Thomas Godolphin might have been all the better for a little sun[92] then—not speaking figuratively. I mean the good sun that illumines our daily world; that would be illumining my pen and paper at this moment, but for an envious10 fog, which obscures everything but itself. The moon was not shining as it had shone the last night he left Lady Sarah’s, when he had left his farewell kiss—oh that he could have known it was the last!—on the gentle lips of Ethel. There was no moon yet; the stars were not showing themselves, for a black cloud enveloped11 the skies like a pall12, fitting accompaniment to his blasted hopes; and his path altogether was dark. Little wonder then, that Thomas Godolphin all but fell over some dark object, crouching13 in his way: he could only save himself by springing back. By dint14 of peering, he discovered it to be a woman. She was seated on the bare earth; her hands clasped under her knees, which were raised almost level with her chin which rested on them, and was swaying herself backwards15 and forwards as one does in grief; as Lady Sarah Grame had done not long before.
“Why do you sit here?” cried Thomas Godolphin. “I nearly fell over you.”
“Little matter if ye’d fell over me and killed me,” was the woman’s response, given without raising her head, or making any change in her position. “’Twould only have been one less in an awful cold world, as seems made for nothing but trouble. If the one half of us was out of it, there’d be room perhaps for them as was left.”
“Is it Mrs. Bond?” asked Thomas Godolphin, as he caught a glimpse of her features.
“Didn’t you know me, sir? I know’d you by the voice as soon as you spoke16. You have got trouble too, I hear. The world’s full of nothing else. Why does it come?”
“Get up,” said Thomas Godolphin. “Why do you sit there? Why are you here at all at this hour of the night?”
“It’s where I’m going to stop till morning,” returned the woman, sullenly17. “There shall be no getting up for me.”
“What is the matter with you?” he resumed.
“Trouble,” she shortly answered. “I’ve been toiling19 up to the work’us, asking for a loaf, or a bit o’ money: anything they’d give to me, just to keep body and soul together for my children. They turned me back again. They’ll give me nothing. I may go into the union with the children if I will, but not a stiver of help’ll they afford me out of it. Me, with a corpse20 in the house, and a bare cubbort.”
“A corpse!” involuntarily repeated Thomas Godolphin. “Who is dead!”
“John.”
Curtly21 as the word was spoken, the tone yet betrayed its own pain. This John, the eldest22 son of the Bonds, had been attacked with the fever at the same time as the father and brother. They had succumbed23 to it: this one had recovered: or, at least, had appeared to be recovering.
“I thought John was getting better,” observed Thomas Godolphin.
“He might ha’ got better, if he’d had things to make him better! Wine and meat, and all the rest of it. He hadn’t got ’em; and he’s dead.”
[93]Now a subscription24 had been entered into for the relief of the poor sufferers from the fever, Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin having been amongst its most liberal contributors; and to Thomas Godolphin’s certain knowledge, a full share, and a very good share, had been handed to the Bonds. Quite sufficient to furnish proper nourishment25 for John Bond for some time to come. He did not say to the woman, “You have had enough: where has it gone to? it has been wasted in riot.” That it had been wasted in riot and improvidence26, there was no doubt, for it was in the nature of the Bonds so to waste it; but to cast reproach in the hour of affliction was not the religion of everyday life practised by Thomas Godolphin.
“Yes, they turned me back,” she resumed, swaying herself nose and knees together, as before. “They wouldn’t give me as much as a bit o’ bread. I wasn’t going home without taking something to my famished27 children; and I wasn’t going to beg like a common tramp. So I just sat myself down here; and I shan’t care if I’m found stark28 and stiff in the morning!”
“Get up, get up,” said Thomas Godolphin. “I will give you something for bread for your children to-night.”
In the midst of his own sorrow he could feel for her, improvident29 old sinner though she was, and though he knew her to be so. He coaxed30 and soothed31, and finally prevailed upon her to rise, but she was in a reckless, sullen18 mood, and it took him a little effort before it was effected. She burst into tears when she thanked him, and turned off in the direction of the Pollard cottages.
The reflection of Mr. Snow’s bald head was conspicuous32 on the surgery blind: he was standing33 between the window and the lamp. Thomas Godolphin observed it as he passed. He turned to the surgery door, which was at the side of the house, opened it, and saw that Mr. Snow was alone.
The surgeon turned his head at the interruption, put down a glass jar which he held, and grasped his visitor’s hand in silence.
“Snow! why did you not write for me?”
Mr. Snow brought down his hand on a pair of tiny scales, causing them to jangle and rattle34. He had been bottling up his anger against Lady Sarah for some days now, and this was his first explosion.
“Because I understood that she had done so. I was present when that poor child asked her to do it. I found her on the floor in Sarah Anne’s chamber35. On the floor, if you’ll believe me! Lying there, because she could not hold her aching head up. My lady had dragged her out of bed in the morning, ill as she was, and forced her to attend as usual upon Sarah Anne. I got it all out of Elizabeth. ‘Mamma,’ she said, when I pronounced it to be fever, though she was almost beyond speaking then, ‘you will write to Thomas Godolphin.’ I never supposed but that my lady did it. Your sister, Miss Godolphin, inquired if you had been written for, and I told her yes.”
“Snow,” came the next sad words, “could you not have saved her?”
The surgeon shook his head and answered in a quiet tone, looking down at the stopper of a phial, which he had taken up and was turning about listlessly in his fingers.
“Neither care nor skill could save her. I gave her the best I had to[94] give. As did Dr. Beale. Godolphin,”—raising his quick dark eyes, flashing then with a peculiar36 light—“she was ready to go. Let it be your consolation37.”
Thomas Godolphin made no answer, and there was silence for a time. Mr. Snow resumed. “As to my lady, the best consolation I wish her, is, that she may have her heart wrung38 with remembrance for years to come! I don’t care what people may preach about charity and forgiveness; I do wish it. But she’ll be brought to her senses, unless I am mistaken: she has lost her treasure and kept her bane. A year or two more, and that’s what Sarah Anne will be.”
“She ought to have written for me.”
“She ought to do many things that she does not do. She ought to have sent Ethel from the house, as I told her, the instant the disorder39 appeared in it. Not she. She kept her in her insane selfishness: and now I hope she’s satisfied with her work. When alarming symptoms showed themselves in Ethel, on the fourth day of her illness, I think it was, I said to my lady, ‘It is strange what can be keeping Mr. Godolphin!’ ‘Oh,’ said she, ‘I did not write to him.’ ‘Not write!’ I answered: and I fear I used an ugly word to my lady’s face. ‘I’ll write at once,’ returned she humbly40. ‘Of course,’ cried I, ‘when the steed’s stolen we shut the stable-door.’ It’s the way of the world.”
Another pause. “I would have given anything to take Ethel from the house at the time; to take her from the town,” observed Thomas Godolphin in a low tone. “I said so then. But it could not be.”
“I should have done it, in your place,” said Mr. Snow. “If my lady had said no, I’d have carried her off in the face of it. Not married, you say? Rubbish! Every one knows she’d have been safe with you. And you would have been married as soon as was convenient. What are forms and ceremonies and carping tongues, in comparison with a girl’s life? A life, precious as was Ethel’s!”
Thomas Godolphin leaned his forehead in his hand, lost in retrospect41. Oh, that he had taken her! that he had set at nought42 what he had then bowed to, the convenances of society! She might have been by his side now, in health and life, to bless him! Doubting words interrupted the train of thought.
“And yet I don’t know,” the surgeon was repeating, in a dreamy manner. “What is to be, will be. We look back, all of us, and say, ‘If I had acted thus, if I had done the other, so and so would not have happened; events would have turned out differently.’ But who is to be sure of it? Had you taken Ethel out of harm’s way—as we might have thought it—there’s no telling but she’d have had the fever just the same: her blood might have become infected before she left the house. There’s no knowing, Mr. Godolphin.”
“True. Good evening, Snow.”
He turned suddenly and hastily to the outer door, but the surgeon caught him before he passed its threshold, and touched his arm to detain him. They stood there in the obscurity, their faces shaded in the dark night.
“She left you a parting word, Mr. Godolphin.”
“Ah?”
“An hour before she died she was calm and sensible, though fear[95] fully43 weak. Lady Sarah had gone to her favourite, and I was alone with Ethel. ‘Has he not come yet?’ she asked me, opening her eyes. ‘My dear,’ I said, ‘he could not come; he was never written for.’ For I knew she alluded44 to you, and was determined45 to tell her the truth, dying though she was. ‘What shall I say to him for you?’ I continued. She put up her hand to motion my face nearer hers, for her voice was growing faint. ‘Tell him, with my dear love, not to grieve,’ she whispered, between her panting breath. ‘Tell him that I have gone on before.’ I think they were almost the last words she spoke.”
Thomas Godolphin leaned against the modest post of the surgery door, and eagerly drank in the words. Then he wrung the doctor’s hand, and departed, hurrying along the street as one who shrank from observation: for he did not care, just then, to encounter the gaze of his fellow-men.
Coming with a quick step up the side street, in which the entrance to the surgery was situated46, was the Reverend Mr. Hastings. He stopped to accost47 the surgeon.
“Was that Mr. Godolphin?”
“Ay. This is a blow for him.”
Mr. Hastings’s voice insensibly shrank to a whisper. “Maria tells me that he did not know of Ethel’s death or illness. Until they arrived here to-night, they thought it was Sarah Anne who died. He went up to Lady Sarah’s after the train came in, thinking so.”
“Lady Sarah’s a fool,” was the complimentary48 rejoinder of Mr. Snow.
“She is, in some things,” warmly assented49 the Rector. “The telegraphic message she despatched to Scotland, telling of the death, was so obscurely worded as to cause them to assume that it alluded to Sarah Anne.”
“Ah well! she’s only heaping burdens on her conscience,” rejoined Mr. Snow in a philosophic50 tone. “She has lost Ethel through want of care (as I firmly believe) in not keeping her out of the way of infection; she prevented their last meeting, through not writing to him; she——”
“He could not have saved her, had he been here,” interrupted Mr. Hastings.
“No one said he could. There would have been satisfaction in it for him, though. And for her too, poor child.”
Mr. Hastings did not contest the point. He was so very practical a man (in contradistinction to an imaginative one) that he saw little use in “last” interviews, unless they produced actual good. Turning away, he walked home at a brisk pace. Maria was alone when he entered. Mrs. Hastings and Grace were out of the room, talking to some late applicant51: a clergyman’s house, like a parish apothecary’s, is never free long together. Divested52 of her travelling cloaks and seated before the fire in her quiet merino dress, Maria looked as much at home as if she had never left it. The blaze, flickering53 on her face, betrayed to the keen glance of the Rector that her eyelashes were wet.
“Grieving after Broomhead already, Maria?” asked he, his tone a stern one.
[96]“Oh, papa, no! I am glad to be at home. I was thinking of poor Ethel.”
“She is better off. The time may come, Maria—we none of us know what is before us—when some of you young ones who are left may wish you had died as she has. Many a one, battling for very existence with the world’s cares, wails54 out a vain wish that he had been taken early from the evil to come.”
“It must be so dreadful for Thomas Godolphin!” Maria resumed, looking straight into the fire, and speaking as if in commune with herself, more than to her father.
“Thomas Godolphin must find another love.”
It was one of those phrases, spoken in satire55 only, to which the Rector of All Souls’ was occasionally given. He saw so much to condemn56 in the world, things which grated harshly on his advanced mind, that his speech had become imbued with a touch of gall57, and he would often give utterance58 to cynical59 remarks, uncalled for at the moment.
Maria took up the words literally60. She turned to Mr. Hastings; her cheek flushed, her hands clasped; altogether betraying vivid emotion. “Oh, papa! another love! You should not say it of Thomas Godolphin. Love, such as his, is not for a week or a year: it is for all time.”
The Rector paused a moment in his reply. His penetrating61 gaze was fixed62 upon his daughter. “May I inquire whence you have derived63 your knowledge of ‘love,’ Miss Maria Hastings?”
Her eyes drooped64, her face turned crimson65, her manner grew confused. She turned her countenance66 from that of her father, and stammered67 forth68 some lame69 excuse. “Every one knows, papa, that Thomas Godolphin was fond of Ethel.”
“Possibly. But every one does not know that Maria Hastings deems herself qualified70 to enlarge upon the subject,” was the Rector’s reply. And Maria shrank into silence.
There came a day, not many days afterwards, when Maria Hastings, her sisters, and two of her brothers, were gathered in sombre silence around the study window of the Rectory. The room was built out at the back of the house, over the kitchen, and its side window commanded a full view of the churchyard of All Souls’, and of the church porch. Grace, who constituted herself mistress of the others a great deal more than did Mrs. Hastings herself, allowed the blind to be drawn71 up about two inches at the bottom of the window; and Maria, Isaac, Harry72, and Rose, kneeling down for convenience sake, brought their faces into contact with it, as the mob outside the churchyard gate did there. Human nature is the same everywhere, whether in the carefully-trained children of a Christian73 gentleman, or in those who know no training but what the streets have given.
The funeral, even now, was inside the church: it had been inside so long that those eager watchers, estimating time by their impatience74, began to think it was never coming out again. A sudden movement in the church porch reassured75 them, and Grace knelt down and made one with the rest.
Slowly—slowly—on it came. The Reverend Mr. Hastings first, in his white robes; the coffin76 next; Thomas Godolphin last, with a stranger by his side. Nothing more, except some pall-bearers in their[97] white scarfs, and the necessary attendants. It was a perfectly77 simple funeral: according well with what the dead had been in her simple life.
The appearance of this stranger took the curious gazers by surprise. Who was he? A spare man, past middle age, with a red nose and an unmistakable wig78 on his head. Rumours79 circulating in Prior’s Ash had said that Thomas Godolphin would be sole mourner. Lady Sarah Grame’s relatives—and she could not boast of many—lived far north of Aberdeen. “Who can he be?” murmured Grace Hastings.
“Why, don’t you girls know? That’s through your having stuck yourselves in the house all the morning, for fear you should lose the funeral. If you had gone out, you’d have heard who he is.” The retort came from Harry Hastings. Let it be a funeral or a wedding, that may be taking place under their very eyes, boys must be boys all the world over. And so they ever will be.
“Who is he, then?” asked Grace.
“He is Ethel’s uncle,” answered Harry. “He arrived by train this morning. The Earl of Macsomething.”
“The Earl of Macsomething!” repeated Grace.
Harry nodded. “Mac begins the name, and I forget the rest. Lady Sarah was his sister.”
“Is, you mean,” said Grace. “It must be Lord Macdoune.”
The church porch was opposite the study window. The grave had been dug in a line between the two, very near to the family vault80 of the Godolphins and to the entrance gate of the churchyard. On it came, crossing the broad churchyard path which wound round to the road, treading between mounds81 and graves. The clergyman took his place at the head, the mourners near him, the rest disposing themselves decently around.
“Grace,” whispered Isaac, “if we had the window open an inch, we should hear.” And Grace was pleased to accord her sanction, and they silently raised it.
“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery82. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”
The children—indeed they were little more—hushed their breath and listened, and looked at Thomas Godolphin. Thomas Godolphin stood there, his head bowed, his face still, the gentle wind stirring his thin dark hair. It was probably a marvel83 to himself in after-life, how he had contrived84, in that closing hour, to retain his calmness before the world.
“The coffin’s lowered at last!” broke out Harry, who had been more curious to watch the movements of the men, than the aspect of Thomas Godolphin.
“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty86 God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth ... ashes to ashes ... dust to dust ... in sure and certain hope of the resur[98] rection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile88 body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty87 working, whereby he is able to subdue89 all things to himself.”
Every word came home to Thomas Godolphin’s senses; every syllable90 vibrated upon his heartstrings. That sure and certain hope laid hold of his soul, never again to quit it. It diffused91 its own holy peace and calm into his troubled mind: and never, until that moment, had he fully realized the worth, the truth, of her dying legacy92: “Tell him that I have gone on before.” A few years—God, now present with him, alone knew how few or how many—and Thomas Godolphin would have joined her in eternal life.
But why had Mr. Hastings come to a temporary pause? Because his eye had fallen upon one, then gliding93 up from the entrance of the churchyard to take his place amidst the mourners. One who had evidently arrived in a hurry. He wore neither scarf nor hatband, neither cloak nor hood94: nothing but a full suit of plain black clothes.
“Look, Maria,” whispered Grace.
It was George Godolphin. He fell quietly in below his brother, his hat carried in his hand, his head bowed, his fair curls waving in the breeze. It was all the work of an instant: and the minister resumed:
“I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours.”
And so went on the service to the end.
The beadle, with much bustle95 and a liberal use of his staff, scattered96 and dispersed97 the mob from the gates, to clear a passage. Two mourning coaches were in waiting. Thomas Godolphin came forth, leaning on his brother’s arm, both of them bare-headed still. They entered one; Lord Macdoune stepped into the other.
“Thomas!” cried George Godolphin, leaning forward and seizing his brother’s hand impulsively98, as the mourning-coach paced slowly on: “I should have been here in good time, but for a delay in the train.”
“How did you hear of it? I did not know where to write to you,” was Thomas’s reply, spoken calmly.
“I heard of it at Broomhead. I went back there, and then I came off at once. Thomas, could they not save her?”
A slight negative movement was all Thomas Godolphin’s answer. “How did you find your father, George?”
“Breaking. Breaking fast. Thomas, all his talk is, that he must come home to die.”
“To Ashlydyat. I know. How is he to come to it? The Folly99 is not Ashlydyat. He has desired me to see that he is at Prior’s Ash before Christmas, and I shall do so.”
George looked surprised. “Desired you to see that he is?”
“If he is not back speedily, I am to go to Broomhead.”
“Oh, I see. That your authority, upholding his, may be pitted against my lady’s. Take care, Thomas: she may prove stronger than both of you put together.”
“I think not,” replied Thomas quietly; and he placed his elbow on[99] the window frame, and bent100 his face upon his hand, as if wishing for silence.
Meanwhile the Reverend Mr. Hastings had passed through the private gate to his own garden; and half a dozen men were shovelling101 earth upon the coffin, sending it with a rattle upon the bright plate, which told who was mouldering102 within:
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1
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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7
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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8
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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9
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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13
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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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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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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30
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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31
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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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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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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38
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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39
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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40
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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41
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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42
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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43
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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44
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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46
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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47
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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48
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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51
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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52
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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53
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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54
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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55
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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56
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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57
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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58
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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59
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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61
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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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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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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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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67
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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71
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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81
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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84
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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85
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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88
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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90
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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91
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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93
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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94
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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97
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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98
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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99
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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100
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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101
shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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102
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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103
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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