But Joan, looking out of real windows on a real sky and sea, thought no more about the astronomical12 wall-paper than about any other wall-paper. She was asking herself in sullen13 emotionalism, and for the thousandth time, a question she had never been able to decide. It was the final choice between an ambition and a memory. And there was this heavy weight in the scale: that the ambition would probably materialise, and the memory probably wouldn’t. It has been the same weight in the same scale a million times, since Satan became the prince of this world. But the evening stars were strengthening over the old sea-shore, and they also wanted weighing like diamonds.
As once before at the same stage of brooding, she heard behind her the swish of Lady Enid’s skirts, that never came so fast save for serious cause.
“Joan! Please do come! Nobody but you, I do believe, could move him.” Joan looked at Lady Enid and realised that the lady was close on crying. She turned a trifle pale and asked quietly for the question. “Phillip says he’s going to London now, with that leg and all,” cried Enid, “and he won’t let us say a word.”
“But how did it all happen?” asked Joan.
Lady Enid Wimpole was quite incapable14 of explaining how it all happened, so the task must for the moment devolve on the author. The simple fact was that Ivywood in the course of turning over magazines on his sofa, happened to look at a paper from the Midlands.
But Lord Ivywood continued to look at the side of the paper that did not contain the Turkish news, with the same dignity of lowered eyelids16 and unconscious brow with which he had looked at the Captain’s message when Joan found him by the turret.
On the page covered merely with casual, provincial18 happenings was a paragraph, “Echo of Pebblewick Mystery. Reported Reappearance of the Vanishing Inn.” Underneath19 was printed, in smaller letters:
“An almost incredible report from Wyddington announces that the mysterious ‘Sign of the Old Ship’ has once more been seen in this country; though it has long been relegated20 by scientific investigators21 to the limbo22 of old rustic23 superstitions24. According to the local version, Mr. Simmons, a dairyman of Wyddington, was serving in his shop when two motorists entered, one of them asking for a glass of milk. They were in the most impenetrable motoring panoply25, with darkened goggles26 and waterproof27 collars turned up, so that nothing can be recalled of them personally, except that one was a person of unusual stature28. In a few moments, this latter individual went out of the shop again and returned with a miserable29 specimen30 out of the street, one of the tattered31 loafers that linger about our most prosperous towns, tramping the streets all night and even begging in defiance32 of the police. The filth33 and disease of the creature were so squalid that Mr. Simmons at first refused to serve him with the glass of milk which the taller motorist wished to provide for him. At length, however, Mr. Simmons consented, and was immediately astonished by an incident against which he certainly had a more assured right to protest.
“The taller motorist, saying to the loafer, ‘but, man, you’re blue in the face,’ made a species of signs to the smaller motorist, who thereupon appears to have pierced a sort of cylindrical34 trunk or chest that seemed to be his only luggage, and drawn35 from it a few drops of a yellow liquid which he deliberately36 dropped into the ragged37 creature’s milk. It was afterward38 discovered to be rum, and the protests of Mr. Simmons may be imagined. The tall motorist, however, warmly defended his action, having apparently39 some wild idea that he was doing an act of kindness. ‘Why, I found the man nearly fainting,’ he said. ‘If you’d picked him off a raft, he couldn’t be more collapsed40 with cold and sickness; and if you’d picked him off a raft you’d have given him rum—yes, by St. Patrick, if you were a bloody41 pirate and made him walk the plank42 afterward.’ Mr. Simmons replied with dignity, that he did not know how it was with rafts, and could not permit such language in his shop. He added that he would lay himself open to a police prosecution43 if he permitted the consumption of alcohol in his shop; since he did not display a sign. The motorist then made the amazing reply, ‘But you do display a sign, you jolly old man. Did you think I couldn’t find my way to the sign of The Old Ship, you sly boots?’ Mr. Simmons was now fully44 convinced of the intoxication45 of his visitors, and refusing a glass of rum rather boisterously46 offered him, went outside his shop to look round for a policeman. To his surprise he found the officer engaged in dispersing47 a considerable crowd, which was staring up at some object behind him. On looking round (he states in his deposition) he ‘saw what was undoubtedly48 one of the low tavern49 signs at one time common in England.’ He was wholly unable to explain its presence outside his premises50, and as it undoubtedly legalised the motorist’s action, the police declined to move in the matter.
“Later. The two motorists have apparently left the town, unmolested, in a small second-hand51 two-seater. There is no clue to their destination, except it be indicated by a single incident. It appears that when they were waiting for the second glass of milk, one of them drew attention to a milk-can of a shape seemingly unfamiliar52 to him, which was, of course, the Mountain Milk now so much recommended by doctors. The taller motorist (who seemed in every way strangely ignorant of modern science and social life) asked his companion where it came from, receiving, of course, the reply that it is manufactured in the model village of Peaceways, under the personal superintendence of its distinguished53 and philanthropic inventor, Dr. Meadows. Upon this the taller person, who appeared highly irresponsible, actually bought the whole can; observing, as he tucked it under his arm, that it would help him to remember the address.
“Later. Our readers will be glad to hear that the legend of ‘The Old Ship’ sign has once more yielded to the wholesome55 scepticism of science. Our representative reached Wyddington after the practical jokers, or whatever they were, had left; but he searched the whole frontage of Mr. Simmons’s shop, and we are in a position to assure the public that there is no trace of the alleged56 sign.”
Lord Ivywood laid down the newspaper and looked at the rich and serpentine57 embroideries58 on the wall with the expression that a great general might have if he saw a chance of really ruining his enemy, if he would also ruin all his previous plan of campaign. His pallid59 and classic profile was as immovable as a cameo; but anyone who had known him at all would have known that his brain was going like a motor car that has broken the speed limit long ago.
Then he turned his head and said, “Please tell Hicks to bring round the long blue car in half an hour; it can be fitted up for a sofa. And ask the gardener to cut a pole of about four feet nine inches, and put a cross-piece for a crutch60. I’m going up to London tonight.”
“The Doctor said three weeks,” he said. “If I may ask it, where are you going?”
“St. Stephens, Westminster,” answered Ivywood.
“Surely,” said Mr. Leveson, “I could take a message.”
“You could take a message,” assented63 Ivywood, “I’m afraid they would not allow you to make a speech.”
It was a moment or two afterward that Enid Wimpole had come into the room, and striven in vain to shake his decision. Then it was that Joan had been brought out of the turret and saw Phillip standing64, sustained upon a crutch of garden timber; and admired him as she had never admired him before. While he was being helped downstairs, while he was being propped65 in the car with such limited comfort as was possible, she did really feel in him something worthy66 of his ancient roots, worthy of such hills and of such a sea. For she felt God’s wind from nowhere which is called the Will; and is man’s only excuse upon this earth. In the small toot of the starting motor she could hear a hundred trumpets67, such as might have called her ancestors and his to the glories of the Third Crusade.
Such imaginary military honours were not, at least in the strategic sense, undeserved. Lord Ivywood really had seen the whole map of the situation in front of him, and swiftly formed a plan to meet it, in a manner not unworthy of Napoleon. The realities of the situation unrolled themselves before him, and his mind was marking them one by one as with a pencil.
First, he knew that Dalroy would probably go to the Model Village. It was just the sort of place he would go to. He knew Dalroy was almost constitutionally incapable of not kicking up some kind of row in a place of that kind.
Second, he knew that if he missed Dalroy at this address, it was very likely to be his last address; he and Mr. Pump were quite clever enough to leave no more hints behind.
Third, he guessed, by careful consideration of map and clock, that they could not get to so remote a region in so cheap a car under something like two days, nor do anything very conclusive68 in less than three. Thus, he had just time to turn round in.
Fourth, he realised that ever since that day when Dalroy swung round the sign-board and smote69 the policeman into the ditch, Dalroy had swung round the Ivywood Act on Lord Ivywood. He (Lord Ivywood) had thought, and might well have thought rightly, that by restricting the old sign-posts to a few places so select that they can afford to be eccentric, and forbidding such artistic70 symbols to all other places, he could sweep fermented71 liquor for all practical purposes out of the land. The arrangement was exactly that at which all such legislation is consciously or unconsciously aiming. A sign-board could be a favour granted by the governing class to itself. If a gentleman wished to claim the liberties of a Bohemian, the path would be open. If a Bohemian wished to claim the liberties of a gentleman, the path would be shut. So, gradually, Lord Ivywood had thought, the old signs which can alone sell alcohol, will dwindle72 down to mere17 curiosities, like Audit73 Ale or the Mead54 that may still be found in the New Forest. The calculation was by no means unstatesmanlike. But, like many other statesmanlike calculations, it did not take into account the idea of dead wood walking about. So long as his flying foes74 might set up their sign anywhere, it mattered little whether the result was enjoyment75 or disappointment for the populace. In either case it must mean constant scandal or riot. If there was one thing worse than the appearance of “The Old Ship” it was its disappearance76.
He realised that his own law was letting them loose every time; for the local authorities hesitated to act on the spot, in defiance of a symbol now so exclusive and therefore impressive. He realised that the law must be altered. Must be altered at once. Must be altered, if possible, before the fugitives77 broke away from the Model Village of Peaceways.
He realised that it was Thursday. This was the day on which any private member of Parliament could introduce any private bill of the kind called “non-contentious,” and pass it without a division, so long as no particular member made any particular fuss. He realised that it was improbable that any particular member would make any particular fuss about Lord Ivywood’s own improvement on Lord Ivywood’s own Act.
Finally, he realised that the whole case could be met by so slight an improvement as this. Change the words of the Act (which he knew by heart, as happier men might know a song): “If such sign be present liquids containing alcohol can be sold on the premises,” to these other words: “Liquids containing alcohol can be sold, if previously78 preserved for three days on the premises”; it was mate in a few moves. Parliament could never reject or even examine so slight an emendation. And the revolution of “The Old Ship” and the late King of Ithaca would be crushed for ever.
It does undoubtedly show, as we have said, something Napoleonic in the man’s mind that the whole of this excellent and even successful plan was complete long before he saw the great glowing clock on the towers of Westminster; and knew he was in time.
It was unfortunate, perhaps, that about the same time, or not long after, another gentleman of the same rank, and indirectly79 of the same family, having left the restaurant in Regent Street and the tangle80 of Piccadilly, had drifted serenely81 down Whitehall, and had seen the same great golden goblin’s eye on the tall tower of St. Stephen.
The Poet of the Birds, like most æsthetes, had known as little of the real town as he had of the real country. But he had remembered a good place for supper; and as he passed certain great cold clubs, built of stone and looking like Assyrian Sarcophagi, he remembered that he belonged to many of them. And so when he saw afar off, sitting above the river, what has been very erroneously described as the best club in London, he suddenly remembered that he belonged to that too. He could not at the moment recall what constituency in South England it was that he sat for; but he knew he could walk into the place if he wanted to. He might not so have expressed the matter, but he knew that in an oligarchy83 things go by respect for persons and not for claims; by visiting cards and not by voting cards. He had not been near the place for years, being permanently84 paired against a famous Patriot85 who had accepted an important government appointment in a private madhouse. Even in his silliest days, he had never pretended to feel any respect for modern politics, and made all haste to put his “leaders” and the mad patriot’s “leaders” on the well selected list of the creatures whom man forgets. He had made one really eloquent86 speech in the House (on the subject of gorillas), and then found he was speaking against his party. It was an indescribable sort of place, anyhow. Even Lord Ivywood did not go to it except to do some business that could be done nowhere else; as was the case that night.
Ivywood was what is called a peer by courtesy; his place was in the Commons, and for the time being on the Opposition87 side. But, though he visited the House but seldom, he knew far too much about it to go into the Chamber88 itself. He limped into the Smoking Room (though he did not smoke), procured89 a needless cigarette and a much-needed sheet of note-paper, and composed a curt9 but careful note to the one member of the government whom he knew must be in the House. Having sent it up to him, he waited.
Outside, Mr. Dorian Wimpole also waited, leaning on the parapet of Westminster Bridge and looking down the river. He was becoming one with the oysters91 in a more solemn and solid sense than he had hitherto conceived possible, and also with a strictly92 Vegetarian93 beverage94 which bears the noble and starry name of Nuits. He felt at peace with all things, even in a manner with politics. It was one of those magic hours of evening when the red and golden lights of men are already lit along the river, and look like the lights of goblins, but daylight still lingers in a cold and delicate green. He felt about the river something of that smiling and glorious sadness which two Englishmen have expressed under the figure of the white wood of an old ship fading like a phantom95; Turner, in painting, and Henry Newbolt, in poetry. He had come back to earth like a man fallen from the moon; he was at bottom not only a poet but a patriot, and a patriot is always a little sad. Yet his melancholy96 was mixed up with that immutable97 yet meaningless faith which few Englishmen, even in modern times, fail to feel at the unexpected sight either of Westminster or of that height on which stands the temple of St. Paul.
“While flows the sacred river,
While stands the sacred hill,”
“While flows the sacred river,
While stands the sacred hill,
The proud old pantaloons and nincompoops,
Who yawn at the very length of their own lies
in that accursed sanhedrim where
people put each other’s hats on in a poisonous
room with no more windows than hell
Shall have such honour still.”
Relieved by this rendering99 of Macaulay in the style known among his cultured friends as vers libre, or poesy set free from the shackles100 of formal metre, he strolled toward the members’ entrance and went in.
Lacking Lord Ivywood’s experience, he strolled into the Common’s Chamber itself and sat down on a green bench, under the impression that the House was not sitting. He was, however, gradually able to distinguish some six or eight drowsy101 human forms from the seats on which they sat; and to hear a senile voice with an Essex accent, saying, all on one note, and without beginning or end, in a manner which it is quite impossible to punctuate102,
“... no wish at all that this proposal should be regarded except in the right way and have tried to put it in the right way and cannot think the honourable103 member was altogether adding to his reputation in putting it in what those who think with me must of course consider the wrong way and I for one am free to say that if in his desire to settle this great question he takes this hasty course and this revolutionary course about slate104 pencils he may not be able to prevent the extremists behind him from applying it to lead pencils and while I should be the last to increase the heat and the excitement and the personalities105 of this debate if I could possibly help it I must confess that in my opinion the honourable gentleman has himself encouraged that heat and personality in a manner that he now doubtless regrets I have no desire to use abusive terms indeed you Mr. Speaker would not allow me of course to use abusive terms but I must tell the honourable member face to face that the perambulators with which he has twitted me cannot be germane106 to this discussion I should be the last person....”
Dorian Wimpole had softly risen to go, when he was arrested by the sight of someone sliding into the House and handing a note to the solitary107 young man with heavy eyelids who was at that moment governing all England from the Treasury108 Bench. Seeing him go out, Dorian had a sickening sweetness of hope (as he might have said in his earlier poems), that something intelligible109 might happen after all, and followed him out almost with alacrity110.
The solitary and sleepy governor of Great Britain went down into the lower crypts of its temple of freedom and turned into an apartment where Wimpole was astonished to see his cousin Ivywood sitting at a little table with a large crutch leaning beside him, as serene82 as Long John Silver. The young man with the heavy eyelids sat down opposite him and they had a conversation which Wimpole, of course, did not hear. He withdrew into an adjoining room where he managed to procure90 coffee and a liqueur; an excellent liqueur which he had forgotten and of which he had more than one glass.
But he had so posted himself that Ivywood could not come out without passing him, and he waited for what might happen with exquisite patience. The only thing that seemed to him queer was that every now and then a bell rang in several rooms at once. And whenever the bell rang, Lord Ivywood nodded, as if he were part of the electrical machinery111. And whenever Lord Ivywood nodded the young man turned and sped upstairs like a mountaineer, returning in a short time to resume the conversation. On the third occasion the poet began to observe that many others from the other rooms could be heard running upstairs at the sound of this bell, and returning with the slightly less rapid step which expresses relief after a duty done. Yet did he not know that this duty was Representative Government; and that it is thus that the cry of Cumberland or Cornwall can come to the ears of an English King.
Suddenly the sleepy young man sprang erect112, uninspired by any bell, and strode out once more. The poet could not help hearing him say as he left the table, jotting113 down something with a pencil: “Alcohol can be sold if previously preserved for three days on the premises. I think we can do it, but you can’t come on for half an hour.”
Saying this, he darted114 upstairs again, and when Dorian saw Ivywood come out laboriously115, afterward, on his large country crutch, he had exactly the same revulsion in his favour that Joan had had. Jumping up from his table, which was in one of the private dining-rooms, he touched the other on the elbow and said:
“I want to apologise to you, Phillip, for my rudeness this afternoon. Honestly, I am sorry. Pinewoods and prison-cells try a man’s temper, but I had no rag of excuse for not seeing that for neither of them were you to blame. I’d no notion you were coming up to town tonight; with your leg and all. You mustn’t knock yourself up like this. Do sit down a minute.”
It seemed to him that the bleak116 face of Phillip softened117 a little; how far he really softened will never be known until such men as he are understood by their fellows. It is certain that he carefully unhooked himself from his crutch and sat down opposite his cousin. Whereupon his cousin struck the table so that it rang like a dinner-bell and called out, “Waiter!” as if he were in a crowded restaurant. Then, before Lord Ivywood could protest, he said:
“It’s awfully118 jolly that we’ve met. I suppose you’ve come up to make a speech. I should like to hear it. We haven’t always agreed; but, by God, if there’s anything good left in literature it’s your speeches reported in a newspaper. That thing of yours that ended, ‘death and the last shutting of the iron doors of defeat’—Why you must go back to Strafford’s last speech for such English. Do let me hear your speech! I’ve got a seat upstairs, you know.”
“If you wish it,” said Ivywood hurriedly, “but I shan’t make much of a speech tonight.” And he looked at the wall behind Wimpole’s head with thunderous wrinkles thickening on his brow. It was essential to his brilliant and rapid scheme, of course, that the Commons should make no comment at all on his little alteration119 in the law.
An attendant hovered120 near in response to the demand for a waiter, and was much impressed by the presence and condition of Lord Ivywood. But as that exalted121 cripple resolutely122 refused anything in the way of liquor, his cousin was so kind as to have a little more himself, and resumed his remarks.
“It’s about this public-house affair of yours, I suppose. I’d like to hear you speak on that. P’raps I’ll speak myself. I’ve been thinking about it a good deal all day, and a good deal of last night, too. Now, here’s what I should say to the House, if I were you. To begin with, can you abolish the public-house? Are you important enough now to abolish the public-house? Whether it’s right or wrong, can you in the long run prevent haymakers having ale any more than you can prevent me having this glass of Chartreuse?”
The attendant, hearing the word, once more drew near; but heard no further order; or, rather, the orders he heard were such as he was less able to cope with.
“Remember the curate!” said Dorian, abstractedly shaking his head at the functionary123, “remember the sensible little High-Church curate, who when asked for a Temperance Sermon preached on the text ‘Suffer us not to be overwhelmed in the water-floods.’ Indeed, indeed, Phillip, you are in deeper waters than you know. You will abolish ale! You will make Kent forget hop-poles, and Devonshire forget cider! The fate of the Inn is to be settled in that hot little room upstairs! Take care its fate and yours are not settled in the Inn. Take care Englishmen don’t sit in judgment124 on you as they do on many another corpse125 at an inquest—at a common public-house! Take care that the one tavern that is really neglected and shut up and passed like a house of pestilence126 is not the tavern in which I drink tonight, and that merely because it is the worst tavern on the King’s highway. Take care this place where we sit does not get a name like any pub where sailors are hocussed or girls debauched. That is what I shall say to them,” said he, rising cheerfully, “that’s what I shall say. See you to it,” he cried with sudden passion and apparently to the waiter, “see you to it if the sign that is destroyed is not the sign of ‘The Old Ship’ but the sign of the Mace127 and Bauble128, and, in the words of a highly historical brewer129, if we see a dog bark at your going.”
Lord Ivywood was observing him with a deathly quietude; another idea had come into his fertile mind. He knew his cousin, though excited, was not in the least intoxicated130; he knew he was quite capable of making a speech and even a good one. He knew that any speech, good or bad, would wreck131 his whole plan and send the wild inn flying again. But the orator132 had resumed his seat and drained his glass, passing a hand across his brow. And he remembered that a man who keeps a vigil in a wood all night and drinks wine on the following evening is liable to an accident that is not drunkenness, but something much healthier.
“I suppose your speech will come on pretty soon,” said Dorian, looking at the table. “You’ll let me know when it does, of course. Really and truly, I don’t want to miss it. And I’ve forgotten all the ways here, and feel pretty tired. You’ll let me know?”
“Yes,” said Lord Ivywood.
Stillness fell along all the rooms until Lord Ivywood broke it by saying:
“Debate is a most necessary thing; but there are times when it rather impedes133 than assists parliamentary government.”
He received no reply. Dorian still sat as if looking at the table, but his eyelids had lightly fallen; he was asleep. Almost at the same moment the Member of Government, who was nearly asleep, appeared at the entrance of the long room and made some sort of weary signal.
Phillip Ivywood raised himself on his crutch and stood for a moment looking at the sleeping man. Then he and his crutch trailed out of the long room, leaving the sleeping man behind. Nor was that the only thing that he left behind. He also left behind an unlighted cigarette and his honour and all the England of his father’s; everything that could really distinguish that high house beside the river from any tavern for the hocussing of sailors. He went upstairs and did his business in twenty minutes in the only speech he had ever delivered without any trace of eloquence134. And from that hour forth135 he was the naked fanatic136; and could feed on nothing but the future.
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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lucid
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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champagne
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astronomical
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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incapable
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nervously
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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mere
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provincial
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underneath
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relegated
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investigators
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limbo
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rustic
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superstitions
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panoply
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goggles
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waterproof
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stature
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miserable
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specimen
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tattered
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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cylindrical
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| adj.圆筒形的 | |
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35
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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36
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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37
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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38
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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39
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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40
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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41
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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42
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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43
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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44
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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45
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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46
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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47
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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48
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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49
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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50
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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51
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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52
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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53
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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54
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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55
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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56
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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57
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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58
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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59
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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60
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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61
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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62
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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63
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
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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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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67
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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69
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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71
fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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72
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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73
audit
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| v.审计；查帐；核对；旁听 | |
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74
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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75
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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76
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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77
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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78
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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79
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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80
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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81
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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82
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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83
oligarchy
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| n.寡头政治 | |
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84
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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85
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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86
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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87
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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88
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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89
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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90
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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91
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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92
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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93
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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94
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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95
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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96
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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97
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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98
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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99
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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100
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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101
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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102
punctuate
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| vt.加标点于；不时打断 | |
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103
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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104
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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105
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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106
germane
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| adj.关系密切的，恰当的 | |
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107
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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108
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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109
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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110
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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111
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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112
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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113
jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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114
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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115
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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116
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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117
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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118
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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119
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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120
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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121
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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122
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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123
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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124
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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125
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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126
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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127
mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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128
bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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129
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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130
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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131
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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132
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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133
impedes
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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135
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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136
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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