. I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em 'n' knowing this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny power to giv' 'em ennything,—food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em.”
“I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times of special suffering;” replied the Agent, “a very little; and the Department has appropriated some money for wagons95 and ploughs; not enough, however, to supply every village; you see these Indians are in the main self-supporting.”
“Thet's jest it,” persisted Aunt Ri. “Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n' thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means ter hev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yer can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say killin' 'em,—ef yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin' whiskey, wall, I'm free ter say—” Aunt Ri paused; she did not wish to seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence very differently from her first impulse,—“I'm free ter say I shouldn't like ter stan' in yer shoes.”
“You may very well say that, Aunt Ri,” laughed the Agent, complacently96. “It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the least satisfactory.”
“Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin',” rejoined the indefatigable97 Aunt Ri; “but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so be's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'.” And she looked honestly puzzled.
“Look there, Aunt Ri!” said he, triumphantly98, pointing to a pile of books and papers. “All those to be gone through with, and a report to be made out every month, and a voucher99 to be sent for every lead-pencil I buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and for less pay.”
“I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then,” retorted Aunt Ri, good-naturedly satirical, “ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!” And she took her leave, not a whit65 clearer in her mind as to the real nature and function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning.
Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito, gayly trotting100 along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed gliding101; Felipe by her side,—the dear Felipe,—his eyes wearing the same bright and loving look as of old,—what strange thing was it which had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one in her arms,—she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but her nerves were still partially102 paralyzed. Nature sends merciful anaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness of the blow sometimes lies its own first healing. It would be long before Ramona would fully103 realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst anguish was yet to come.
Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with a marvelling104 gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid105, always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he knew her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards him. “Grateful to me!” he thought. “To me, who might have spared her all this woe106 if I had been strong!”
Never would Felipe forgive himself,—no, not to the day of his death. His whole life should be devoted107 to her and her child; but what a pitiful thing was that to render!
As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal108 from him that she had shed tears. At last he said to her: “Dearest Ramona, do not fear to weep before me. I would not be any constraint109 on you. It is better for you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing to wounds.”
“I do not think so, Felipe,” replied Ramona. “Tears are only selfish and weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think also that I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. Father Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter how much we might be suffering.”
“That is more than human power can do!” said Felipe.
“I think not,” replied Ramona. “If it were, Father Salvierderra would not have commanded it. And do you not recollect110, Felipe, what a smile his face always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many years before he died. Alone, in the night, when he prayed, he used to weep, from the great wrestling he had with God, he told me; but we never saw him except with a smile. When one thinks in the wilderness111, alone, Felipe, many things become clear. I have been learning, all these years in the wilderness, as if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought that the spirit of Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts into my mind. I hope I can tell them to my child when she is old enough. She will understand them quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's soul; you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which I speak were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air and the sky and the sun, and all trees know them.”
When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled112 in silence. He himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke it as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom113 this. There were to be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely, sorrowing, sunny sister of his.
When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watch for days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can heading the group; only two absent,—Margarita and Luigo. They had been married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch114, where Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd.
On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting. Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest the home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely115 they knew a little of what their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed that she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would be terrible to her to come back to the place so full of painful associations. “And the Senora gone, too,” said one of the outdoor hands, as they were talking it over; “it's not the same place at all that it was when the Senora was here.”
“Humph!” muttered Juan Can, more consequential116 and overbearing than ever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. “Humph! that's all you know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I can tell you! We'd never have seen the Senorita back here else; I can tell you that, my man! And for my part, I'd much rather be under Senor Felipe and the Senorita than under the Senora, peace to her ashes! She had her day. They can have theirs now.”
When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona—pale, but with her own old smile on her face—coming towards them with her babe in her arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in the group.
Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards her, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, “I am sure you will love my baby, Marda!”
“Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!” they cried; and closed up their ranks around the baby, touching117 her, praising her, handing her from one to another.
Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, “Give her to me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;” and she moved toward the inner door.
“This way, dear; this way,” cried Felipe. “It is Father Salvierderra's room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the baby!”
“Thanks, kind Felipe!” cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded118 in returning,—the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It would be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would never enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe!
Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom hold the tenderness in leash119, as he day after day looked upon the face of this beautiful woman,—so much more beautiful now than she had been before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thought her changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell which would for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover's thoughts as if she were guarded by a cordon120 of viewless spirits. There was a rapt look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt by the dullest perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted. It was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated121 in her own humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in reply to a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect that it was “a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita years ago,—what if he were to do it yet?” she said, also under her breath. “It is my opinion he'd as soon think of Saint Catharine herself! Not but that it would be a great thing if it could be!”
And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often had come about,—the presence of a little child in her house, on the veranda122, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous123, blest presence. But how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as she proudly had pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banished124 Ramona returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of the house,—Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own, he could not have felt for it a greater love. From the first, the little thing had clung to him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in his arms, one little hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips, and kissed again and again when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in Felipe's heart came Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish125 the fondness he felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Month by month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona's life were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constant fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of Alessandro did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening126 grief: it meant an unchanged relation.
One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,—the concealed127 treasure. A sense of humiliation128 withheld129 him, day after day, from speaking of it. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that he delayed the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had held his mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, before Ramona interrupted him. “Oh, yes!” she said. “I knew about those things; your mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wish sometimes we could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all given to the Church. That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with them if I married against your mother's wishes.”
It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: “Dear Ramona, they were not given to the Church. You know Father Salvierderra died; and I suppose my mother did not know what to do with them. She told me about them just as she was dying.”
“But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?” asked Ramona, simply.
“Why?” cried Felipe. “Because I hold them to be yours, and yours only. I would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure proof that you were dead and had left no children.”
Ramona's eyes were fixed130 earnestly on Felipe's face. “You have not read the Senora Ortegna's letter?” she said.
“Yes, I have,” he replied, “every word of it.”
“But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married against the Senora Moreno's will.”
Felipe groaned131. Had his mother lied? “No, dear,” he said, “that was not the word. It was, if you married unworthily.”
Ramona reflected. “I never recollected132 the words,” she said. “I was too frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marry unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me to take them for my child?”
“Perfectly,” said Felipe.
“Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?”
“I am sure of it, dear.”
“I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother did not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That was why she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took one thing,—a handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to have it; but it got lost when we went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back a half-day's journey to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grieved sorely for it.”
The next day Ramona said to Felipe: “Dear Felipe, I have thought it all over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, to say that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,—to Father Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would rather have them go.”
“Yes, dear,” said Felipe; “and then we will put them in some safer place. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one has stolen them all these years!”
And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written bequest133, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing we call the future, and delude134 our selves with the fancy that we can have much to do with its shaping.
Life ran smoothly135 in the Moreno household,—smoothly to the eye. Nothing could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of its days, with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence of all. Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own joys. There was not an antagonistic136 or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth, from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally at home and equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running, frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangely drifted into this happy shelter,—the little Ramona. As unconscious of aught sad or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was her delight to play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been from the first in some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set free from all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow.
Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an added radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when she felt that she for the first time waked to the realization137 of her bereavement138; when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out, mocking her with the name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled139 with this absorbing grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly140 to the purposes of each day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of joyfulness141. She repeated to herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till she more than knew them by heart; and she spent long hours of the night in prayer, as it had been his wont50 to do.
No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them; and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a new victory diffused142 itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted lover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the world where Ramona really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her every act, word, look, was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for him, loving happiness in his companionship. And while this was so, all Felipe's unrest could not make him unhappy.
There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning144 desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life in California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims, standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious145. Their boasted successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and development,—all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion for money and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour, thrown away in another, savored146 to Felipe's mind more of brigandage147 and gambling148 than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed149 them. Life under the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both his hereditary150 instincts and prejudices, and his temperament151, revolted. He found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanish tongue was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn143 for Mexico,—for Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned152 for like an exile. There he might yet live among men of his own race and degree, and of congenial beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this change, always came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing to go? Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had known nothing but sufferings.
At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried: “Felipe! The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did not think that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautiful dream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico.”
And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and wondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter the burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of race.
The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he could have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich American proprietors153 who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in the valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received for it was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the realization of all his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour that this was determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new expression came into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled154. An untried future beckoned,—a future which she would embrace and conquer for her daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the first time hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a new love? She could not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw it, could she refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait long, he thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long without hope, he could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! But patience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day when Felipe first thought to himself, “She will yet be mine,” it grew harder, and not easier, for him to refrain from pouring out his love in words. Her tender sisterliness, which had been such balm and comfort to him, grew at times intolerable; and again and again her gentle spirit was deeply disquieted155 with the fear that she had displeased156 him, so strangely did he conduct himself.
He had resolved that nothing should tempt157 him to disclose to her his passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke.
It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on board the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back to shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in the end of the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to float up around her, and invest her as with a myriad158 halos. Felipe gazed at her till his senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she put her hand in his, and said, as she had said hundreds of times before, “Dear Felipe, how good you are!” he clasped her hands wildly, and cried, “Ramona, my love! Oh, can you not love me?”
The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramona gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she knew all. “Felipe! My brother!” she cried, and stretched out her hands as if in warning.
“No! I am not your brother!” he cried. “I will not be your brother! I would rather die!”
“Felipe!” cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to himself. It was a voice of terror and of pain.
“Forgive me, my sweet one!” he exclaimed. “I will never say it again. But I have loved you so long—so long!”
Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on the shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet gently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme159 moment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole past life in a new light. Remorse smote her. “Dear Felipe,” she said, clasping her hands, “I have been very selfish. I did not know—”
“Of course you did not, love,” said Felipe. “How could you? But I have never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn to love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I have spoken; I cannot hide it any more.”
Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. “I have always loved you,” she said. “I love no other living man; but, Felipe,”—her voice sank to a solemn whisper,—“do you not know, Felipe, that part of me is dead,—dead? can never live again? You could not want me for your wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!”
Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. “You would not say that if you did not think you could be my wife,” he cried. “Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourself dead or alive!”
Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This gentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently160 now if she would do her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only the broken fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of passion, but of calmest, most unselfish action,—ah, how unlike was she to that Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, “Take me with you! I would rather die than have you leave me!”
Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words having been spoken? “I will be your wife, dear Felipe,” she said, speaking solemnly, slowly, “if you are sure it will make you happy, and if you think it is right.”
“Right!” ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon. “Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you will forget you ever said that part of you was dead!”
A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it might have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again.
General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda and Juan Can, with his crutches161, kneeling in proud joy behind them. The story of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored162, greatly enhanced the interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young Senora Moreno was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom163 thrilled with pride to see the gentle dignity of demeanor164 by which she was distinguished165 in all assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life. Ramona might well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice saying, “Majella!” This was the only secret her loyal, loving heart had kept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart indeed it was,—loyal, loving, serene. Few husbands so blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno.
Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the most beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest166 one: the one who bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the Senor,—Ramona,—Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
eyelids
|
|
| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
kin
|
|
| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
groan
|
|
| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
fortitude
|
|
| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
gathering
|
|
| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
martyrs
|
|
| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
destitute
|
|
| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
afflicted
|
|
| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
tormented
|
|
| 饱受折磨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
dens
|
|
| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
beatific
|
|
| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
promptly
|
|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
substantive
|
|
| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
dilated
|
|
| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
akin
|
|
| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
superstitious
|
|
| adj.迷信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
wrought
|
|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
potent
|
|
| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
persistent
|
|
| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
reiterated
|
|
| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
rumors
|
|
| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
loomed
|
|
| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
colossal
|
|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
justify
|
|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
callous
|
|
| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
killing
|
|
| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
goad
|
|
| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
insanity
|
|
| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
apprehension
|
|
| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
testimony
|
|
| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
skunk
|
|
| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
mite
|
|
| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
gourds
|
|
| n.葫芦( gourd的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
inter
|
|
| v.埋葬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
gal
|
|
| n.姑娘，少女 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
stratum
|
|
| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
underneath
|
|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
exterior
|
|
| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
devout
|
|
| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
doctrines
|
|
| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
upheaval
|
|
| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
catastrophe
|
|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
smote
|
|
| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
repents
|
|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
swap
|
|
| n.交换；vt.交换，用...作交易 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
eloquent
|
|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
vestige
|
|
| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
friendliness
|
|
| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
whit
|
|
| n.一点，丝毫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
hull
|
|
| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
gulf
|
|
| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
isolation
|
|
| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
deprivation
|
|
| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
hardier
|
|
| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
veneration
|
|
| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
strings
|
|
| n.弦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
beads
|
|
| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
ingratitude
|
|
| n.忘恩负义 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
pretence
|
|
| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
reluctance
|
|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
tints
|
|
| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
warp
|
|
| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
harmonious
|
|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
biding
|
|
| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
vile
|
|
| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
inconvenient
|
|
| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
haphazard
|
|
| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
prescriptions
|
|
| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
wagons
|
|
| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
complacently
|
|
| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
indefatigable
|
|
| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
triumphantly
|
|
| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
voucher
|
|
| n.收据；传票；凭单，凭证 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
trotting
|
|
| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
gliding
|
|
| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
partially
|
|
| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
marvelling
|
|
| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
placid
|
|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
woe
|
|
| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
constraint
|
|
| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
wilderness
|
|
| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
marvelled
|
|
| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
fathom
|
|
| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
ranch
|
|
| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
consequential
|
|
| adj.作为结果的，间接的；重要的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
dreaded
|
|
| 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) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
leash
|
|
| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
cordon
|
|
| n.警戒线，哨兵线 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
formulated
|
|
| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
veranda
|
|
| n.走廊；阳台 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
joyous
|
|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
banished
|
|
| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
lavish
|
|
| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
lessening
|
|
| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
withheld
|
|
| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
groaned
|
|
| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
recollected
|
|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
bequest
|
|
| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
delude
|
|
| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
smoothly
|
|
| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
antagonistic
|
|
| adj.敌对的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
realization
|
|
| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
bereavement
|
|
| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
wrestled
|
|
| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
steadfastly
|
|
| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
joyfulness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
diffused
|
|
| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
yearn
|
|
| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
savored
|
|
| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的过去式和过去分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
brigandage
|
|
| n.抢劫；盗窃；土匪；强盗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
gambling
|
|
| n.赌博；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
loathed
|
|
| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
hereditary
|
|
| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
temperament
|
|
| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
yearned
|
|
| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
proprietors
|
|
| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
kindled
|
|
| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
disquieted
|
|
| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
displeased
|
|
| a.不快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
tempt
|
|
| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
myriad
|
|
| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
supreme
|
|
| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
fervently
|
|
| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
crutches
|
|
| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
rumored
|
|
| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
demeanor
|
|
| n.行为；风度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
eldest
|
|
| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |