A JULY morning had dawned over the Dreichill, and the glen was filled with sunlight, though as yet there seemed no sun. Behind a peak of hill it displayed its chastened morning splendours, but a stray affluence1 of brightness had sought the nooks of valley in all the wide uplands, courier of the great lord of heat and light and the brown summer. The house of Etterick stands high in a crinkle of hill, with a background of dark pines, and in front a lake, set in shores of rock and heather. When the world grew bright Lewis awoke, for that strange young man had a trick of rising early, and as he rubbed sleep from his eyes at the window he saw the exceeding goodliness of the morning. He roused his companions with awful threats, and then wandered along a corridor till he came to a low verandah, whence a little pier2 ran into a sheltered bay of the loch. This was his morning bathing-place, and as he ran down the surface of rough moorland stone he heard steps behind him, and George plunged3 into the cold blue waters scarcely a second after his host.
It was as chill as winter save for the brightness of the morning, which made the loch in open spaces a shining gold. As they raced each other to the far end, now in the dark blue of shade, now in the gold of the open, the hill breeze fanned their hair, and the great woody smell of pines was sweet around them. The house stood dark and silent, for the side before them was the men’s quarters, and at that season given up to themselves; but away beyond, the smoke of chimneys curled into the still air. A man was mowing5 in some field on the hillside, and the cry of sheep came from the valley. By and by they reached the shelving coast of fine hill gravel6, and as they turned to swim easily back a sleepy figure staggered down the pier and stumbled rather than plunged into the water.
“Hullo!” gasped7 George, “there’s old John. He’ll drown, for I bet you anything he isn’t awake. Look!”
But in a second a dark head appeared which shook itself vigorously, and a figure made for the other two with great strokes. He was by so much the best swimmer of the three that he had soon reached them, and though in all honesty he first swam to the farther shore, yet he touched the pier very little behind them. Then came a rush for the house, and in half an hour three fresh-coloured young men came downstairs, whistling for breakfast.
The breakfast-room was a place to refresh a townsman’s senses. Long and cool and dark, it was simply Lewis’s room, and he preferred to entertain his friends there instead of wandering among unused dining-rooms. It had windows at each end with old-fashioned folding sashes; and the view on one side was to a great hill shoulder, fir-clad and deep in heather, and on the other to the glen below and the shining links of the Avelin. It was panelled in dark oak, and the furniture was a strange medley8. The deep arm-chairs by the fire and the many pipes savoured of the smoking-room; the guns, rods, polo sticks, whips, which were stacked or hung everywhere, and the heads of deer on the walls, gave it an atmosphere of sport. The pictures were few but good—two water-colours, a small Raeburn above the fireplace, and half a dozen fine etchings. In a corner were many old school and college groups—the Eton Ramblers, the O.U.A.C., some dining clubs, and one of Lewis on horseback in racing10 costume, looking deeply miserable11. Low bookcases of black oak ran round the walls, and the shelves were crammed12 with books piled on one another, many in white vellum bindings, which showed pleasantly against the dark wood. Flowers were everywhere—common garden flowers of old-fashioned kinds, for the owner hated exotics, and in a shallow silver bowl in the midst of the snowy table-cloth was a great mass of purple heather-bells.
Three very hungry young men sat down to their morning meal with a hearty13 goodwill14. The host began to rummage15 among his correspondence, and finally extracted an unstamped note, which he opened. His face brightened as he read, and he laid it down with a broad smile and helped himself to fish.
“Are you people very particular what you do to-day?” he asked.
Arthur said, No. George explained that he was in the hands of his beneficent friend.
“Because my Aunt Egeria down at Glenavelin has got up some sort of a picnic on the moors16, and she wants us to meet her at the sheepfolds about twelve.”
“Oh,” said George meditatively17. “Excellent! I shall be charmed.” But he looked significantly at Arthur, who returned the glance.
“There’s a man called Stocks, whom you probably know.”
Arthur nodded.
“And there’s Bertha Afflint and her sister.”
It was George’s turn to nod approvingly. The sharp-witted Miss Afflint was a great ally of his.
“And there’s a Miss Wishart—Alice Wishart,” said Lewis, without a word of comment. “And with my Aunt Egeria that will be all.”
The pair got the cue, and resolved to subject the Miss Wishart whose name came last on their host’s tongue to a friendly criticism. Meanwhile they held their peace on the matter like wise men.
“What a strange name Egeria is!” said Arthur. “Very,” said Lewis; “but you know the story. My respectable aunt’s father had a large family of girls, and being of a classical turn of mind he called them after the Muses19. The Muses held out for nine, but for the tenth and youngest he found himself in a difficulty. So he tried another tack9 and called the child after the nymph Egeria. It sounds outlandish, but I prefer it to Terpsichore.”
Thereafter they lit pipes, and, with the gravity which is due to a great subject, inspected their friend’s rods and guns.
“I see no memorials of your travels, Lewie,” said Arthur. “You must have brought back no end of things, and most people like to stick them round as a remembrance.”
“I have got a roomful if you want to see them,” said the traveller; “but I don’t see the point of spoiling a moorland place with foreign odds20 and ends. I like homely21 and native things about me when I am in Scotland.”
“You’re a sentimentalist, old man,” said his friend; and George, who heard only the last word, assumed that Arthur had then and there divulged22 his suspicions, and favoured that gentleman with a wild frown of disapproval23.
As Lewis sat on the edge of the Etterick burn and looked over the shining spaces of morning, forgetful of his friends, forgetful of his past, his mind was full of a new turmoil24 of feeling. Alice Wishart had begun to claim a surprising portion of his thoughts. He told himself a thousand times that he was not in love—that he should never be in love, being destined25 for other things; that he liked the girl as he liked any fresh young creature in the morning of life, with youth’s beauty and the grace of innocence. But insensibly his everyday reflections began to be coloured by her presence. “What would she think of this?” “How that would please her!” were sentences spoken often by the tongue of his fancy. He found charm in her presence after his bachelor solitude28; her demure29 gravity pleased him; but that he should be led bond-slave by love—that was a matter he valiantly30 denied.
II
THE sheepfolds of Etterick lie in a little fold of glen some two miles from the dwelling31, where the heathy tableland, known all over the glen as “The Muirs,” relieves the monotony of precipitous hills. On this day it was alert with life. The little paddock was crammed with sheep, and more stood huddling32 in the pens. Within was the liveliest scene, for there a dozen herds33 sat on clipping-stools each with a struggling ewe between his knees, and the ground beneath him strewn with creamy folds of fleece. From a thing like a gallows35 in a corner huge bags were suspended which were slowly filling. A cauldron of pitch bubbled over a fire, and the smoke rose blue in the hot hill air. Every minute a bashful animal was led to be branded with a great E on the left shoulder and then with awkward stumbling let loose to join her naked fellow-sufferers. Dogs slept in the sun and wagged their tails in the rear of the paddock. Small children sat on gates and lent willing feet to drive the flocks. In a corner below a little shed was the clippers’ meal of ale and pies, with two glasses of whisky each, laid by under a white cloth. Meantime from all sides rose the continual crying of sheep, the intermittent37 bark of dogs, and the loud broad converse38 of the men.
Lewis and his friends jumped a fence, and were greeted heartily39 in the enclosure. He seemed to know each herd34 by name or rather nickname, for he had a word for all, and they with all freedom grinned badinage40 back.
“Where’s my stool, Yed?” he cried. “Am I not to have a hand in clipping my own sheep?”
An obedient shepherd rose and fetched one of the triangular41 seats, while Lewis with great ease caught the ewe, pulled her on her back, and proceeded to call for shears42. An old pair was found for him, and with much dexterity43 he performed the clipping, taking little longer to the business than the expert herd, and giving the shears a professional wipe on the sacking with which he had prudently44 defended his clothes.
From somewhere in the back two boys came forward—the Tam and Jock of a former day—eager to claim acquaintance. Jock was clearly busy, for his jacket was off and a very ragged45 shirt was rolled about two stout46 brown arms. The “human collie” seemed to be a gentleman of some leisure, for he was arrayed in what was for him the pink of fashion in dress. The two immediately lay down on the ground beside Lewis exactly in the manner of faithful dogs.
The men talked cheerfully, mainly on sheep and prices. Now talk would touch on neighbours, and there would be the repetition of some tale or saying. “There was a man in the glen called Rorison. D’ye mind Jock Rorison, Sandy?” And Sandy would reply, “Fine I mind Jock,” and then both would proceed to confidences.
“Hullo, Tam,” said Lewis at last, realizing his henchman’s grandeur47. “Why this magnificence of dress?
“And you, Jock-are you going too?”
“How was that?”
“Oh, I had been fechtin’,” said Jock airily. “It was Andra Laidlaw. He called me ill names, so I yokit on him and bate49 him too, but I got my face gey sair bashed. The minister met me next day when I was a’ blue and yellow, and, says he, ‘John Laverlaw, what have ye been daein’? Ye’re a bonny sicht for Christian50 een. How do ye think a face like yours will look between a pair o’ wings in the next warld?’ I ken27 I’m no bonny,” added the explanatory Jock; “but ye canna expect a man to thole siccan language as that.”
Lewis laughed and, being engaged in clipping his third sheep, forgot the delicacy51 of his task and let the shears slip. A very ugly little cut on the animal’s neck was the result.
“Oh, confound it!” cried the penitent52 amateur. “Look what I’ve done, Yed. I’ll have to rub in some of that stuff of yours and sew on a bandage. The files will kill the poor thing if we leave the cut bare in this infernal heat.”
The old shepherd nodded, and pointed53 to where the remedies were kept. Jock went for the box, which contained, besides the ointment54, some rolls of stout linen55 and a huge needle and twine56. Lewis doctored the wound as best he could, and then proceeded to lay on the cloth and sew it to the fleece. The ewe grew restless with the heat and the pinching of the cut, and Jock was given the task of holding her head.
Clearly Lewis was not meant by Providence57 for a tailor. He made lamentable58 work with the needle. It slipped and pricked59 his fingers, while his unfeeling friends jeered60 and Tam turned great eyes of sympathy upwards61 from his Sunday garments.
“Patience, patience, man!” said the old herd. “Ca’ cannier62 and be a wee thing quieter in your langwidge. There’s a wheen leddies comin’ up the burn.”
It was too late. Before Lewis understood the purport63 of the speech Lady Manorwater and her party were at the folds, and as he made one final effort with the refractory64 needle a voice in his ear said:
“Please let me do that, Mr. Haystoun. I’ve often done it before.”
He looked up and met Alice Wishart’s laughing eyes. She stood beside him and deftly65 finished the bandage till the ewe was turned off the stool. Then, very warm and red, he turned to find a cool figure laughing at his condition.
“I’ll have to go and wash my hands, Miss Wishart,” he said gravely. “You had better come too.” And the pair ran down to a deep brown pool in the burn and cleansed66 from their fingers the subtle aroma67 of fleeces.
“Ugh! my clothes smell like a drover’s. That’s the worst of being a dabbler68 in most trades. You can never resist the temptation to try your hand.”
“But, really, your whole manner was most professional, Mr. Haystoun. Your language—”
“Please, don’t,” said the penitent; and they returned to the others to find that once cheerful assembly under a cloud. Every several man there was nervously69 afraid of women and worked feverishly70 as if under some great Taskmistress’s eye. The result was a superfluity of shear-marks and deep, muffled71 profanity. Lady Manorwater ran here and there asking questions and confusing the workers; while Mr. Stocks, in pursuance of his democratic sentiments, talked in a stilted72 fashion to the nearest clipper, who called him “Sir” and seemed vastly ill at ease.
Lewis restored some cordiality. Under her nephew’s influence Lady Manorwater became natural and pleasing. Jock was ferreted out of some corner and, together with the reluctant Tam, brought up for presentation.
“Tam,” said his patron, “I’ll give you your choice. Whether will you go to the Sabbath-school treat, or come with us to a real picnic? Jock is coming, and I promise you better fun and better things to eat.”
It was no case for hesitation73. Tam executed a doglike gambol74 on the turf, and proceeded to course up the burn ahead of the party, a vision of twinkling bare legs and ill-fitting Sunday clothes. The sedate75 Jock rolled down his sleeves, rescued a ragged jacket, and stalked in the rear.
III
ONCE on the heathy plateau the party scattered76. Mr. Stocks caught the unwilling77 Arthur and treated him to a disquisition on the characteristics of the people whose votes he was soon to solicit78. As his acquaintance with the subject was not phenomenal, the profit to the aggrieved79 listener was small. George, Lady Manorwater, and the two Miss Afflints sought diligently80 for a camping-ground, which they finally found by a clear spring of water on the skirts of a great grey rock. Meanwhile, Alice Wishart and Lewis, having an inordinate81 love of high places, set out for the ridge82 summit, and reached it to find a wind blowing from the far Gled valley and cooling the hot air.
Alice found a scrap83 of rock and climbed to the summit, where she sat like a small pixie, surveying a wide landscape and her warm and prostrate84 companion. Her bright hair and eyes and her entrancing grace of form made the callous85 Lewis steal many glances upwards from his lowly seat. The two had become excellent friends, for the man had that honest simplicity86 towards women which is the worst basis for love and the best for friendship. She felt that at any moment he might call her by some one or other of the endearing expressions used between men. He, for his part, was fast drifting from friendship to another feeling, but as yet he gave no sign of it, and kept up the brusque, kindly87 manners of his common life.
As she looked east and north to the heart of the hill-land, her eyes brightened, and she rose up and strained on tiptoe to scan the farthest horizon. Eagerly she asked the name of this giant and that, of this glint of water—was it loch or burn? Lewis answered without hesitation, as one to whom the country was as well known as his own name.
By and by her curiosity was satisfied and she slipped back into her old posture88, and with chin on hand gazed into the remote distances. “And most of that is yours? Do you know, if I had a land like this I should never leave it again. You, in your ingratitude89, will go wandering away in a year or two, as if any place on earth could be better than this. You are simply ‘sinning away your mercies,’ as my grandfather used to say.”
“But what would become of the heroic virtues90 that you adore?” asked the cynical91 Lewis. “If men were all home-keepers it would be a prosaic92 world.”
“Can you talk of the prosaic and Etterick in the same breath? Besides, it is the old fallacy of man that the domestic excludes the heroic,” said Alice, fighting for the privileges of her sex.
“But then, you know, there comes a thing they call the go-fever, which is not amenable93 to reason. People who have it badly do not care a straw for a place in itself; all they want is to be eternally moving from one spot to another.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I am not a sufferer yet, but I walk in fear, for at any moment it may beset94 me.” And, laughing, he climbed up beside her.
It may be true that the last subject of which a man tires is himself, but Lewis Haystoun in this matter must have been distinct from the common run of men. Alice had given him excellent opportunities for egotism, but the blind young man had not taken them. The girl, having been brought up to a very simple and natural conception of talk, thought no more about it, except that she would have liked so great a traveller to speak more generously. No doubt, after all, this reticence95 was preferable to self-revelation. Mr. Stocks had been her companion that morning in the drive to Etterick, and he had entertained her with a sketch96 of his future. He had declined, somewhat nervously, to talk of his early life, though the girl, with her innate97 love of a fighter, would have listened with pleasure. But he had sketched98 his political creed99, hinted at the puissance of his friends, claimed a monopoly of the purer sentiments of life, and rosily100 augured101 the future. The girl had been silent—the man had thought her deeply impressed; but now the morning’s talk seemed to point a contrast, and Mr. Lewis Haystoun climbed to a higher niche102 in the temple of her esteem103.
Afar off the others were signaling that lunch was ready, but the two on the rock were blind.
“I think you are right to go away,” said Alice. “You would be too well off here. One would become a very idle sort of being almost at once.”
“And I am glad you agree with me, Miss Wishart. ‘Here is the shore, and the far wide world’s before me,’ as the song says. There is little doing in these uplands, but there’s a vast deal astir up and down the earth, and it would be a pity not to have a hand in it.”
Then he stopped suddenly, for at that moment the light and colour went out of his picture of the wanderer’s life, and he saw instead a homelier scene—a dainty figure moving about the house, sitting at his table’s head, growing old with him in the fellowship of years. For a moment he felt the charm of the red hearth104 and the quiet life. Some such sketch must the Goddess of Home have drawn105 for Ulysses or the wandering Olaf, and if Swanhild or the true Penelope were as pretty as this lady of the rock there was credit in the renunciation. The man forgot the wide world and thought only of the pin-point of Glenavelin.
Some such fancy too may have crossed the girl’s mind. At any rate she cast one glance at the abstracted Lewis and welcomed a courier from the rest of the party. This was no other than the dandified Tam, who had been sent post-haste by George—that true friend having suffered the agonies of starvation and a terrible suspicion as to what rash step his host might be taking. Plainly the young man had not yet made Miss Wishart’s acquaintance.
IV
THE sun set in the thick of the dark hills, and a tired and merry party scrambled107 down the burnside to the highway. They had long outstayed their intention, but care sat lightly there, and Lady Manorwater alone was vexed108 by thoughts of a dinner untouched and a respectable household in confusion. The sweet-scented dusk was soothing109 to the senses, and there in the narrow glen, with the wide blue strath and the gleam of the river below, it was hard to find the link of reality and easy to credit fairyland. Arthur and Miss Wishart had gone on in front and were now strayed among boulders110. She liked this trim and precise young man, whose courtesy was so grave and elaborate, while he, being a recluse111 by nature but a humanitarian112 by profession, was half nervous and half entranced in her cheerful society. They talked of nothing, their hearts being set on the scramble106, and when at last they reached the highway and the farm where the Glenavelin traps had been put up, they found themselves a clear ten minutes in advance of the others.
As they sat on the dyke113 in the soft cool air Alice spoke26 casually114 of the place. “Where is Etterick?” she asked; and a light on a hillside farther up the glen was pointed out to her.
“It’s a very fresh and pleasant place to stay at,” said Arthur. “We’re much higher than you are at Glenavelin, and the house is bigger and older. But we simply camp in a corner of it. You can never get Lewie to live like other people. He is the best of men, but his tastes are primeval. He makes us plunge4 off a verandah into a loch first thing in the morning, you know, and I shall certainly drown some day, for I am never more than half awake, and I always seem to go straight to the bottom. Then he is crazy about long expeditions, and when the Twelfth comes we shall never be off the hill. He is a long way too active for these slack modern days.”
Lewie, Lewie! It was Lewie everywhere! thought the girl. What could become of a man who was so hedged about by admirers? He had seemed to court her presence, and her heart had begun to beat faster of late when she saw his face. She dared not confess to herself that she was in love—that she wanted this Lewis to herself, and bated the pretensions115 of his friends. Instead she flattered herself with a fiction. Her ground was the high one of an interest in character. She liked the young man and was sorry to see him in a way to be spoiled by too much admiration116. And the angel who records our innermost thoughts smiled to himself, if such grave beings can smile.
Meantime Lewis was delivered bound and captive to the enemy. All down the burn his companion had been Mr. Stocks, and they had lagged behind the others. That gentleman had not enjoyed the day; he had been bored by the landscape and scorched117 by the sun; also, as the time of contest approached, he was full of political talk, and he had found no ears to appreciate it. Now he had seized on Lewis, and the younger man had lent him polite attention though inwardly full of ravening118 and bitterness.
“Your friend Mr. Mordaunt has promised to support my candidature. You, of course, will be in the opposite camp.”
Lewis said he did not think so—that he had lost interest in party politics, and would lie low.
Mr. Stocks bowed in acquiescence119.
“And what do you think of my chances?”
Lewis replied that he should think about equal betting. “You see the place is Radical120 in the main, with the mills at Gledfoot and the weavers121 at Gledsmuir. Up in Glenavelin they are more or less Conservative. Merkland gets in usually by a small majority because he is a local man and has a good deal of property down the Gled. If two strangers fought it the Radical would win; as it is it is pretty much of a toss-up either way.”
“But if Sir Robert resigns?”
“Oh, that scare has been raised every time by the other party. I should say that there’s no doubt that the old man will keep on for years.”
Mr. Stocks looked relieved. “I heard of his resignation as a certainty, and I was afraid that a stronger man might take his place.”
So it fell out that the day which began with pastoral closed, like many another day, with politics. Since Lewis refrained from controversy122, Mr. Stocks seemed to look upon him as a Gallio from whom no danger need be feared, nay123, even as a convert to be fostered. He became confident and talked jocularly of the tricks of his trade. Lewis’s boredom124 was complete by the time they reached the farmhouse125 and found the Glenavelin party ready to start.
“We want to see Etterick, so we shall come to lunch to-morrow, Lewie,” said his aunt. “So be prepared, my dear, and be on your best behaviour.”
Then, with his two friends, he turned towards the lights of his home.
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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medley
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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meditatively
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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odds
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homely
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divulged
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disapproval
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turmoil
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destined
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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ken
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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demure
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valiantly
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dwelling
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huddling
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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34
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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35
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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36
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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37
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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38
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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39
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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40
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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41
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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42
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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43
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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44
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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45
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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47
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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48
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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49
bate
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| v.压制；减弱；n.（制革用的）软化剂 | |
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50
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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51
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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52
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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53
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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54
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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55
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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56
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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57
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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58
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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59
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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60
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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62
cannier
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| 精明的，狡猾的( canny的比较级 ) | |
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63
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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64
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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65
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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66
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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68
dabbler
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| n. 戏水者, 业余家, 半玩半认真做的人 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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71
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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72
stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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73
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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74
gambol
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| v.欢呼，雀跃 | |
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75
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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76
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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78
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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81
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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82
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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83
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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84
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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85
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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86
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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87
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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88
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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89
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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90
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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91
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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92
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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93
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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94
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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95
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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96
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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97
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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98
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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100
rosily
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| adv.带玫瑰色地，乐观地 | |
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101
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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102
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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103
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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104
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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105
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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106
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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107
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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108
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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109
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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110
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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111
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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112
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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113
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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114
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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115
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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116
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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117
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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118
ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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119
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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120
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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121
weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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122
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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123
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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124
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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125
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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