ARTHUR DONNITHORNE, you remember, is under an engagement with himself to go and see Mr. Irwine this Friday morning, and he is awake and dressing1 so early that he determines to go before breakfast, instead of after. The rector, he knows, breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies of the family having a different breakfast-hour; Arthur will have an early ride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can say everything best over a meal.
The progress of civilization has made a breakfast or a dinner an easy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome and disagreeable ceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our errors now our father confessor listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinctly conscious that rude penances2 are out of the question for gentlemen in an enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible3 with an appetite for muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in more barbarous times would have been made in the brusque form of a pistol-shot, is quite a well-bred and smiling procedure now it has become a request for a loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis4 between the second and third glasses of claret.
Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid5 forms, that they committed you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some outward deed: when you have put your mouth to one end of a hole in a stone wall and are aware that there is an expectant ear at the other end, you are more likely to say what you came out with the intention of saying than if you were seated with your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany with a companion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have nothing particular to say.
However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes on horseback in the morning sunshine, has a sincere determination to open his heart to the rector, and the swirling6 sound of the scythe7 as he passes by the meadow is all the pleasanter to him because of this honest purpose. He is glad to see the promise of settled weather now, for getting in the hay, about which the farmers have been fearful; and there is something so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general and not merely personal, that this thought about the hay-harvest reacts on his state of mind and makes his resolution seem an easier matter. A man about town might perhaps consider that these influences were not to be felt out of a child’s story-book; but when you are among the fields and hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to simple natural pleasures.
Arthur had passed the village of Hayslope and was approaching the Broxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the road, he saw a figure about a hundred yards before him which it was impossible to mistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had been no grey, tailless shepherd-dog at his heels. He was striding along at his usual rapid pace, and Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for he retained too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunity of chatting with him. I will not say that his love for that good fellow did not owe some of its force to the love of patronage9: our friend Arthur liked to do everything that was handsome, and to have his handsome deeds recognized.
Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter10 of the horse’s heels, and waited for the horseman, lifting his paper cap from his head with a bright smile of recognition. Next to his own brother Seth, Adam would have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man in the world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have lost than the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his pocket; it was Arthur’s present, bought with his pocket-money when he was a fair-haired lad of eleven, and when he had profited so well by Adam’s lessons in carpentering and turning as to embarrass every female in the house with gifts of superfluous11 thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite a pride in the little squire12 in those early days, and the feeling had only become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown into the whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible13 to the influence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect to every one who had more advantages than himself, not being a philosopher or a proletaire with democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever carpenter wlth a large fund of reverence14 in his nature, which inclined him to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds for questioning them. He had no theories about setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of damage done by building with ill-seasoned timber — by ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and workshops and the like without knowing the bearings of things — by slovenly16 joiners’ work, and by hasty contracts that could never be fulfilled without ruining somebody; and he resolved, for his part, to set his face against such doings. On these points he would have maintained his opinion against the largest landed proprietor17 in Loamshire or Stonyshire either; but he felt that beyond these it would be better for him to defer18 to people who were more knowing than himself. He saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate were managed, and the shameful19 state of the farm-buildings; and if old Squire Donnithorne had asked him the effect of this mismanagement, he would have spoken his opinion without flinching20, but the impulse to a respectful demeanour towards a “gentleman” would have been strong within him all the while. The word “gentleman” had a spell for Adam, and, as he often said, he “couldn’t abide21 a fellow who thought he made himself fine by being coxy to’s betters.” I must remind you again that Adam had the blood of the peasant in his veins22, and that since he was in his prime half a century ago, you must expect some of his characteristics to be obsolete23.
Towards the young squire this instinctive24 reverence of Adam’s was assisted by boyish memories and personal regard so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur’s good qualities, and attached far more value to very slight actions of his, than if they had been the qualities and actions of a common workman like himself. He felt sure it would be a fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire came into the estate — such a generous open- hearted disposition25 as he had, and an “uncommon” notion about improvements and repairs, considering he was only just coming of age. Thus there was both respect and affection in the smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne rode up.
“Well, Adam, how are you?” said Arthur, holding out his hand. He never shook hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. “I could swear to your back a long way off. It’s just the same back, only broader, as when you used to carry me on it. Do you remember?”
“Aye, sir, I remember. It ’ud be a poor look-out if folks didn’t remember what they did and said when they were lads. We should think no more about old friends than we do about new uns, then.”
“You’re going to Broxton, I suppose?” said Arthur, putting his horse on at a slow pace while Adam walked by his side. “Are you going to the rectory?”
“No, sir, I’m going to see about Bradwell’s barn. They’re afraid of the roof pushing the walls out, and I’m going to see what can be done with it before we send the stuff and the workmen.”
“Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn’t he? I should think he will make you his partner soon. He will, if he’s wise.”
“Nay, sir, I don’t see as he’d be much the better off for that. A foreman, if he’s got a conscience and delights in his work, will do his business as well as if he was a partner. I wouldn’t give a penny for a man as ’ud drive a nail in slack because he didn’t get extra pay for it.”
“I know that, Adam; I know you work for him as well as if you were working for yourself. But you would have more power than you have now, and could turn the business to better account perhaps. The old man must give up his business sometime, and he has no son; I suppose he’ll want a son-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasping fingers of his own, I fancy. I daresay he wants a man who can put some money into the business. If I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest some money in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the estate. I’m sure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I’m of age; and when I’ve paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look about me.”
“You’re very good to say so, sir, and I’m not unthankful. But”— Adam continued, in a decided26 tone —”I shouldn’t like to make any offers to Mr. Burge, or t’ have any made for me. I see no clear road to a partnership27. If he should ever want to dispose of the business, that ’ud be a different matter. I should be glad of some money at a fair interest then, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time.”
“Very well, Adam,” said Arthur, remembering what Mr. Irwine had said about a probable hitch28 in the love-making between Adam and Mary Burge, “we’ll say no more about it at present. When is your father to be buried?”
“On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine’s coming earlier on purpose. I shall be glad when it’s over, for I think my mother ’ull perhaps get easier then. It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they’ve no way o’ working it off, and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered29 tree.”
“Ah, you’ve had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your life, Adam. I don’t think you’ve ever been hare-brained and light- hearted, like other youngsters. You’ve always had some care on your mind.”
“Why, yes, sir; but that’s nothing to make a fuss about. If we’re men and have men’s feelings, I reckon we must have men’s troubles. We can’t be like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they’ve got their wings, and never know their kin15 when they see ’em, and get a fresh lot every year. I’ve had enough to be thankful for: I’ve allays30 had health and strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count it a great thing as I’ve had Bartle Massey’s night-school to go to. He’s helped me to knowledge I could never ha’ got by myself.”
“What a rare fellow you are, Adam!” said Arthur, after a pause, in which he had looked musingly31 at the big fellow walking by his side. “I could hit out better than most men at Oxford32, and yet I believe you would knock me into next week if I were to have a baltle with you.”
“God forbid I should ever do that, sir,” said Adam, looking round at Arthur and smiling. “I used to fight for fun, but I’ve never done that since I was the cause o’ poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a fortnight. I’ll never fight any man again, only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap that’s got no shame nor conscience to stop him, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes up.”
Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied33 with some thought that made him say presently, “I should think now, Adam, you never have any struggles within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you had made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow who was quarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind that you won’t do a thing, and then doing it after all?”
“Well,” said Adam, slowly, after a moment’s hesitation35, “no. I don’t remember ever being see-saw in that way, when I’d made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o’ my mouth for things, when I know I should have a heavy conscience after ’em. I’ve seen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never do what’s wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever see. It’s like a bit o’ bad workmanship — you never see th’ end o’ the mischief36 it’ll do. And it’s a poor look-out to come into the world to make your fellow-creatures worse off instead o’ better. But there’s a difference between the things folks call wrong. I’m not for making a sin of every little fool’s trick, or bit o’ nonsense anybody may be let into, like some o’ them dissenters37. And a man may have two minds whether it isn’t worthwhile to get a bruise38 or two for the sake of a bit o’ fun. But it isn’t my way to be see- saw about anything: I think my fault lies th’ other way. When I’ve said a thing, if it’s only to myself, it’s hard for me to go back.”
“Yes, that’s just what I expected of you,” said Arthur. “You’ve got an iron will, as well as an iron arm. But however strong a man’s resolution may be, it costs him something to carry it out, now and then. We may determine not to gather any cherries and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but we can’t prevent our mouths from watering.”
“That’s true, sir, but there’s nothing like settling with ourselves as there’s a deal we must do without i’ this life. It’s no use looking on life as if it was Treddles’on Fair, where folks only go to see shows and get fairings. If we do, we shall find it different. But where’s the use o’ me talking to you, sir? You know better than I do.”
“I’m not so sure of that, Adam. You’ve had four or five years of experience more than I’ve had, and I think your life has been a better school to you than college has been to me.”
“Why, sir, you seem to think o’ college something like what Bartle Massey does. He says college mostly makes people like bladders — just good for nothing but t’ hold the stuff as is poured into ’em. But he’s got a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has — it never touches anything but it cuts. Here’s the turning, sir. I must bid you good-morning, as you’re going to the rectory.”
“Good-bye, Adam, good-bye.”
Arthur gave his horse to the groom39 at the rectory gate, and walked along the gravel40 towards the door which opened on the garden. He knew that the rector always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the left hand of this door, opposite the dining-room. It was a small low room, belonging to the old part of the house — dark with the sombre covers of the books that lined the walls; yet it looked very cheery this morning as Arthur reached the open window. For the morning sun fell aslant41 on the great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood on a scagliola pillar in front of the ready-spread bachelor breakfast-table, and by the side of this breakfast-table was a group which would have made any room enticing42. In the crimson43 damask easy-chair sat Mr. Irwine, with that radiant freshness which he always had when he came from his morning toilet; his finely formed plump white hand was playing along Juno’s brown curly back; and close to Juno’s tail, which was wagging with calm matronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling over each other in an ecstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with the air of a maiden44 lady, who looked on these familiarities as animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible of observing. On the table, at Mr. Irwine~s elbow, lay the first volume of the Foulis AEschylus, which Arthur knew well by sight; and the silver coffee- pot, which Carroll was bringing in, sent forth45 a fragrant46 steam which completed the delights of a bachelor breakfast.
“Hallo, Arthur, that’s a good fellow! You’re just in time,” said Mr. Irwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in over the low window- sill. “Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, and haven’t you got some cold fowl47 for us to eat with that ham? Why, this is like old days, Arthur; you haven’t been to breakfast with me these five years.”
“It was a tempting48 morning for a ride before breakfast,” said Arthur; “and I used to like breakfasting with you so when I was reading with you. My grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than at any other hour in the day. I think his morning bath doesn’t agree with him.”
Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in Mr. Irwine’s presence than the confidence which he had thought quite easy before, suddenly appeared the most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very moment of shaking hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How could he make Irwine understand his position unless he told him those little scenes in the wood; and how could he tell them without looking like a fool? And then his weakness in coming back from Gawaine’s, and doing the very opposite of what he intended! Irwine would think him a shilly- shally fellow ever after. However, it must come out in an unpremeditated way; the conversation might lead up to it.
“I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day,” said Mr. Irwine. “No dust has settled on one’s mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by me at breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning it seems to me as if I should certainly become studious again. But presently Dent50 brings up a poor fellow who has killed a hare, and when I’ve got through my ‘justicing,’ as Carroll calls it, I’m inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way back I meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a mutinous51 pauper52 to tell me; and so the day goes on, and I’m always the same lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the stimulus53 of sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D’Oyley left Treddleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal54, I should have had a pleasanter prospect55 before me. But scholarship doesn’t run in your family blood.”
“No indeed. It’s well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin to adorn56 my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. ‘Cras ingens iterabimus aequor,’ and a few shreds57 of that sort, will perhaps stick to me, and I shall arrange my opinions so as to introduce them. But I don’t think a knowledge of the classics is a pressing want to a country gentleman; as far as I can see, he’d much better have a knowledge of manures. I’ve been reading your friend Arthur Young’s books lately, and there’s nothing I should like better than to carry out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of their land; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the same dark hue58, bright and variegated59 with corn and cattle. My grandfather will never let me have any power while he lives, but there’s nothing I should like better than to undertake the Stonyshire side of the estate — it’s in a dismal60 condition — and set improvements on foot, and gallop61 about from one place to another and overlook them. I should like to know all the labourers, and see them touching62 their hats to me with a look of goodwill63.”
“Bravo, Arthur! A man who has no feeling for the classics couldn’t make a better apology for coming into the world than by increasing the quantity of food to maintain scholars — and rectors who appreciate scholars. And whenever you enter on your career of model landlord may I be there to see. You’ll want a portly rector to complete the picture, and take his tithe64 of all the respect and honour you get by your hard work. Only don’t set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to get in consequence. I’m not sure that men are the fondest of those who try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the whole neighbourhood upon him about that enclosure. You must make it quite clear to your mind which you are most bent65 upon, old boy — popularity or usefulness — else you may happen to miss both.”
“Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn’t make himself personally agreeable to his tenants66. I don’t believe there’s anything you can’t prevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I couldn’t live in a neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved. And it’s very pleasant to go among the tenants here — they seem all so well inclined to me I suppose it seems only the other day to them since I was a little lad, riding on a pony67 about as big as a sheep. And if fair allowances were made to them, and their buildings attended to, one could persuade them to farm on a better plan, stupid as they are.”
“Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don’t get a wife who will drain your purse and make you niggardly68 in spite of yourself. My mother and I have a little discussion about you sometimes: she says, ‘I ll never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls in love with.’ She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the moon rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil you know, and I maintain that you’re not of that watery69 quality. So mind you don’t disgrace my judgment70.”
Arthur winced71 under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine’s opinion about him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister72 omen34. This, to be sure, was only another reason for persevering73 in his intention, and getting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at this point in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclination to tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and lived a great deal in other people’s opinions and feelings concerning himself; and the mere8 fact that he was in the presence of an intimate friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any such serious internal struggle as he came to confide49, rather shook his own belief in the seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a thing to make a fuss about; and what could Irwine do for him that he could not do for himself? He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg’s lameness74 — go on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the old hack75. That was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but the next minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered how thoroughly76 he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No! He would not be vacillating again — he WOULD do what he had meant to do, this time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of the conversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics, his difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause for this rush and rebound77 of feeling, before he answered, “But I think it is hardly an argument against a man’s general strength of character that he should be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitution doesn’t insure one against smallpox78 or any other of those inevitable79 diseases. A man may be very firm in other matters and yet be under a sort of witchery from a woman.”
“Yes; but there’s this difference between love and smallpox, or bewitchment either — that if you detect the disease at an early stage and try change of air, there is every chance of complete escape without any further development of symptoms. And there are certain alternative doses which a man may administer to himself by keeping unpleasant consequences before his mind: this gives you a sort of smoked glass through which you may look at the resplendent fair one and discern her true outline; though I’m afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to be missing just at the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a man fortified80 with a knowledge of the classics might be lured81 into an imprudent marriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in the Prometheus.”
The smile that flitted across Arthur’s face was a faint one, and instead of following Mr. Irwine’s playful lead, he said, quite seriously —”Yes, that’s the worst of it. It’s a desperately82 vexatious thing, that after all one’s reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one can’t calculate on beforehand. I don’t think a man ought to be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that way, in spite of his resolutions.”
“Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as his reflections did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance83 with his own nature. He carries within him the germ of his most exceptional action; and if we wise people make eminent84 fools of ourselves on any particular occasion, we must endure the legitimate85 conclusion that we carry a few grains of folly86 to our ounce of wisdom.”
“Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of circumstances, which one might never have done otherwise.”
“Why, yes, a man can’t very well steal a bank-note unless the bank-note lies within convenient reach; but he won’t make us think him an honest man because he begins to howl at the bank-note for falling in his way.”
“But surely you don’t think a man who struggles against a temptation into which he falls at last as bad as the man who never struggles at all?”
“No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for they foreshadow the inward suffering which is the worst form of Nemesis87. Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences, quite apart from any fluctuations88 that went before — consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds on that certainty, instead of considering what may be the elements of excuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you are considering in this philosophical89, general way?”
In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, threw himself back in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He really suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of smoothing the way for him by this direct question. But he was mistaken. Brought suddenly and involuntarily to the brink90 of confession91, Arthur shrank back and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation had taken a more serious tone than he had intended — it would quite mislead Irwine — he would imagine there was a deep passion for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at his boyishness.
“Oh no, no danger,” he said as indifferently as he could. “I don’t know that I am more liable to irresolution92 than other people; only there are little incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might happen in the future.”
Was there a motive93 at work under this strange reluctance94 of Arthur’s which had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to himself? Our mental business is carried on much in the same way as the business of the State: a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not acknowledged. In a piece of machinery95, too, I believe there is often a small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion of the large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized agent secretly busy in Arthur’s mind at this moment — possibly it was the fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession to the rector a serious annoyance96, in case he should NOT be able quite to carry out his good resolutions? I dare not assert that it was not so. The human soul is a very complex thing.
The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine’s mind as he looked inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming97 indifferent answer confirmed the thought which had quickly followed — that there could be nothing serious in that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever saw her except at church, and at her own home under the eye of Mrs. Poyser; and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no more serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as to rouse the little chit’s vanity, and in this way perturb98 the rustic99 drama of her life. Arthur would soon join his regiment100, and be far away: no, there could be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur’s character had not been a strong security against it. His honest, patronizing pride in the good-will and respect of everybody about him was a safeguard even against foolish romance, still more against a lower kind of folly. If there had been anything special on Arthur’s mind in the previous conversation, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into details, and Mr. Irwine was too delicate to imply even a friendly curiosity. He perceived a change of subject would be welcome, and said, “By the way, Arthur, at your colonel’s birthday fete there were some transparencies that made a great effect in honour of Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia101, and, above all, the ‘generous youth,’ the hero of the day. Don’t you think you should get up something of the same sort to astonish our weak minds?”
The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, the rope to which he might have clung had drifted away — he must trust now to his own swimming.
In ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called for on business, and Arthur, bidding him good-bye, mounted his horse again with a sense of dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell102 by determining to set off for Eagledale without an hour’s delay.
收听单词发音 |
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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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penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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mere
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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superfluous
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squire
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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19
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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20
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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21
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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22
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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23
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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24
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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25
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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26
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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27
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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28
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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29
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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30
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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31
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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32
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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33
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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34
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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35
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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36
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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38
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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39
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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40
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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41
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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42
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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43
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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45
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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47
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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49
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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50
dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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51
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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52
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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53
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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55
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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58
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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62
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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63
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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64
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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66
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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67
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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68
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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69
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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70
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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71
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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73
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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74
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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75
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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76
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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77
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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78
smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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79
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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80
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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81
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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83
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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84
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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85
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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86
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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87
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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88
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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89
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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90
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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91
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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92
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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93
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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94
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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95
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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96
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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97
disclaiming
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| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
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98
perturb
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| v.使不安，烦扰，扰乱，使紊乱 | |
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99
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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100
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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101
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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102
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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