Several days passed in the gloomy mansion1 misnamed Dell-Delight. Miriam and Paul avoided each other like death. Both dreaded2 like death any illusion to the awful subject that lay so heavy upon the heart of each. Paul, unacquainted with her thoughts, and relying upon her promise to do nothing with the letters without further evidence, contented5 himself with watching her motions, feeling comparatively at ease as long as she should remain in the house; and being resolved to prevent her from going forth6, or to accompany her if she persisted in leaving home.
With Miriam, the shock, the anguish7, the struggle had well-nigh passed; she was at once subdued8 and resolved, like one into whom some spirit had entered and bound her own spirit, and acted through her. So strange did all appear to her, so strange the impassiveness of her own will, of her habits and affections, that should have rebelled and warred against her purpose that she sometimes thought herself not herself, or insane, or the subject of a monomania, or some strange hallucination, a dreamer, a somnambulist, perhaps. And yet with matchless tact10 and discretion11, she went about her deadly work. She had prepared her plan of action, and now waited only for a day very near at hand, the fourth of April, the anniversary of Marian's assassination12, to put Thurston to a final test before proceeding13 further.
The day came at last—it was cold and wintry for the season. Toward evening the sky became overcast14 with leaden clouds, and the chill dampness penetrated15 into all the rooms of the old mansion. Poor Fanny was muttering and moaning to herself and her "spirits" over the wood fire in her distant room.
Mr. Willcoxen had not appeared since breakfast time. Miriam remained in her own chamber16; and Paul wandered restlessly from place to place through all the rooms of the house, or threw himself wearily into his chair before the parlor17 fire. Inclement18 as the weather was, he would have gone forth, but that he too remembered the anniversary, and a nameless anxiety connected with Miriam confined him to the house.
In the kitchen, the colored folk gathered around the fire, grumbling19 at the unseasonable coldness of the weather, and predicting a hail-storm, and telling each other that they never "'sperienced" such weather this time o' year, 'cept 'twas that spring Old Marse died—when no wonder, "'siderin' how he lived long o' Sam all his life."
Only old Jenny went in and out from house to kitchen, Old Jenny had enough to do to carry wood to the various fires. She had never "seed it so cold for de season nyther, 'cept 'twas de spring Miss Marian went to hebben, and not a bit o' wonder de yeth was cole arter she war gone—de dear, lovin' heart warm angel; 'deed I wondered how it ever come summer again, an' thought it was right down onsensible in her morning-glories to bloom out jest de same as ever, arter she was gone! An' what minds me to speak o' Miss Marian now, it war jes' seven years this night, since she 'parted dis life," said Jenny, as she stood leaning her head upon the mantel-piece, and toasting her toes at the kitchen fire, previous to carrying another armful of wood into the parlor.
Night and the storm descended20 together—such a tempest! such a wild outbreaking of the elements! rain and hail, and snow and wind, all warring upon the earth together! The old house shook, the doors and windows rattled21, the timbers cracked, the shingles22 were torn off and whirled aloft, the trees were swayed and snapped; and as the storm increased in violence and roused to fury, the forest beat before its might, and the waves rose and overflowed23 the low land.
Still old Jenny went in and out of the house to kitchen and kitchen to house, carrying wood, water, meat, bread, sauce, sweetmeats, arranging the table for supper, replenishing the fire, lighting24 the candles, letting down the curtains—and trying to make everything cozy25 and comfortable for the reassembling of the fireside circle. Poor old Jenny had passed so much of her life in the family with "the white folks," that all her sympathies went with them—and on the state of their spiritual atmosphere depended all her cheerfulness and comfort; and now the cool, distant, sorrowful condition of the members of the little family circle—"ebery single mudder's son and darter ob 'em, superamblated off to derself like pris'ners in a jailhouse"—as she said—depressed her spirits very much. Jenny's reaction from depression was always quite querulous. And toward the height of the storm, there was a reaction and she grew very quarrelsome.
"Sam's waystin'[A] roun' in dere," said Jenny, as she thrust her feet into the kitchen fire, before carrying in the urn26; "Sam's waystin', I tells you all good! all werry quiet dough27—no noise, no fallin' out, no 'sputin' nor nothin'—all quiet as de yeth jest afore a debbil ob a storm—nobody in de parlor 'cept 'tis Marse Paul, settin' right afore de parlor fire, wid one long leg poked28 east and toder west, wid the boots on de andirons like a spread-eagle! lookin' as glum29 as if I owed him a year's sarvice, an' nebber so much as a-sayin', 'Jenny, you poor old debbil, ain't you a-cold?' an' me coming in ebery minnit wid the icicles a-jinglin' 'roun' my linsey-woolsey skurts, like de diamonds on de Wirgin Mary's Sunday gown. But Sam's waystin' now, I tells you all good. Lors Gemini, what a storm!
[Footnote A: Waysting—Going up and down.]
"I 'members of no sich since dat same storm as de debbil come in to fetch ole marse's soul—dis berry night seven year past, an' he carried of him off all in a suddint whiff! jist like a puff30 of win'. An' no wonder, seein' how he done traded his soul to him for money!
"An' Sam's here ag'in to-night! dunno who he's come arter! but he's here, now, I tells you all good!" said Jenny, as she took up the urn to carry it into the parlor.
When she got there she could scarcely get to the fire; Paul took up the front. His immobility and unconsciousness irritated Jenny beyond silent endurance.
"I tell you all what," she said, "I means to 'sign my sitewation! 'deed me! I can't kill myself for dem as wouldn't even care 'nough for me to have a mass said for de 'pose o' my soul."
"What do you mean?" asked Paul, angrily, for confinement31, solitude32, bad weather, and anxiety, had combined, to make him querulous, too.
"I means how ef yer doesn't have a kivered way made from de house to de kitchen an' back ag'in, I gwine give up waitin' on de table, now min' I tell yer, 'deed me! an' now ef you likes, yer may jes' go an' tell Marse Rooster."
"'Marse Rooster!' Will you ever give up that horrid33 nonsense. Why, you old—! Is my brother—is your master a barn-door chicken-cock, that you call him 'Rooster?'" asked the young man, snappishly.
"Well, Shrooster, den4, ef you wants me to wring34 my tongue in two. Ef people's sponsors in baptism will gib der chillun such heathen names, how de debbil any Christian35 'oman gwine to twis' her tongue roun' it? I thanks my 'Vine Marster dat my sponsors in baptism named me arter de bressed an' holy S'int Jane—who has 'stained an' s'ported me all my days; an' 'ill detect now, dough you do try to break my poor ole heart long wid onkindness at my ole ages o' life! But what's de use o' talkin'—Sam's waystin'!" And so saying, Jenny gave the finishing touches to the arrangement of the table, and then seized the bell, and rang it with rather needless vigor36 and violence, to bring the scattered37 members of the family together.
They came, slowly and singly, and drew around the table more like ghosts than living persons, a few remarks upon the storm, and then they sunk into silence—and as soon as the gloomy meal was over, one by one they dropped away from the room—first went poor Fanny, then Mr. Willcoxen, then Miriam.
"Where are you going, Miriam?" asked Paul, as the latter was leaving the room.
"To my chamber."
And before he could farther question, or longer detain her, she pressed his hand and went out. And Paul, with a deep sigh and a strangely foreboding heart, sank back into his seat.
When Miriam reached her bedroom, she carefully closed and locked the door, went to her bureau, opened the top-drawer, and took from it a small oblong mahogany glove-box. She unlocked the latter, and took out a small parcel, which she unwrapped and laid before her upon the bureau.
It was the xyphias poniard.
The weapon had come into her possession some time before in the following manner: During the first winter of Paul Douglass' absence from home, Mr. Willcoxen had emancipated38 several of his slaves and provided means for their emigration to Liberia. They were to sail early in March. Among the number was Melchisedek. A few days previous to their departure, this man had come to the house, and sought the presence of his youthful mistress, when he knew her to be alone in the parlor, and with a good deal of mystery and hesitation39 had laid before her a dagger40 which he said he should rather have given to "Marster Paul," if the latter had been at home. He had picked it up near the water's edge on the sands the night of Miss Mayfield's death, which "Marster" had taken so to heart, that he was afraid to harrow up his feelings by bringing it to him a second time—but that as it was an article of value, he did not like to take it away with him. And he begged Miss Miriam to take charge of it. And Miriam had taken it, and with surprise, but without the slightest suspicion, had read the name of "Thurston Willcoxen" carved upon its handle. To all her questions, Melchisedek had given evasive answers, or remained obstinately41 silent, being determined42 not to betray his master's confidence by revealing his share in the events of that fatal night. Miriam had taken the little instrument, wrapped it carefully in paper, and locked it in her old-fashioned long glove-box. And from that day to this she had not opened it.
Now, however, she had taken it out with a fixed43 purpose, and she stood and gazed upon it. Presently she took it up, rolled it in the paper, took her lamp, and slowly left her room, and passed along the passages leading to Mr. Willcoxen's library.
The storm howled and raved44 as she went, and the strong blast, driving through the dilapidated window-sashes, nearly extinguished her light before she reached the study door.
She blew out the light and set down the lamp, and rapped at the door.
The abstracted man before her seemed dead to every sight and sound around him. He sat before the table in the middle of the room, his elbow on the mahogany; his face bowed upon his hand, his haggard countenance47 revealing a still, speechless despair as awful as it was profound.
Miriam approached and stood by him, her breath went by his cheek, so near she stood, and yet her presence was unheeded. She stooped to see the object upon which he gazed—the object that now shut out all the world from his sight—it was a long bright tress of golden auburn hair.
"Mr. Willcoxen!"
He did not hear her—how should he hear her low tones, when he heard not the cannonading of the storm that shook the house to its foundations?
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she said once more.
But he moved not a muscle.
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she repeated, laying her hand upon his arm.
"Is it you, my dear?" he said. "What has brought you here, Miriam? Were you afraid of the storm? There is no danger, dear child—it has nearly expended49 its force, and will soon be over—but sit down."
"Oh, no! it is not the storm that has brought me here, though I scarcely remember a storm so violent at this season of the year, except one—this night seven years ago—the night that Marian Mayfield was murdered!"
He started—it is true that he had been thinking of the same dread3 tragedy—but to hear it suddenly mentioned pierced him like an unexpected sword thrust.
Miriam proceeded, speaking in a strange, level monotone, as if unwilling50 or afraid to trust her voice far:
"I came this evening to restore a small but costly51 article of virtu, belonging to you, and left in my care some time ago by the boy Melchisedek. It is an antique dagger—somewhat rusty52 and spotted53. Here it is."
And she laid the poniard down upon the tress of hair before him.
He sprang up as if it had been a viper—his whole frame shook, and the perspiration54 started from his livid forehead.
Miriam, keeping her eye upon him, took the dagger up.
"It is very rusty, and very much streaked," she said. "I wonder what these dark streaks55 can be? They run along the edge, from the extreme point of the blade, upwards56 toward the handle; they look to me like the stains of blood—as if a murderer had stabbed his victim with it, and in his haste to escape had forgotten to wipe the blade, but had left the blood upon it, to curdle57 and corrode58 the steel. See! don't it look so to you?" she said, approaching him, and holding the weapon up to his view.
"Girl! girl! what do you mean?" he exclaimed, throwing his hand across his eyes, and hurrying across the room.
Miriam flung down the weapon with a force that made its metal ring upon the floor, and hastening after him, she stood before him; her dark eyes fixed upon his, streaming with insufferable and consuming fire, that seemed to burn through into his brain. She said:
"I have heard of fiends in the human shape, nay59, I have heard of Satan in the guise60 of an angel of light! Are you such that stand before me now?"
"Miriam, what do you mean?" he asked, in sorrowful astonishment61.
"This is what I mean! That the mystery of Marian Mayfield's fate, the secret of your long remorse62, is no longer hidden! I charge you with the murder of Marian Mayfield!"
"Miriam, you are mad!"
"Oh! well for me, and better still for you, if I were mad!"
He was tremendously shaken, more by the vivid memories she recalled than by the astounding63 charge she made.
"Good knowledge of the facts—that this month, eight years ago, in the little Methodist chapel65 of the navy yard, in Washington City, you made Marian Mayfield your wife—that this night seven years since, in just such a storm as this, on the beach below Pine Bluff66, you met and murdered Marian Willcoxen! And, moreover, I as sure you, that these facts which I tell you now, to-morrow I will lay before a magistrate67, together with all the corroborating68 proof in my possession!"
"And what proof can you have?"
"A gentleman who, unknown and unsuspected, witnessed the private ceremony between yourself and Marian; a packet of French letters, written by yourself from Glasgow, to Marian, in St. Mary's, in the spring of 1823; a note found in the pocket of her dress, appointing the fatal meeting on the beach where she perished. Two physicians, who can testify to your unaccountable absence from the deathbed of your parent on the night of the murder, and also to the distraction69 of your manner when you returned late the next morning."
"And this," said Thurston, gazing in mournful amazement70 upon her; "this is the child that I have nourished and brought up in my house! She can believe me guilty of such atrocious crime—she can aim at my honor and my life such a deadly blow?"
"Alas71! alas! it is my duty! it is my fate! I cannot escape it! I have bound my soul by a fearful oath! I cannot evade72 it! I shall not survive it! Oh, all the heaven is black with doom73, and all the earth tainted74 with blood!" cried Miriam, wildly.
"You are insane, poor girl! you are insane!" said Thurston, pityingly.
"Would Heaven I were! would Heaven I were! but I am not! I am not! Too well I remember I have bound my soul by an oath to seek out Marian's destroyer, and deliver him up to death! And I must do it! I must do it! though my heart break—as it will break in the act!"
"And you believe me to be guilty of this awful crime!"
"There stands the fearful evidence! Would Heaven it did not exist! oh! would Heaven it did not!"
"Listen to me, dear Miriam," he said, calmly, for he had now recovered his self-possession. "Listen to me—I am perfectly75 guiltless of the crime you impute76 to me. How is it possible that I could be otherwise than guiltless. Hear me explain the circumstances that have come to your knowledge," and he attempted to take her hand to lead her to a seat. But with a slight scream, she snatched her hand away, saying wildly:
"Touch me not! Your touch thrills me to sickness! to faintness! curdles—turns back the current of blood in my veins77!"
"You think this hand a blood-stained one?"
"The evidence! the evidence!"
"I can explain that evidence. Miriam, my child, sit down—at any distance from me you please—only let it be near enough for you to hear. Did I believe you quite sane9, Miriam, grief and anger might possibly seal my lips upon this subject—but believing you partially78 deranged—from illness and other causes—I will defend myself to you. Sit down and hear me."
Miriam dropped into the nearest chair.
Mr. Willcoxen took another, and commenced:
"You have received some truth, Miriam. How it has been presented to you, I will not ask now. I may presently. I was married, as you have somehow ascertained79, to Marian Mayfield, just before going to Europe. I corresponded with her from Glasgow. I did appoint a meeting with her on the beach, upon the fatal evening in question—for what purpose that meeting was appointed, it is bootless to tell you, since the meeting never took place—for some hours before I should have set out to keep my appointment, my grandfather was stricken with apoplexy. I did not wish to leave his bedside until the arrival of the doctor. But when the evening wore on, and the storm approached, I grew uneasy upon Marian's account, and sent Melchisedek in the gig to fetch her from the beach to this house—never to leave it. Miriam, the boy reached the sands only to find her dying. Terrified half out of his senses, he hurried back and told me this story. I forgot my dying relative—forgot everything, but that my wife lay wounded and exposed on the beach. I sprung upon horseback, and galloped80 with all possible haste to the spot. By the time I had got there the storm had reached its height, and the beach was completely covered with the boiling waves. My Marian had been carried away. I spent the wretched night in wandering up and down the bluff above the beach, and calling on her name. In the morning I returned home to find my grandfather dead, and the family and physicians wondering at my strange absence at such a time. That, Miriam, is the story."
Miriam made no comment whatever. Mr. Willcoxen seemed surprised and grieved at her silence.
"What have you now to say, Miriam?"
"Nothing."
"'Nothing?' What do you think of my explanation?"
"I think nothing. My mind is in an agony of doubt and conjecture81. I must be governed by stern facts—not by my own prepossessions. I must act upon the evidences in my possession—not upon your explanation of them," said Miriam, distractedly, as she arose to leave the room.
"And you will denounce me, Miriam?"
"It is my insupportable duty! it is my fate! my doom! for it will kill me!"
"Yet you will do it!"
"I will."
"Yet turn, dear Miriam! Look on me once more! take my hand! since you act from necessity, do nothing from anger—turn and take my hand."
She turned and stood—such a picture of tearless agony! She met his gentle, compassionate82 glance—it melted—it subdued her.
"Oh, would Heaven that I might die, rather than do this thing! Would Heaven I might die! for my heart turns to you; it turns, and I love you so—oh! I love you so! never, never so much as now! my brother! my brother!" and she sunk down and seized his hands and wept over them.
"What, Miriam! do you love me, believing me to be guilty?"
"To have been guilty—not to be guilty—you have suffered remorse—you have repented83, these many long and wretched years. Oh! surely repentance84 washes out guilt!"
"And you can now caress85 and weep over my hands, believing them to have been crimsoned87 with the life-stream of your first and best friend?"
"Yes! yes! yes! yes! Oh! would these tears, my very heart sobs88 forth, might wash them pure again! Yes! yes! whether you be guilty or not, my brother! the more I listen to my heart, the more I love you, and I cannot help it!"
"It is because your heart is so much wiser than your head, dear Miriam!
Your heart divines the guiltlessness that your reason refuses to credit!
Do what you feel that you must, dear Miriam—but, in the meantime, let
us still be brother and sister—embrace me once more."
With anguish bordering on insanity89, she threw herself into his arms for a moment—was pressed to his heart, and then breaking away, she escaped from the room to her own chamber. And there, with her half-crazed brain and breaking heart—like one acting90 or forced to act in a ghastly dream, she began to arrange her evidence—collect the letters, the list of witnesses and all, preparatory to setting forth upon her fatal mission in the morning.
With the earliest dawn of morning, Miriam left her room. In passing the door of Mr. Willcoxen's chamber, she suddenly stopped—a spasm91 seized her heart, and convulsed her features—she clasped her hands to pray, then, as if there were wild mockery in the thought, flung them fiercely apart, and hurried on her way. She felt that she was leaving the house never to return; she thought that she should depart without encountering any of its inmates92. She was surprised, therefore, to meet Paul in the front passage. He came up and intercepted93 her:
"Where are you going so early, Miriam?"
"To Colonel Thornton's."
"What? Before breakfast?"
"Yes."
He took both of her hands, and looked into her face—her pallid94 face—with all the color concentrated in a dark crimson86 spot upon either cheek—with all the life burning deep down in the contracted pupils of the eyes.
"Miriam, you are not well—come, go into the parlor," he said, and attempted to draw her toward the door.
"No, Paul, no! I must go out," she said, resisting his efforts.
"But why?"
"What is it to you? Let me go."
"It is everything to me, Miriam, because I suspect your errand. Come into the parlor. This madness must not go on."
"Well, perhaps I am mad, and my words and acts may go for nothing. I hope it may be so."
"Miriam, I must talk with you—not here—for we are liable to be interrupted every instant. Come into the parlor, at least for a few moments."
She no longer resisted that slight plea, but suffered him to lead her in. He gave her a seat, and took one beside her, and took her hand in his, and began to urge her to give up her fatal purpose. He appealed to her, through reason, through religion, through all the strongest passions and affections of her soul—through her devotion to her guardian—through the gratitude95 she owed him—through their mutual96 love, that must be sacrificed, if her insane purpose should be carried out. To all this she answered:
"I think of nothing concerning myself, Paul—I think only of him; there is the anguish."
"You are insane, Miriam; yet, crazy as you are, you may do a great deal of harm—much to Thurston, but much more to yourself. It is not probable that the evidence you think you have will be considered by any magistrate of sufficient importance to be acted upon against a man of Mr. Willcoxen's life and character."
"Heaven grant that such may be the case."
"Attend! collect your thoughts—the evidence you produce will probably be considered unimportant and quite unworthy of attention; but what will be thought of you who volunteer to offer it?"
"I had not reflected upon that—and now you mention it, I do not care."
"And if, on the other hand, the testimony97 which you have to offer be considered ground for indictment98, and Thurston is brought to trial, and acquitted99, as he surely would be—"
"Ay! Heaven send it!"
"And the whole affair blown all over the country—how would you appear?"
"I know not, and care not, so he is cleared; Heaven grant I may be the only sufferer! I am willing to take the infamy100."
"You would be held up before the world as an ingrate101, a domestic traitress, and unnatural102 monster. You would be hated of all—your name and history become a tradition of almost impossible wickedness."
"Ha! why, do you think that in such an hour as this I care for myself? No, no! no, no! Heaven grant that it may be as you say—that my brother be acquitted, and I only may suffer! I am willing to suffer shame and death for him whom I denounce! Let me go, Paul; I have lost too much time here."
"Will nothing induce you to abandon this wicked purpose?"
"Nothing on earth, Paul!"
"Nothing?"
"No! so help me Heaven! Give way—let me go, Paul."
"You must not go, Miriam."
"I must and will—and that directly. Stand aside."
"Then you shall not go."
"Shall not?"
"I said 'shall not.'"
"Who will prevent me?"
"I will! You are a maniac103, Miriam, and must be restrained from going abroad, and setting the county in a conflagration104."
"You will have to guard me very close for the whole of my life, then."
At that moment the door was quietly opened, and Mr. Willcoxen entered.
Miriam's countenance changed fearfully, but she wrung105 her hand from the clasp of Paul's, and hastened toward the door.
Paul sprang forward and intercepted her.
"What does this mean?" asked Mr. Willcoxen, stepping up to them.
"It means that she is mad, and will do herself or somebody else much mischief," cried Paul, sharply.
"For shame, Paul! Release her instantly," said Thurston, authoritatively106.
"Would you release a lunatic, bent107 upon setting the house on fire?" expostulated the young man, still holding her.
"She is no lunatic; let her go instantly, sir."
Miriam hastened onward109, cast one look of anguish back to Thurston's face, rushed back, and threw herself upon her knees at his feet, clasped his hands, and cried:
"I do not ask you to pardon me—I dare not! But God deliver you! if it brand me and my accusation110 with infamy! and God forever bless you!" Then rising, she fled from the room.
The brothers looked at each other.
"Thurston, do you know where she has gone? what she intends to do?"
"Yes."
"You do?"
"Assuredly."
"And you would not prevent her?"
"Most certainly not."
Paul was gazing into his brother's eyes, and, as he gazed, every vestige111 of doubt and suspicion vanished from his mind; it was like the sudden clearing up of the sky, and shining forth of the sun; he grasped his brother's hands with cordial joy.
"God bless you, Thurston! I echo her prayer. God forever bless you! But,
Thurston, would it not have been wiser to prevent her going out?"
"How? Would you have used force with Miriam—restrained her personal liberty?"
"Yes! I would have done so!"
"That would have been not only wrong, but useless; for if her strong affections for us were powerless to restrain her, be sure that physical means would fail; she would make herself heard in some way, and thus make our cause much worse. Besides, I should loathe112, for myself, to resort to any such expedients113."
"But she may do so much harm. And you?"
"I am prepared to meet what comes!"
"Strange infatuation! that she should believe you to be—I will not wrong you by finishing the sentence."
"She does not at heart believe me guilty—her mind is in a storm. She is bound by her oath to act upon the evidence rather than upon her own feelings, and that evidence is much stronger against me, Paul, than you have any idea of. Come into my study, and I will tell you the whole story."
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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18
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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19
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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20
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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21
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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22
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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23
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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24
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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25
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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26
urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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27
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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28
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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29
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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30
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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31
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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32
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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33
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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34
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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35
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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36
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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37
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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38
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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40
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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41
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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42
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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43
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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44
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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45
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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46
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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47
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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48
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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49
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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50
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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51
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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52
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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53
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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54
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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55
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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56
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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57
curdle
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| v.使凝结，变稠 | |
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58
corrode
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| v.使腐蚀，侵蚀，破害；v.腐蚀，被侵蚀 | |
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59
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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60
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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61
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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62
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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63
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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64
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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65
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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66
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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67
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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68
corroborating
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的现在分词 ) | |
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69
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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70
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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71
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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72
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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73
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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74
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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75
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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76
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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77
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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78
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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79
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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81
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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82
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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83
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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85
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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86
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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87
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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88
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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89
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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90
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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91
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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92
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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93
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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94
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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95
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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96
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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97
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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98
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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99
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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100
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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101
ingrate
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| n.忘恩负义的人 | |
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102
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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103
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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104
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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105
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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106
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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107
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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108
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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109
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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110
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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111
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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112
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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113
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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114
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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