Dressing took Crawley about ten minutes, and he had an hour for the operation. So he looked hurriedly through the play, and marked the parts allotted5 to Ensign Bellefleur. It did not seem very much, so he felt a little encouraged, and taking Miss Clarissa’s advice, set the book open on the table and began learning what he would have to say, while going on with his toilet. He had a really surprisingly retentive6 memory, and picked up a good bit even in that little time.
He found Mr Gould in the drawing-room when he went down, and the old gentleman asked him after his progress in study, and what profession he intended to adopt, in a pompous7 and condescending8 way; but it was only a few sentences, for there were other gentlemen there, who came up and button-holed him seriously, and with whom he seemed to hold portentous9 conversation, politics, perhaps, or shares, or something of that kind. Then the ladies assembled, and the second gong boomed, and the people paired off. Crawley timidly offered his arm to Miss Clarissa, rather fearing he was doing wrong, and ought to go to someone else. But she took it all right; and he quoted from the play he had been studying:
“‘Here we escape then. Come, cousin! nay10, your lips were set for pearls and diamonds, and I’ll not lose the promised treasure.’”
“‘Well, good counsel is a gem,’” the young lady responded smartly. “‘But, George, I fear me you’ll never carry the jewel in your ears.’ The quotation11 is not apt, though, for you evidently have carried my good counsel in your ears, and been learning your part already. How good of you!”
Here was a chance for Crawley to say something pretty; but he could not think of what it should be till afterwards.
If the ladies’ society was a little thrown away upon him he appreciated the dinner, which was by far the most luxurious12 meal he had ever seen in his life. A table-d’hôte at Scarborough had hitherto been his beau idéal of a feed, but that was not in the race with the Gould banquet. And the champagne13; on the few occasions when he had had a chance of tasting that wine, he had got all he could and wanted more. But now his only care was not to take too much of it, lest it should get into his head.
“Are you studying your part?” asked his neighbour, for he had been silent for some time.
“No,” he replied; “I was thinking that if your brother lives like this every day, he must find the fare rather unpalatable when he goes back to Weston.”
“I believe he does,” said Miss Clarissa laughing. “At least he writes home grumbling14 letters enough, and we have to send him hampers16 of good things - Perigord pies and that. Don’t stop longer than you like,” she added as the ladies rose. “Papa will go on talking about stupid things all night.”
And shortly afterwards young Gould, who had taken his sister’s place when she went, proposed that they should go to the billiard-room and knock the balls about. So they went and made a four-handed game with two of the girls. And then Miss Clarissa read over the scenes in which Crawley had to take part with her, and made him repeat what he had learned, with appropriate action. And he got partially17 over his shyness, and spent rather a pleasant evening, thanks, a little bit, I fancy, to a little vanity. His friend came to have a chat with him after they had gone up to their rooms, and when he left Crawley could not help thinking what a pity it was that his sister Clarissa had not been the boy and he the girl. She was such a much better sort of fellow for a friend; had more go, and was heartier18. Before he finally turned in he read the part of Ensign Bellefleur over again, for he felt too much excited by the novelty of everything to sleep, if he went to bed. At last, however, reading the same words over repeatedly quieted his nerves, and he slept soundly till morning.
“You are still inclined to have a try for the snipe?” asked Gould at breakfast. “It is still thawing19, and the ground will be very sloshy; I hope you have got thick boots.”
“Yes, and if I hadn’t I do not mind a little wet,” replied Crawley. “But I can’t find my gun anywhere.”
“Oh, that is all right in the gun-room.”
This was another new idea to Crawley, who previously20 thought that it was only ships in Her Majesty’s navy, and not houses, that had gun-rooms. They visited it presently, and Crawley found his property taken out of its case, put together, and standing21 side by side with others in a glass cupboard. He took it down and left the house with his companion. On the terrace they found a keeper with the dogs, and started off for the marshy22 ground by the river.
“Put a few cartridges23 loose in your pocket,” said Gould. “William will carry the rest.”
The low-lying lands were intersected by deep trenches25, which divided them into fields just as hedges would. These were now frozen over, but the ice was melting fast, and water stood on the top. Along them walked the two gunners, William the keeper following with Scamp, the retriever, in a leash26; for Scamp would hunt about and put everything up far out of range.
“Look out, Crawley!” cried Gould, as a snipe flushed in front of him.
He would not have known it was a snipe unless Gould had told him, as it was the first he had ever seen alive. He tried to take aim at it, shutting the left eye as if he were shooting at a target with a rifle, which caused him to twiddle his gun about as if he were letting off a squib, for the bird darted27 about as though on purpose to dodge29 him. So he pulled one trigger, and then, quite by accident, for he did not know how to find it in his flurry, the other, and I don’t suppose went within two yards of the snipe with either barrel. With a steadier flight, having now got well on the wing, it sailed within reach of Gould, who knocked it over.
“Wiped your eye, old fellow!” he cried triumphantly30 as Scamp came back with the bird in his mouth.
“Yes; I told you I was a duffer,” replied Crawley, who took note that the best way was to wait for the bird to have done his zigzagging31. So he steadied himself, and the next chance he had he did wait. But not a bit could he cover the bird with that little knob of a sight, and when the smoke cleared away he saw it careering like a kite with too light a tail in the distance. Gould also missed twice, and then shot one the moment it was off the ground, before the erratic32 course commenced.
“That looks the easiest dodge,” thought Crawley, and the next shot he had he tried it with the first barrel, missed, waited till the snipe was flying more steadily33 and gave it the second barrel, missed again. He got quite hot, and felt sure the keeper was laughing at him, but that official only said:
“I’d put in a cartridge24 with bigger shot now; there’s some duck, I think, in yon bit of rushes by the river.”
They did as he advised, and they walked down to the spot. In went the spaniels, and out came a fine mallard, ten yards in front of Crawley, and sailing away from him as steady as a ship. He could cover this large evenly-flying mark as easily as if it were on a perch34 nearly, and when he pulled trigger the duck stopped in his flight, and fell with a heavy splash in the river, into which Scamp plunged35 as if it were midsummer, and presently brought the duck to land. Crawley felt the elation36 which always accompanies the first successful shot at a bird on the wing; at any rate he had killed something, and might do well yet when the strangeness wore off.
He had another chance at a duck a little while afterwards, but this time the bird flew across and not straight away from him, and as he held his gun still at the moment he got the sight on the duck and fired, of course, since the duck had not the politeness to stop too, the charge went about two yards behind it.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said William, “but if you takes aim like that you will never hit ’em; ’tain’t possible. You must forget all about your gun, and only look at the bird, and pull the trigger the moment you gets a full sight of him. The gun will follow your eye of itself, natural.”
“I know I ought to keep both eyes open,” said Crawley, “but I forget.”
“Well, that is best, to my thinking, though I have known some good shots too who always shut the left eye. But whether or no the chiefest thing is not to see that sight on your gun when you shoot, but only to look at the bird.”
They went on to another snipe patch, and soon Crawley missed again.
“Never mind, sir,” said William, “it’s a knack37, snipe-shooting is, and no one can catch it without practice. I’ve seen good partridge, aye, and rabbit shots, miss ’em time after time, and I’ve knowed good snipe-shots poor at anything else too.”
At last, by trying to follow the keeper’s directions, Crawley did hit a snipe as it was flushed, but it was his only one. They were much more plentiful38 than usual in that part, and lay like stones, so that they had plenty of shooting, and William groaned39 in spirit over the opportunity of sport that had been wasted on two boys. What a tip Sir Harry40 would have given him in his delight if he had come out with him on such a day!
Thirty-five cartridges had Crawley burned when they turned homewards in the afternoon, and the result was one duck, one snipe; if he had possessed41 a tail, how closely it would have been tucked between his legs! He hardly dared look the animals who had those appendages42 in the face; how they must have despised him! Gould, who was a bad shot, had bagged five couple, and patronised him insufferably. When they got home he found a warm foot-bath ready in his room, which was a most refreshing43 luxury, and having made himself presentable he went down to the drawing-room, where the neighbours who were going to act in the forthcoming play were assembled at afternoon tea preparatory to the rehearsal45. And presently they adjourned46 to the library and went through the play, a certain Mr Foljambe, to whom everybody paid implicit47 obedience48, directing and instructing them.
Crawley knew his part, and paid attention to what he was told, and the great man considered that he would do, if he could only get over a certain shy awkwardness. And indeed it was a provoking thing to Clarissa Gould, that when they went through their scenes alone together he acted in a manner that really showed great promise, but if a third person were present he was not so good, and with every additional spectator the merit of his performance diminished. There was only one scene in which he managed completely to forget himself and become the person he represented, and that was where he crosses swords with the hero, and is disarmed49. He could fence a little, and did not quite like playing at getting the worst of it when it was not certain that he ought to have done so; but still, the violent action, and the clash of steel helped him to get rid of that feeling that he was making a tom-fool of himself which confused him when he had to make a lot of spoony speeches to the girl.
Mr Foljambe encouraged him with the assurance that being dressed for the part would give him confidence; in a strange dress, a false moustache, and a painted face, he would not know himself in the glass, and would feel that the spectators did not entirely50 recognise him either. It was necessary to make the best of him, for there was no other Ensign Bellefleur available.
The men of the day before had taken their departure, and were succeeded by a more lively lot, for there was to be a partridge drive and a big lunch on the morrow, and most of those who were to take part in it slept at Nugget Towers that night. So, instead of shares and companies, Mr Gould the father held forth44 upon agricultural prospects51, the amount of game, and the immediate52 renewal53 of hunting, in consequence of the complete change in the weather.
“You ought to have had a good many snipe by the way, Gould,” said one of the guests. “They are always found in those water meadows of yours at the end of a frost.”
“My son and his young friend can tell you best about them,” replied Mr Gould. “I believe they have been out after them to-day.”
“Ah! and what sport had you?” asked the inquirer, turning to young Gould.
“Oh, I got five couple.”
“And your friend?”
“I only shot one,” said Crawley with an uneasy laugh.
“Come, I say, Lionel,” said Clarissa Gould to her brother, “I am not going to have my cousin Bellefleur treated in this manner. You are a nice sort of host to leave your guest the worst of the shooting.”
“He had as many shots as I had,” said young Gould, whose desire of self-glorification smothered54 any soupçon of good taste which he might have acquired, “only he missed them all.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Crawley, concealing55 his sense of humiliation56 in the very best way; “why I fired two barrels at one snipe before Gould killed it for me. I am a perfect novice57 at all field sports.”
“Ah!” observed the first inquirer, “I know I fired away a pound of lead before I touched a snipe when I first began. But what a lot of them there must have been if you killed five couple, Lionel.”
“I do not think I should care for shooting if I were a man,” said Clarissa to Crawley. “But hunting, now, I should be wild about. I hunt sometimes, but only with the harriers. Mama will not let me go out with the foxhounds, and they meet so far off that I cannot fall in with them by accident, for there is no cover near here. But the harriers are to go out the day after to-morrow, if the frost does not return, and I am looking forwards to a good gallop58. Are you fond of hunting?”
“I know that I should be,” replied Crawley, “but I do not own a horse, and never have a chance of it.”
“Oh, well, we will mount you; I think Daisy will be quite up to your weight, Sir Robert certainly would, but Daisy is the nicest to ride.”
After dinner there was music, and Crawley was asked if he could sing. There was no backing out, for young Gould had bragged59 about his friend’s voice, which was indeed a good one though untrained. But he only sang Tubal Cain, Simon the Cellarer, and one or two others of that sort, of which the music was not forthcoming. At last, however, Julia Gould, who was the pianist, found John Peel, which he knew, and he found himself standing by that young lady, confused and shamefaced, trying to make his voice master a great lump there seemed to be in his throat. To make it worse the hubbub60 of voices ceased at the first notes, though it had swelled61 the louder during previous performances. All the men began marking the time with heads and hands, and when the chorus came first one and then another joined in, and it ended in a full burst of sound, just as when Crawley sung it at school. This gave him confidence, and he sang the second and remaining verses with spirit, the choruses swelling62 louder and louder, and when he finished there was much hand-clapping. So at last he had a gleam of success, and Lionel Gould, who had been growing a little supercilious63, returned partially to his old conciliatory manner.
Next day a large party sallied forth with their guns, and Crawley was placed under a high, thick hedge, and told to look out for partridges as they came over his head. Young Gould was some little distance on his left; and at about the same interval64 on his right Sir Harry Sykes, a neighbouring squire65 famous for his skill with the gun, had his station. Beaters had gone round a long way off to drive the birds towards them, and soon shots were heard to right and left; and then Crawley saw some dark specks66 coming towards his hedge, and prepared to raise his gun. But it was like a flash of lightning; they were over and away before he could bring his gun up. Gould had fired, indeed, though ineffectually, but Sir Harry had a brace67. Three more appeared; this time Crawley fired his first barrel at them before they were within shot, and then turning round, gave them the second after they had got far out of it. More came; Gould got one, Sir Harry another; a brace, flying close together passed not directly over Crawley, but a little to his right; and Sir Harry having just fired and being unloaded, Crawley let fly at them, and by a lucky fluke they both came rushing to the ground, stone-dead.
“Good shot, boy!” cried Sir Harry. He had hardly spoken before more birds came directly towards him; Crawley watched; he shot one as it came on, and immediately, without turning round, raised his gun, head, and arms, till it seemed as if he would go over backwards68, and fired again with equally deadly effect.
This second feat69 Crawley did not attempt to imitate, but a steady shot as they came on he did keep trying, and not entirely without success, for every now and then a partridge came tumbling nearly into his face. But Gould shot two to his one, and he did second worst of the party. However, it was such quick and wholesale70 work that individual prowess was taken little notice of. And then there was a long, hot luncheon71, which some of the ladies came out to, and another drive a few miles off in the afternoon.
It was all very exciting, and Crawley found the day a great deal too short; but still he would have preferred the snipe-shooting, if he could only be alone with no one to see his misses. There seemed more sport in finding your game than in having it driven up to you.
When he went up to dress for dinner he found a hamper15 of game there, with a blank label attached, for him to put any address he liked. So he wrote his mother’s; and when it arrived she gave him most unmerited credit for skill, forethought, and trouble-taking. The Goulds certainly did things in a princely way.
It rained softly all that night, clearing up about nine in the morning, when those who were going out with the harriers had been half-an-hour at breakfast—Miss Clarissa, who was one of them, taking that meal in her habit. Crawley could hardly eat for excitement. The moment the water for his tub had been brought he had jumped up, and, directly he was dressed, hurried to the stables to see the horse he was to ride.
“And which is it to be?” asked Miss Clarissa.
“Well, I meant to take your advice and Daisy; but the groom72 said she had a delicate mouth and required a light hand, which I cannot have, you know, for want of practice. And he said Sir Robert was the stronger animal and would stay better, though not so fast. So I fixed73 on Sir Robert.”
“And he will carry you very well if you can hold him; Lionel can’t.”
“What can’t I do?” asked young Gould across the table, with his mouth full of game-pie.
“Hold Sir Robert.”
“Why, his mouth is a bit hard, but I can sit him anyhow.”
“Oh, yes, he goes easy enough.”
The horses were soon brought round, and they all—a party of five—went out. Miss Clarissa, the only lady, put her foot into Mr Foljambe’s proffered74 hand and vaulted75 lightly into the saddle. Crawley could mount without awkwardness; he had learned enough for that, and he knew what length of stirrup suited him, and could trot76 along the road or canter over the grass without attracting attention; so all went well till they reached Marley Farm, where the meet was. But directly Sir Robert saw the hounds he got excited and wanted a gallop—a thing the frost had debarred him of for weeks. So he kicked up his heels and shook his head, and capered77 about in a manner very grateful to his own feelings, but most discomposing to his rider, who was first on the pommel, then on the crupper, then heeling over on the near side, then on the off—though both sides threatened to be off sides if these vagaries78 took a more violent form.
When the hounds were turned into a field and working, Sir Robert evidently thought: “Come! I can’t be standing still all day while those dawdling79 dogs are bothering about after a hare; a gallop I must have!” And he began to fight for his head; and it took all Crawley’s strength—and he was a very muscular youngster—to hold him. Sir Robert did get away half across the field once and nearly demolished80 a hound, with twenty voices halloing to Crawley to come back, and the master using language which his godfathers and godmother never taught him, I am certain. I can only quote the mildest of his reproofs81 which was: “Go home to your nursery and finish your pap, you young idiot, and don’t come endangering the lives of animals a thousand times more valuable than yourself!”
Poor Crawley, wild with shame and rage, managed to haul his horse round and get back to the others, when it did not improve his temper to see the broad grin on young Gould’s face.
“Don’t fight with your horse, youngster,” said an old gentleman kindly82. “The more you pull, the more he will pull too.”
And Crawley loved that old gentleman, and would have adopted him for a father, or at least an uncle, on the spot, especially when he found his advice serviceable; for, loosing his reins83 when Sir Robert did stand still, and only checking him lightly when he tried to dart28 forward, kept him much quieter.
But would they never find that hare? Yes, at last there was a whimper, and another, and then a full burst, and away went the hounds, and the field after them, and, with one final kick up of his heels, Sir Robert got into his stride. Crawley forgot anger, vexation—everything but the rapture84 of the moment. The life of the scene, the contagious85 excitement of dogs, horses, and men, the rapid motion, it was even beyond what he had imagined.
So across a field to a little broken hedge, which Sir Robert took in his stride without his rider feeling it. Then sharp to the right towards a bigger fence, with a ditch beyond; nothing for a girl to crane at, but having to be jumped. Crawley, straining his eyes after the hounds, and not sitting very tight, was thrown forward when the horse rose, and, when he alighted, lost his stirrup, reeled, and came over on to mother earth; and when he rose to his feet he had the mortification86 to see Sir Robert careering away in great delight, and he proceeded to plod87 through the heavy ground after him.
“Whatever made you tumble off? Sir Robert never swerved88 or stumbled!” cried Miss Clarissa as she swept by him. But his wounded vanity was hardly felt in the greater annoyance89 of being out of the hunt.
But the best of harriers is that you hardly ever are out of the hunt. The hare came round again; some good-natured man caught the horse and brought him back to the grateful Crawley, who remounted and soon fell in with the hounds at a check.
“I say, you know,” said Mr Foljambe, “if you get another fall I shall exert my authority as theatrical90 manager and send you home. I cannot have my Ensign Bellefleur break his neck when the part is not doubled.”
“No!” said Miss Clarissa, “not before Wednesday.”
Whimper, whimper; they hit it off and away again. Another fence with hurdles91 in it, and a knot of rustics92 looking on in delight. More cautious now, Crawley stuck his knees in and leaned back, and, when Sir Robert alighted, was still on, with both feet in the stirrups, but very much on the pommel, and not in an elegant attitude at all.
“Oh, look at he!” cried a boy with a turnip-chopper in one hand and a fork for dragging that root out in the other. “He be tailor.”
“It’s agwyne to rai-ain, Mister Lunnoner!” added another smockfrock; “won’t yer get inside and pull the winders up?”
Even the clodhoppers jeered93 him; and that confounded friend of his, Gould, was close beside and laughed, and would be sure to repeat what he heard. Never mind, it was glorious fun. He came off again later in the afternoon, but that was at a good big obstacle, which most of the field avoided, going round by a gate, and Sir Robert stumbled a bit on landing, which made an excuse. But this time the horse, who was not so fresh now, waited for him to get up again. He felt very stiff and sore when it was all over and they were riding home again; especially it seemed as if his lower garments were stuffed with nettles94. As for his tumbles, the ground was very soft, and he had not been kicked or trodden on, so that when he had had a warm bath he was as right as ninepence, only a little stiff.
Gould came to see after his welfare while he was dressing, and hoped he was not hurt, and expressed an opinion that he would learn to ride in time, and was glad they had only gone out with the jelly dogs instead of the foxhounds, or his friend and guest would not have seen anything of the run. All which was trying, coming from a fellow who had looked upon him as an oracle95, and to whom he had condescended96. At dinner, too, he was chaffed a little; but the hardest rider in the county, who had condescended to go out with the harriers to try a new horse, the foxhounds not meeting that day, and who was dining with Mr Gould afterwards, came to his rescue. “Never mind them, lad,” he said; “you went as straight as a die. I saw you taking everything as it came, never looking for a gap or a gate, and it is not many of them can say the same.”
This was Saturday, and Crawley was glad of a day of rest when he got up next morning, he was so stiff. On Monday preparations for the private theatricals97 began in earnest. Dresses came down from London, and were tried on and altered; the large drawing-room was given up to the hands of workmen, who fitted up a small stage at one end of it, with sloping seats in front, that all the guests might see. Those who were to act were always going into corners and getting some one to hear them their parts, and there were rehearsals98. It was all a great bore to Crawley, who would fain have spent the time in shooting or riding, of which he got but little, so exacting99 was Miss Clarissa; and he was to go home on the Thursday, the day after the entertainment.
As the time approached, too, he felt more and more uncomfortable; he had found out from young Gould that the whole thing had been got up by his sister Clarissa, who thought herself a very good actress, and wished to show off; and he could easily see that he would not have been asked to the house at all if it had not been for his school-fellow’s talk about what a clever individual he was—able to do everything. Now, next to Sir Valentine May, no character in the comedy is so important for the display of Dorothy Budd’s (Clarissa’s) performance as Ensign Bellefleur; and the more clearly Crawley saw this, the more fervently100 did he wish that he was out of it. It was too late now, however, and as he got on very fairly in the rehearsals, he began to hope he should pull through somehow.
On Tuesday the house was filled with company, and he was asked to give up his room and go to the top of the house, which, however, was no trouble to him. His clothes of seventeen hundred and fifteen were though, when the eventful evening came, and his wig101, and the man who fitted it and daubed his face. And yet, when all the fidgeting was over, he wished that it had to begin again, that he might have a further respite102.
The play began, and during the first scene he stood at the side envying the cool self-possession of Captain Wingfield, who had the part of “Valentine,” and every one of whose speeches was followed by laughter from the unseen audience. When the second scene opened Miss Clarissa joined him, looking charming in her old-world dress; they were to go on in company, and he made a strenuous103 effort to pull himself together. But when he found himself in the full glare of the foot-lights, and looking before him saw the mass of expectant faces which rose, rank behind rank, half-way to the ceiling, his head went round, his brain became confused, and his first sentence was inaudible. “Speak up!” said Miss Clarissa in a loud whisper, and he uttered, “And have you no ambition?” in a louder key indeed, but in trembling accents, and standing more like a boy saying a lesson.
The audience cannot hiss104 in private theatricals, but they could not help a suppressed titter, which confused Crawley still more. He forgot what he had to say, and looked appealingly to the prompter, who prompted rather too loudly. Altogether the scene was spoilt, and Clarissa furious.
He did a little better in the second act, but not one quarter so well as he had in rehearsals, and was ready to punch his own head with vexation when the whole thing was over, and he had got rid of his costume and the messes on his face.
He went to bed instead of to supper, and next morning at breakfast no one alluded105 to the performance before him. Soon afterwards he took his leave of all but Miss Clarissa, who kept out of his way, and Lionel Gould drove him to the station very sulkily, for his sister had vented106 her displeasure upon him. And so they said an uncomfortable good-bye, and Crawley felt much relieved when he found himself alone in the train, with the humiliations of his visit behind him. They did not do him any harm, quite the contrary; he was made of better stuff than that. Of course he felt sore at his failures, when he was used to play first fiddle107. When the devil of conceit108 is cast out of us the throes are severe. But by the time he got home Crawley was able to laugh at his own mishaps109. Perhaps Gould got the worst of it after all. “That friend of yours an Admirable Crichton!” said his sister. “A fine set you must be!”
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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19
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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20
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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21
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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22
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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23
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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24
cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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25
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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26
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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27
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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28
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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29
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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30
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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31
zigzagging
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| v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的现在分词 )；盘陀 | |
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32
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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33
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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34
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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35
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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36
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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37
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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38
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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39
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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40
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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41
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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42
appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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43
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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46
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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48
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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49
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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50
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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51
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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52
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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53
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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54
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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55
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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57
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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58
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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59
bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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61
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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62
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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63
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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65
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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66
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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68
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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69
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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70
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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71
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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72
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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73
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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74
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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76
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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77
capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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79
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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80
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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81
reproofs
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| n.责备，责难，指责( reproof的名词复数 ) | |
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82
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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83
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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84
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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85
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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86
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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87
plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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88
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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90
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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91
hurdles
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| n.障碍( hurdle的名词复数 )；跳栏；（供人或马跳跃的）栏架；跨栏赛 | |
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92
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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93
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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95
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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96
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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97
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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98
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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99
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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100
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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101
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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102
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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103
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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104
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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105
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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108
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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109
mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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