Tom Leicester was listening, spell-bound, on the outskirts9 of the throng10, to the songs and humorous tirades11 of a pedlar selling his wares12; and was saying to himself, "I too will be a pedlar." Hearing the row, he turned round, and saw his master just coming down with that stricken face.
Tom could not decipher his own name in print or manuscript; and these are the fellows that beat us all at reading countenances13: he saw in a moment that some great calamity14 had fallen on Griffith's head; and nature stirred in him. He darted15 to his master's side, and seized the bridle16. "What is up?" he cried.
But Griffith did not answer, nor notice; his ears were almost deaf, and his eyes, great and staring, were fixed17 right ahead; and to all appearance, he did not see the people: he seemed to be making for the horizon.
"Master! for the love of Heaven, speak to me," cried Leicester. "What have they done to you? Whither be you going, with the face of a ghost?"
"Away, from the hangman," shrieked20 Griffith, still staring at the horizon. "Stay me not; my hands itch21 for their throats; my heart thirsts for their blood; but I'll not hang for a priest and a wanton." Then he suddenly turned on Leicester, "Let thou go, or——," and he lifted up his heavy riding whip.
Then Leicester let go the rein22, and the whip descended23 on the horse's flank; he went clattering24 furiously over the stones, and drove the thinner groups apart like chaff25, and his galloping26 feet were soon heard fainter and fainter till they died away in the distance. Leicester stood gaping27.
Griffith's horse, a black hunter of singular power and beauty, carried his wretched master well that day; he went on till sunset, trotting28, cantering, and walking, without intermission; the whip ceased to touch him, the rein never checked him. He found he was the master, and he went his own way. He took his broken rider back into the county where he had been foaled. But a few miles from his native place they came to the "Packhorse," a pretty little roadside inn, with farm-yard and buildings at the back. He had often baited here in his infancy29; and now, stiff and stumbling with fatigue30, the good horse could not pass the familiar place; he walked gravely into the stable-yard, and there fairly came to an end; craned out his drooping31 head, crooked32 his limbs, and seemed of wood. And no wonder. He was ninety-three miles from his last corn.
Paul Carrick, a young farrier, who frequented the "Packhorse," happened just then to be lounging at the kitchen door, and saw him come in. He turned directly, and shouted into the house, "Ho! Master Vint, come hither. Here's Black Dick come home, and brought you a worshipful customer."
The landlord bustled33 out of the kitchen, crying, "They are welcome both." Then he came lowly louting to Griffith, cap in hand, and held the horse, poor immoveable brute34; and his wife curtsied perseveringly35 at the door.
Griffith dismounted, and stood there looking like one in a dream.
He followed her mechanically.
"Would your worship be private? We keep a parlour for gentles."
Mercy Vint, the daughter, happened to be on the stairs and heard him: the voice startled her, and she turned round directly to look at the speaker; but she only saw his back going into the room, and then he flung himself like a sack into the arm-chair.
The landlady invited him to order supper: he declined. She pressed him. He flung a piece of money on the table, and told her savagely39 to score his supper, and leave him in peace.
She flounced out with a red face, and complained to her husband in the kitchen.
Harry40 Vint rung the crown piece on the table before he committed himself to a reply. It rang like a bell. "Churl41 or not, his coin is good," said Harry Vint, philosophically42. "I'll eat his supper, dame43, for that matter."
"Father," whispered Mercy, "I do think the gentleman is in trouble."
"And that is no business of mine, neither," said Harry Vint.
Presently the guest they were discussing called loudly for a quart of burnt wine.
When it was ready, Mercy offered to take it in to him. She was curious. The landlord looked up rather surprised; for his daughter attended to the farm, but fought shy of the inn and its business.
Mercy took the wine in, and found Griffith with his head buried in his hands.
She stood a while with the tray, not knowing what to do.
Then, as he did not move, she said, softly, "The wine, sir, an if it please you."
Griffith lifted his head, and turned two eyes clouded with suffering upon her; he saw a buxom45, blooming, young woman, with remarkably46 dove-like eyes that dwelt with timid, kindly47 curiosity upon him. He looked at her in a half distracted way, and then put his hand to the mug. "Here's perdition to all false women!" said he, and tossed half the wine down at a single draught48.
"'Tis not to me you drink, sir," said Mercy, with gentle dignity. Then she curtsied modestly and retired49, discouraged, not offended.
The wretched Griffith took no notice—did not even see he had repulsed50 a friendly visitor. The wine, taken on an empty stomach, soon stupified him, and he staggered to bed.
He awoke at day-break; and, oh the agony of that waking.
He lay sighing a while, with his hot skin quivering on his bones, and his heart like lead; then got up and flung his clothes on hastily, and asked how far to the nearest sea-port.
Twenty miles.
He cursed that good servant for going lame. He walked round and round like a wild beast, chafing52 and fuming53 a while; then sank into a torpor54 of dejection, and sat with his head bowed on the table all day.
He ate scarcely any food; but drank wine freely, remarking, however, that it was false-hearted stuff; did him no good; and had no taste as wine used to have. "But nothing is what it was," said he. "Even I was happy once. But that seems years ago."
"Alas55! poor gentleman; God comfort you," said Mercy Vint, and came with the tears in her dove-like eyes, and said to her father, "To be sure his worship hath been crossed in love; and what could she be thinking of? Such a handsome, well-made gentleman!"
"Now that is a wench's first thought," said Harry Vint: "more likely lost his money, gambling56, or racing57. But, indeed, I think 'tis his head is disordered, not his heart. I wish the 'Packhorse' was quit of him, maugre his laced coat. We want no kill-joys here."
So at noon Mrs. Vint knocked at his door: a weak voice bade her enter; she found him shivering, and he asked her for a fire.
Presently his voice was heard hallooing: he wanted all the windows open: he was so burning hot.
The landlady looked at him, and saw his face was flushed and swollen60: and he complained of pain in all his bones. She opened the windows, and asked him would he have a doctor sent for: he shook his head contemptuously.
However, towards evening he became delirious61, and raved62 and tossed, and rolled his head as if it was an intolerable weight he wanted to get rid of.
The females of the family were for sending at once for a doctor; but the prudent63 Harry demurred64.
"Tell me, first, who is to pay the fee," said he. "I've seen a fine coat with the pockets empty, before to-day."
The women set up their throats at him with one accord, each after her kind.
"Why, there's his horse, ye foolish man," said Mrs. Vint.
"Ay, ye are both wiser than me," said Harry Vint, ironically. And soon after that he went out softly.
The next minute he was in the sick man's room, examining his pockets. To his infinite surprise he found twenty gold pieces, a quantity of silver, and some trinkets.
He spread them all out on the table and gloated on them with greedy eyes. They looked so inviting66, that he said to himself, they would be safer in his custody67 than in that of a delirious person, who was even now raving68 incoherently before him, and could not see what he was doing. He therefore proceeded to transfer them to his own care.
On the way to his pocket, his shaking hand was arrested by another hand, soft, but firm as iron. He shuddered69 and looked round in abject70 terror; and there was his daughter's face, pale as his own, but full of resolution. "Nay71, father," said she; "I must take charge of these: and well do you know why."
These simple words cowed Harry Vint, so that he instantly resigned the money and jewels, and retired, muttering that "things were come to a pretty pass,"—"a man was no longer master in his own house," etc. etc. etc.
While he inveighed72 against the degeneracy of the age, the women paid him no more attention than the age did, but just sent for the doctor. He came, and bled the patient. This gave him a momentary73 relief; but when in the natural progress of the disease, sweating and weakness came on, the loss of the precious vital fluid was fatal, and the patient's pulse became scarce perceptible. There he lay, with wet hair, and gleaming eyes, and haggard face, at death's door.
An experienced old crone was got to nurse him, and she told Mrs. Vint he would live maybe three days.
Paul Carrick used to come to the "Packhorse" after Mercy Vint, and, finding her sad, asked her what was the matter.
"What should it be," said she, "but the poor gentleman a-dying overhead; away from all his friends."
"Let me see him," said Paul.
Mercy took him softly into the room.
"Ay, he is booked," said the farrier. "Doctor has taken too much blood out of the man's body. They kill a many that way."
"Alack, Paul! must he die? Can nought be done?" said Mercy, clasping her hands.
"I don't say that, neither," said the farrier. "He is a well-made man: he is young. I might save him, perhaps, if I had not so many beasts to look to. I'll tell you what you do. Make him soup as strong as strong; have him watched night and day, and let 'em put a spoonful of warm wine into him every hour, and then of soup; egg flip74 is a good thing, too; change his bed-linen75, and keep the doctors from him: that is his only chance: he is fairly dying of weakness. But I must be off; Farmer Blake's cow is down for calving: I must give her an ounce of salts before 'tis too late."
Mercy Vint scanned the patient closely, and saw that Paul Carrick was right. She followed his instructions to the letter, with one exception. Instead of trusting to the old woman, of whom she had no very good opinion, she had the great arm-chair brought into the sick-room, and watched the patient herself by night and day: a gentle hand cooled his temples; a gentle hand brought concentrated nourishment76 to his lips; and a mellow77 voice coaxed78 him to be good and swallow it. There are voices it is not natural to resist; and Griffith learned by degrees to obey this one, even when he was half unconscious.
At the end of three days this zealous79 young nurse thought she discerned a slight improvement, and told her mother so. Then the old lady came and examined the patient, and shook her head gravely. Her judgment80, like her daughter's, was influenced by her wishes.
The fact is, both landlord and landlady were now calculating upon Griffith's decease. Harry had told her about the money and jewels, and the pair had put their heads together, and settled that Griffith was a gentleman highwayman, and his spoil would never be reclaimed81 after his decease, but fall to those good Samaritans, who were now nursing him, and intended to bury him respectably. The future being thus settled, this worthy82 couple became a little impatient; for Griffith, like Charles the Second, was "an unconscionable time dying."
We order dinner to hasten a lingering guest, and, with equal force of logic83, mine host of the "Packhorse" spoke84 to White, the village carpenter, about a full-sized coffin85: and his wife set the old crone to make a linen shroud86, unobtrusively, in the bakehouse.
On the third afternoon of her nursing, Mercy left her patient, and called up the crone to tend him. She herself, worn out with fatigue, threw herself on a bed in her mother's room, hard by, and soon fell asleep.
She had slept about two hours when she was wakened by a strange noise in the sick chamber87. A man and a woman quarrelling.
She bounded off the bed, and was in the room directly.
The cause of this little misunderstanding was not far to seek. The old crone had brought up her work, videlicet, a winding-sheet all but finished, and certain strips of glazed90 muslin about three inches deep. She soon completed the winding-sheet, and hung it over two chairs in the patient's sight; she then proceeded to double the slips in six, and nick them; then she unrolled them, and they were frills, and well adapted to make the coming corpse91 absurd, and divest92 it of any little dignity the King of Terrors might bestow93 on it.
She was so intent upon her congenial task, that she did not observe the sick man had awakened94, and was viewing her and her work with an intelligent but sinister95 eye.
"What is that you are making?" said he, grimly.
The voice was rather clear, and strong, and seemed so loud and strange in that still chamber, that it startled the woman mightily96. She uttered a little shriek19, and then was wrath97. "Plague take the man!" said she; "how you scared me. Keep quiet, do; and mind your own business," [The business of going off the hooks.]
"I ask you what is that you are making," said Griffith, louder; and raising himself on his arm.
"Baby's frills," replied the woman, coolly, recovering that contempt for the understandings of the dying, which marks the veritable crone.
"Ye lie," said Griffith. "And there is a shroud. Who is that for?"
"Who should it be for, thou simple body? Keep quiet, do, till the change comes. 'Twon't be long now; art too well to last till sun-down."
"So 'tis for me, is it?" screamed Griffith. "I'll disappoint ye yet. Give me my clothes. I'll not lie here to be measured for my grave, ye old witch."
"Here's manners!" cackled the indignant crone. "Ye foul-mouthed knave98! is this how you thank a decent woman for making a comfortable corpse of ye, you that has no right to die in your shoes, let a be such dainties as muslin neck-ruff, and shroud of good Dutch flax."
At this Griffith discharged a volley, in which "vulture," "hag," "blood-sucker," etc., blended with as many oaths: during which Mercy came in.
She glided99 to him, with her dove's eyes full of concern, and laid her hand gently on his shoulder: "You'll work yourself a mischief," said she; "leave me to scold her. Why, my good Nelly, how could you be so hare-brained? prithee take all that trumpery100 away this minute: none here needeth it, nor shall not this many a year, please God."
"They want me dead," said Griffith to her, piteously, finding he had got one friend: and sunk back on his pillow exhausted101.
"So it seems," said Mercy, cunningly. "But I'd baulk them finely. I'd up and order a beef-steak this minute."
"And shall," said Griffith, with feeble spite. "Leastways, do you order it, and I'll eat it:— d——n her!"
Sick men are like children; and women soon find that out, and manage them accordingly. In ten minutes Mercy brought a good rump-steak to the bedside, and said "Now for't. Marry come, up, with her winding-sheets!"
Thus played upon, and encouraged, the great baby ate more than half the steak; and soon after perspired102 gently, and fell asleep.
Paul Carrick found him breathing gently, with a slight tint103 of red in his cheek; and told Mercy there was a change for the better. "We have brought him to a true intermission," said he; "so throw in the bark at once."
"What, drench105 his honour's worship!" said Mercy, innocently. "Nay, send thou the medicine, and I'll find womanly ways to get it down him."
Next day came the doctor, and whispered softly to Mrs. Vint, "How are we all upstairs?"
"Why couldn't you come afore?" replied Mrs Vint, crossly. "Here's farrier Carrick stepped in, and curing him out of hand; the meddlesome106 body."
"A farrier rob me of my patient!" cried the doctor, in high dudgeon.
"Nay, good sir, 'tis no fault of mine. This Paul is a sort of a kind of a follower107 of our Mercy's: and she is mistress here, I trow."
"And what hath his farriership prescribed? Friar's balsam, belike."
"Nay, I know not; but you may soon learn, for he is above, physicking the gentleman (a pretty gentleman!) and suiting to our Mercy—after a manner."
The doctor declined to make one in so mixed a consultation108.
"Give me my fee, dame," said he: "and as for this impertinent farrier, the patient's blood be on his head; and I'd have him beware the law."
Mrs. Vint went to the stair-foot and screamed, "Mercy, the good doctor wants his fee. Who is to pay it, I wonder?"
"I'll bring it him anon," said a gentle voice: and Mercy soon came down and paid it with a willing air that half disarmed109 professional fury.
"'Tis a good lass, dame," said the doctor, when she was gone; "and, by the same token, I wish her better mated than to a scrub of a farrier."
Griffith, still weak, but freed of fever, woke one glorious afternoon, and heard a bird-like voice humming a quaint110 old ditty, and saw a field of golden wheat through an open window, and seated at that window the mellow songstress, Mercy Vint, plying111 her needle, with lowered lashes112 but beaming face, a picture of health and quiet womanly happiness. Things were going to her mind in that sick-room.
He looked at her, and at the golden corn and summer haze113 beyond, and the tide of life seemed to rush back upon him.
"My good lass," said he, "tell me, where am I? for I know not."
Mercy started, and left off singing, then rose and came slowly towards him, with her work in her hand.
Innocent joy at this new symptom of convalescence114 flushed her comely115 features, but she spoke low.
"Good sir, at the 'Packhorse,'" said she, smiling. "The 'Packhorse?' and where is that?"
"Hard by Allerton village."
"And where is that? not in Cumberland?"
"Nay, in Lancashire, your worship. Why, whence come you that know not the 'Packhorse,' nor yet Allerton township? Come you from Cumberland?"
"No matter whence I come. I'm going on board ship; like my father before me."
"Alas, sir, you are not fit; you have been very ill; and partly distraught."
She stopped: for Griffith turned his face to the wall with a deep groan38. It had all rushed over him in a moment.
By-and-by Griffith turned round again, with a face of anguish117, and filmy eyes, and saw her in the same place standing89, working, and pitying.
"What, are you there still?" said he, roughly.
"Ay, sir; but I'll go, sooner than be troublesome. Can I fetch you anything?"
"No. Ay, wine; bring me wine to drown it all."
She put the cup to her lips, and sipped120 a drop or two; but her dove's eyes were looking up at him over the liquor all the time. Griffith soon disposed of the rest; and asked for more.
"Nay," said she, "but I dare not: the doctor hath forbidden excess in drinking."
"The doctor! what doctor?"
"Plague take him for that!"
"So say not I."
Here she left him with an excuse. "'Tis milking time, sir: and you shall know that I am our dairymaid. I seldom trouble the inn."
Next day she was on the window-seat, working and beaming. The patient called to her in peevish122 accents to put his head higher. She laid down her work with a smile, and came and raised his head.
"There, now, that is too high," said he: "how awkward you are."
"I lack experience, sir, but not good will. There, now, is that a little better?"
"Ay, a little. I'm sick of lying here: I want to get up. Dost hear what I say? I—want—to get up."
"And so you shall. As soon as ever you are fit. To-morrow, perhaps. To-day, you must e'en be patient. Patience is a rare medicine."
Tic, tic, tic! "What a noise they are making downstairs. Go, lass, and bid them hold their peace."
Mercy shook her head. "Good lack-a-day! we might as well bid the river give over running; but, to be sure, this comes of keeping a hostelry, sir. When we had only the farm, we were quiet, and did no ill to no one."
"Well, sing me, to drown their eternal buzzing: it worries me dead."
"Me sing! alack, sir, I'm no songster."
"That is false. You sing like a throstle. I dote on music; and, when I was delirious, I heard one singing about my bed; I thought it was an angel at that time; but 'twas only you, my young mistress: and now I ask you, you say me nay. That is the way with you all. Plague take the girl, and all her curst, unreasonable123, hypocritical sex. I warrant me you'd sing if I wanted to sleep; and dance the devil to a standstill."
Mercy, instead of flouncing out of the room, stood looking on him with maternal124 eyes, and chuckling125 like a bird.
"That is right, sir: tax us all to your heart's content. O, but I'm a joyful126 woman to hear you; for 'tis a sure sign of mending when the sick take to rating of their nurses."
"In sooth, I am too cross-grained," said Griffith, relenting.
"Not a whit18, sir, for my taste. I've been in care for you: and now you are a little cross, that maketh me easy."
"La, you now; how you come back to that. Ay, and with a good heart: for, to be sure, 'tis a sin to gainsay128 a sick man. But indeed I am the homeliest singer. Methinks 'tis time I went down and bade them cook your worship's supper."
"Nay, I'll not eat nor sup, till I hear thee sing."
"Your will is my law, sir," said Mercy, drily, and retired to the window-seat; that was the first obvious preliminary. Then she fiddled129 with her apron130, and hem'd, and waited in hopes a reprieve131 might come; but a peevish, relentless132 voice demanded the song at intervals133.
So then she turned her head carefully away from her hearer, lowered her eyes, and, looking the picture of guilt134 and shame all the time, sang an ancient ditty. The poltroon's voice was rich, mellow, clear, and sweet as honey; and she sang the notes for the sake of the words, not the words for the sake of the notes, as all but Nature's singers do.
The air was grave as well as sweet; for Mercy was of an old Puritan stock, and even her songs were not giddy-paced, but solid, quaint, and tender; all the more did they reach the soul.
In vain was the blushing cheek averted135, and the honeyed lips: the ravishing tones set the birds chirping136 outside, yet filled the room within, and the glasses rang in harmony upon the shelf as the sweet singer poured out from her heart (so it seemed) the speaking song that begins thus——
In vain you tell your parting lover
Alas, what winds can happy prove
That bear me far from her I love?
Alas, what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain
Griffith beat time with his hand awhile, and his own face softened139 and beautified as the melody curled about his heart. But soon it was too much for him; he knew the song; had sung it to Kate Peyton in their days of courtship. A thousand memories gushed140 in upon his soul and overpowered him. He burst out sobbing141 violently, and wept as if his heart must break.
"Alas! what have I done?" said Mercy: and the tears ran swiftly from her eyes at the sight. Then, with native delicacy142, she hurried from the room.
What Griffith went through that night, in silence, was never known but to himself. But the next morning he was a changed man. He was all dogged resolution: put on his clothes unaided, though he could hardly stand to do it; and borrowed the landlord's staff, and crawled out a smart distance into the sun. "It was kill or cure," said he. "I am to live, it seems. Well, then, the past is dead. My life begins again to-day."
Hen-like Mercy soon learned this sally of her refractory143 duckling, and was uneasy. So, for an excuse to watch him, she brought him out his money and jewels, and told him she had thought it safest to take charge of them.
He thanked her cavalierly, and offered her a diamond ring.
She blushed scarlet144, and declined it; and even turned a meekly145 reproachful glance on at him with her dove's eyes.
He had a suit of russet made, and put away his fine coat, and forbade any one to call him "Your worship." "I am a farmer, like yourselves," said he; "and my name is——Thomas Leicester."
A brain fever either kills the unhappy lover, or else benumbs the very anguish that caused it.
And so it was with Griffith. His love got benumbed, and the sense of his wrongs vivid. He nursed a bitter hatred146 of his wife; only, as he could not punish her without going near her, and no punishment short of death seemed enough for her, he set to work to obliterate147 her from his very memory, if possible. He tried employment: he pottered about the little farm, advising and helping148, and that so zealously149 that the landlord retired altogether from that department, and Griffith, instead of he, became Mercy's ally, agricultural and bucolical. She was a shepherdess to the core, and hated the poor "Packhorse."
For all that it was her fate to add to its attractions: for Griffith bought a viol da gambo, and taught her sweet songs, which he accompanied with such skill and, sometimes, with his voice, that good company often looked in on the chance of a good song sweetly sung and played.
The sick in body, or mind, are egotistical. Griffith was no exception: bent150 on curing his own deep wound, he never troubled his head about the wound he might inflict151.
He was grateful to his sweet nurse, and told her so. And his gratitude152 charmed her all the more that it had been rather long in coming.
He found this dove-like creature a wonderful soother153: he applied154 her more and more to his sore heart.
As for Mercy, she had been too good and kind to her patient not to take a tender interest in his convalescence. Our hearts warm more to those we have been kind to, than to those who have been kind to us: and the female reader can easily imagine what delicious feelings stole into that womanly heart, when she saw her pale nursling pick up health and strength under her wing, and become the finest, handsomest man in the parish.
Pity and admiration155; where these meet, love is not far behind.
And then this man, who had been cross and rough while he was weak, became gentler, kinder, and more deferential156 to her, the stronger he got.
Mrs. Vint saw they were both fond of each other's company, and disapproved157 it. She told Paul Garrick if he had any thought of Mercy he had bettor give over shilly-shallying, for there was another man after her. Paul made light of it at first. "She has known me too long to take up her head with a newcomer," said he. "To be sure I never asked her to name the day; but she knows my mind well enough, and I know hers."
"Then you know more than I do," said the mother, ironically.
He thought over this conversation, and very wisely determined158 not to run unnecessary risks: he came up one afternoon, and hunted about for Mercy, till he found her milking a cow in the adjoining paddock.
"Well, lass," said he, "I've good news for thee. My old dad says we may have his house to live in. So now you and I can yoke159 next month if ye will." "Me turn the honest man out of his house!" said Mercy, mighty160 innocently.
"Who asks you? He nobbut bargains for the chimney corner: and you are not the girl to begrudge161 the old man that."
"Oh no, Paul. But what would father do if I were to leave his house? Methinks the farm would go to rack and ruin; he is so wrapped up in his nasty public."
The attack and defence proceeded upon these terms for some time; and the defendant163 had one base advantage; and used it. Her forehead was wedged tight against Jenny's ribs164, and Paul could not see her face. This, and the feminine evasiveness of her replies, irritated him at last.
"Take thy head out o' the coow," said he, roughly, "and answer straight. Is all our wooing to go for nought?"
"Wooing? You never said so much to me in all these years, as you have to-day."
"Oh, ye knew my mind well enough. There's a many ways of showing the heart."
"Speaking out is the best, I trow."
"Why, what do I come here for twice a week, this two years past, if not for thee?"
"Ay, for me, and father's ale."
"And thou canst look at me, and tell me that? Ye false hard-hearted hussy. But, nay, thou wast never so: 'tis this Thomas Leicester hath bewitched thee, and set thee against thy true lover."
"Mr. Leicester pays no suit to me," said Mercy, blushing: "he is a right civil-spoken gentleman, and you know you saved his life."
"The more fool I. I wish I had known he was going to rob me of my lass's heart, I'd have seen him die a hundred times ere I'd have interfered165. But they say if you save a man's life he'll make you rue104 it. Mercy, my lass, you are well respected in the parish; take a thought now: better be a farrier's wife than a gentleman's mistress."
Mercy did take her head "out of the cow" at this, and, for once, her cheek burned with anger; but the unwonted sentiment died before it could find words, and she said, quietly, "I need not be either, against my will."
Young Carrick made many such appeals to Mercy Vint; but he could never bring her to confess to him that he and she had ever been more than friends, or were now anything less than friends. Still he forced her to own to herself, that, if she had never seen Thomas Leicester, her quiet affection and respect for Garrick would probably have carried her to the altar with him.
His remonstrances166, sometimes angry, sometimes tearful, awoke her pity, which was the grand sentiment of her heart, and disturbed her peace.
Moreover, she studied the two men in her quiet, thoughtful way, and saw that Carrick loved her with all his honest, though hitherto tepid167 heart; but Griffith had depths, and could love with more passion than ever he had shown for her. "He is not the man to have a fever by reason of me," said the poor girl, to herself. But I am afraid even this attracted her to Griffith; it nettled168 a woman's soft ambition; which is, to be as well loved as ever woman was.
And so things went on, and, as generally happens, the man who was losing ground went the very way to lose more. He spoke ill of Griffith behind his back: called him a highwayman, a gentleman, an ungrateful, undermining traitor169. But Griffith never mentioned Carrick; and so when he and Mercy were together, her old follower was pleasingly obliterated170, and affectionate good humour reigned171. Thus Griffith, alias172 Thomas, became her sunbeam, and Paul her cloud.
But he who had disturbed the peace of others, his own turn came.
One day he found Mercy crying: he sat clown beside her, and said, kindly, "Why, sweetheart, what is amiss?"
"No great matter," said she; and turned her head away, but did not check her tears, for it was new and pleasant to be consoled by Thomas Leicester.
"Nay, but tell me, child."
"Well, then, Jessie Carrick has been at me; that is all."
"The vixen! what did she say?"
"Nay, I'm not pleased enow with it to repeat it. She did cast something in my teeth."
Griffith pressed her to be more explicit173: she declined, with so many blushes, that his curiosity was awakened, and he told Mrs. Vint, with some heat, that Jess Carrick had been making Mercy cry.
"Else I'll ring the cock-nosed jade's neck, next time she comes here," replied Griffith; "but, dame, I want to know what she can have to say to Mercy to make her cry."
Mrs. Vint looked him steadily175 in the face for some time, and then and there decided176 to come to an explanation. "Ten to one 'tis about her brother," said she; "you know this Paul is our Mercy's sweetheart."
At these simple words Griffith winced177, and his countenance changed remarkably. Mrs. Vint observed it, and was all the more resolved to have it out with him.
"Her sweetheart!" said Griffith. "Why, I have seen them together a dozen of times, and not a word of courtship."
"Oh, the young men don't make many speeches in these parts. They show their hearts by act." "By act? why, I met them coming home from milking t' other evening. Mercy was carrying the pail, brimful; and that oaf sauntered by her side, with his hands in his pockets; was that the act of a lover?"
"I heard of it, sir," said Mrs. Vint, quietly; "and as how you took the pail from her, willy nilly, and carried it home. Mercy was vexed178 about it: she told me you panted at the door, and she was a deal fitter to carry the pail than you, that is just off a sick bed, like. But lawk, sir, ye can't go by the likes of that: the bachelors here they'd see their sweethearts carry the roof into next parish on their backs, like a snail179, and never put out a hand; 'tis not the custom hereaway: but, as I was saying, Paul and our Mercy kept company, after a manner: he never had the wit to flatter her as should be, nor the stomach to bid her name, the day, and he'd buy the ring; but he talked to her about his sick beasts more than he did to any other girl in the parish, and she'd have ended by going to church with him; only you came and put a coolness atween 'em."
"I! How?"
"Well, sir, our Mercy is a kind-hearted lass, though I say it, and you were sick, and she did nurse you; and that was a beginning. And, to be sure, you are a fine personable man, and capital company; and you are always about the girl; and, bethink you, sir, she is flesh and blood like her neighbours; and they say, once a body has tasted venison steak, it spoils their stomach for oat porridge. Now that is Mercy's case, I'm thinking; not that she ever said as much to me; she is too reserved. But bless your heart, I'm forced to go about with eyes in my head, and watch 'em all a bit, me that keeps an inn."
"Nay, nay," said Mrs. Vint. "'Gentlefolks must be amused, cost what it may; but, hoping no offence, sir, the girl was a good friend to you in time of sickness; and so was this Paul, for that matter."
"She was," cried Griffith; "God bless her. How can I ever repay her?"
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Vint, "if that comes from your heart, you might take our Mercy apart, and tell her you like her very well, but not enough to marry a farmer's daughter—don't say an inn-keeper's daughter, or you'll be sure to offend her; she is bitter against the 'Packhorse.' Says you, 'This Paul is an honest lad, turn your heart back to him.' And, with that, mount your black horse and ride away, and God speed you, sir; we shall often talk of you at the 'Packhorse,' and nought but good."
Griffith gave the woman his hand, and his breast laboured visibly.
Jealousy181 was ingrained in the man. Mrs. Vint had pricked182 his conscience, but she had wounded his foible.
He was not in love with Mercy, but he esteemed183 her and liked her and saw her value, and, above all, could not bear another man should have her.
Now this gave the matter a new turn. Mrs. Vint had overcome her dislike to him long ago: still he was not her favourite. But his giving her his hand with a gentle pressure, and his manifest agitation184, rather won her: and, as uneducated women are your true weathercocks, she went about directly. "To be sure," said she, "our Mercy is too good for the likes of him; she is not like Harry and me: she has been well brought up by her Aunt Prudence185, as was governess in a nobleman's house. She can read and write, and cast accounts; good at her sampler, and can churn and make cheeses, and play of the viol, and lead the psalm186 in church, and dance a minuet, she can, with any lady in the land. As to her nursing in time of sickness, that I leave to you, sir.
"She is an angel," cried Griffith, "and my benefactress: no man living is good enough for her." And he went away, visibly discomposed.
Mrs. Vint repeated this conversation to Mercy, and told her Thomas Leicester was certainly in love with her. "Shouldst have seen his face, girl, when I told him Paul and you were sweethearts. 'Twas as if I had run a knife in his heart."
Mercy murmured a few words of doubt; but she kissed her mother eloquently187, and went about rosy188 and beaming, all that afternoon.
As for Griffith, his gratitude and his jealousy were now at war, and caused him a severe mental struggle.
Carrick, too, was spurred by jealousy, and came every day to the house, and besieged189 Blercy; and Griffith, who saw them together, and did not hear Mercy's replies, was excited, irritated, alarmed.
Mrs. Vint saw his agitation, and determined to bring matters to a climax190. She was always giving him a side thrust; and, at last, she told him plainly that he was not behaving like a man. "If the girl is not good enough for you, why make a fool of her, and set her against a good husband?" And when he replied she was good enough for any man in England, "Then," said she, "why not show your respect for her as Paul Carrick does? He likes her well enough to go to church with her."
With the horns of this dilemma191 she so gored192 Kate Peyton's husband that, at last, she and Paul Carrick, between them, drove him out of his conscience.
So he watched his opportunity and got Mercy alone: he took her hand and told her he loved her, and that she was his only comfort in the world, and he found he could not live without her.
At this she blushed and trembled a little, and leaned her brow upon his shoulder, and was a happy creature for a few moments.
So far, fluently enough; but then he began to falter193 and stammer194, and say that for certain reasons, he could not marry at all. But if she could be content with anything short of that, he would retire with her into a distant country, and there, where nobody could contradict him, would call her his wife, and treat her as his wife, and pay his debt of gratitude to her by a life of devotion.
As he spoke, her brow retired an inch or two from his shoulder; but she heard him quietly out, and then drew back and confronted him, pale, but to all appearance, calm.
"Call things by their right names," said she. "What you offer me this day, in my father's house, is, to be your mistress. Then—God forgive you, Thomas Leicester."
With this oblique195 and feminine reply, and one look of unfathomable reproach from her soft eyes, she turned her back on him; but remembering her manners, curtsied at the door; and so retired; and unpretending Virtue196 lent her such true dignity, that he was struck dumb, and made no attempt to detain her.
I think her dignified197 composure did not last long when she was alone; at least, the next time he saw her, her eyes were red; his heart smote198 him, and he began to make excuses and beg her forgiveness. But she interrupted him. "Don't speak to me no more, if you please, sir," said she, civilly, but coldly.
Mercy, though so quiet and inoffensive, had depth and strength of character. She never told her mother what Thomas Leicester had proposed to her. Her honest pride kept her silent, for one thing. She would not have it known she had been insulted. And, besides that, she loved Thomas Leicester still, and could not expose or hurt him. Once there was an Israelite without guile199; though you and I never saw him; and once there was a Saxon without bile; and her name was Mercy Vint. In this heart of gold the affections were stronger than the passions. She was deeply wounded, and showed it in a patient way to him who had wounded her, but to none other. Her conduct to him in public and private was truly singular, and would alone have stamped her a remarkable200 character. She declined all communication with him in private, and avoided him steadily and adroitly201; but in public she spoke to him, sang with him, when she was asked, and treated him much the same as before. He could see a subtle difference, but nobody else could.
This generosity202, coupled with all she had done for him before, penetrated203 his heart and filled him with admiration and remorse204. He yielded to Mrs. Vint's suggestions; and told her she was right; he would tear himself away, and never see the dear "Packhorse" again, "But, oh, dame," said he, "'tis a sorrowful thing to be alone in the world again, and nought to do. If I had but a farm, and a sweet little inn like this, perchance my heart would not be quite so heavy as 'tis this day at thoughts of parting from thee and thine."
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Vint, "if that is all, there is the 'Vine' to let at this moment. 'Tis a better place of business than this; and some meadows go with it, and land to be had in the parish."
"I'll ride and see it," said Griffith, eagerly: then, dejectedly, "but, alas, I have no heart to keep an inn without somebody to help me, and say a kind word now and then. Ah, Mercy Vint, thou hast spoiled me for living alone."
This vacillation205 exhausted Mrs. Vint's patience. "What are ye sighing about, ye foolish man?" said she, contemptuously; "you have got it all your own way: if 'tis a wife ye want, ask Mercy, and don't take a nay: if ye would have a housekeeper206, you need not want one long. I'll be bound there's plenty of young women where you came from as would be glad to keep the 'Vine' under you. And, if you come to that, our Mercy is a treasure on the farm, but she is no help in the inn, no more than a wax figure: she never brought us a shilling, till you came and made her sing to your base viol. Nay, what you want is a smart handsome girl, with a quick eye and a ready tongue, and one as can look a man in the face, and not given to love nor liquor. Don't you know never such a one?"
"Not I. Humph, to be sure there is Caroline Ryder. She is handsome, and hath a good wit. She is a lady's maid."
"That's your woman, if she'll come. And to be sure she will; for to be mistress of an inn, that's a lady's maid's Paradise."
"She would have come a few months ago, and gladly: I'll write to her."
"Better talk to her, and persuade her."
"I'll do that too; but I must write to her first."
"So do then; but whatever you do, don't shilly-shally no longer. If wrestling was shilly-shallying, methinks you'd bear the bell, you or else Paul Carrick. Why, all this trouble comes on't. He might have wed our Mercy a year agone for the asking. Shilly-shally belongs to us that be women. 'Tis despisable in a man."
Thus driven on all sides, Griffith rode and inspected the "Vine" (it was only seven miles off): and after the usual chaffering, came to terms with the proprietor207.
He fixed the day for his departure, and told Mrs. Vint he must ride into Cumberland first to get some money, and also to see about a housekeeper.
He made no secret of all this; and, indeed, was not without hopes Mercy would relent, or perhaps be jealous of this housekeeper. But the only visible effect was to make her look pale and sad: she avoided him in private as before.
Harry Vint was loud in his regrets, and Carrick openly exultant208. Griffith wrote to Caroline Ryder, and addressed the latter in a feigned209 hand, and took it himself to the nearest post town.
The letter came to hand, and will appear in that sequence of events on which I am now about to enter.
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1
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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9
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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tirades
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| 激烈的长篇指责或演说( tirade的名词复数 ) | |
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12
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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27
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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41
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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43
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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pettishly
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45
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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47
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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48
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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49
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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50
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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51
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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52
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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53
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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54
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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55
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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56
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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57
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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58
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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59
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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60
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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61
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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62
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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63
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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64
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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68
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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69
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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70
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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71
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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72
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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74
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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75
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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76
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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77
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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78
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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79
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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80
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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81
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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82
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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83
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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84
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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85
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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86
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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87
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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88
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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89
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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90
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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91
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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92
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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93
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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94
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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95
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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96
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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97
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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98
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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99
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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100
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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101
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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102
perspired
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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104
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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105
drench
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| v.使淋透，使湿透 | |
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106
meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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107
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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108
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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109
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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110
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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111
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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112
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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113
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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114
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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115
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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116
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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117
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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118
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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119
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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120
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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122
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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123
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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124
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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125
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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126
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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127
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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128
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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129
fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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130
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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131
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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132
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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133
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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134
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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135
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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136
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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137
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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138
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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139
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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140
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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141
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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142
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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143
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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144
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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145
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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146
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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147
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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148
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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149
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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150
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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151
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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152
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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153
soother
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| n.抚慰者，橡皮奶头 | |
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154
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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155
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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156
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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157
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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159
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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160
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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161
begrudge
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| vt.吝啬，羡慕 | |
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162
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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163
defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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164
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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165
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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166
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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167
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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168
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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169
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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170
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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171
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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172
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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173
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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174
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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175
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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176
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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177
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
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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179
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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180
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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181
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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182
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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183
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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184
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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185
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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186
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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187
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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188
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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189
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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191
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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192
gored
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| v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破( gore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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194
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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195
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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196
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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197
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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198
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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199
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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200
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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201
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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202
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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203
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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204
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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205
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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206
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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207
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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208
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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209
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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