IT was beyond the middle of August — nearly three weeks after the birthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun in our north midland county of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to be retarded1 by the heavy rains, which were causing inundations and much damage throughout the country. From this last trouble the Broxton and Hayslope farmers, on their pleasant uplands and in their brook-watered valleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they were such exceptional farmers as to love the general good better than their own, you will infer that they were not in very low spirits about the rapid rise in the price of bread, so long as there was hope of gathering2 in their own corn undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and drying winds flattered this hope.
The eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine looked brighter in all eyes for the gloom that went before. Grand masses of cloud were hurried across the blue, and the great round hills behind the Chase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the sun was hidden for a moment, and then shone out warm again like a recovered joy; the leaves, still green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind; around the farmhouses4 there was a sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in the orchards5; and the stray horses on the green sides of the lanes and on the common had their manes blown about their faces. And yet the wind seemed only part of the general gladness because the sun was shining. A merry day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they could top the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people too were in good spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind had fallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to be blown out of the husk and scattered6 as untimely seed!
And yet a day on which a blighting7 sorrow may fall upon a man. For if it be true that Nature at certain moments seems charged with a presentiment8 of one individual lot must it not also be true that she seems unmindful uncon-scious of another? For there is no hour that has not its births of gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring new sickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. There are so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder that Nature’s mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis of our lives? We are children of a large family, and must learn, as such children do, not to expect that our hurts will be made much of — to be content with little nurture9 and caressing10, and help each other the more.
It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost double work, for he was continuing to act as foreman for Jonathan Burge, until some satisfactory person could be found to supply his place, and Jonathan was slow to find that person. But he had done the extra work cheerfully, for his hopes were buoyant again about Hetty. Every time she had seen him since the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave all the more kindly11 to him, that she might make him understand she had forgiven his silence and coldness during the dance. He had never mentioned the locket to her again; too happy that she smiled at him — still happier because he observed in her a more subdued12 air, something that he interpreted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness. “Ah!” he thought, again and again, “she’s only seventeen; she’ll be thoughtful enough after a while. And her aunt allays14 says how clever she is at the work. She’ll make a wife as Mother’ll have no occasion to grumble15 at, after all.” To be sure, he had only seen her at home twice since the birthday; for one Sunday, when he was intending to go from church to the Hall Farm, Hetty had joined the party of upper servants from the Chase and had gone home with them — almost as if she were inclined to encourage Mr. Craig. “She’s takin’ too much likin’ to them folks i’ the house keeper’s room,” Mrs. Poyser remarked. “For my part, I was never overfond o’ gentlefolks’s servants — they’re mostly like the fine ladies’ fat dogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher’s meat, but on’y for show.” And another evening she was gone to Treddleston to buy some things; though, to his great surprise, as he was returning home, he saw her at a distance getting over a stile quite out of the Treddleston road. But, when he hastened to her, she was very kind, and asked him to go in again when he had taken her to the yard gate. She had gone a little farther into the fields after coming from Treddleston because she didn’t want to go in, she said: it was so nice to be out of doors, and her aunt always made such a fuss about it if she wanted to go out. “Oh, do come in with me!” she said, as he was going to shake hands with her at the gate, and he could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was contented17 with only a slight remark on Hetty’s being later than was expected; while Hetty, who had looked out of spirits when he met her, smiled and talked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude.
That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make leisure for going to the Farm tomorrow. To-day, he knew, was her day for going to the Chase to sew with the lady’s maid, so he would get as much work done as possible this evening, that the next might be clear.
One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight repairs at the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by Satchell, as bailiff, but which it was now rumoured18 that the old squire19 was going to let to a smart man in top-boots, who had been seen to ride over it one day. Nothing but the desire to get a tenant20 could account for the squire’s undertaking21 repairs, though the Saturday-evening party at Mr. Casson’s agreed over their pipes that no man in his senses would take the Chase Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland laid to it. However that might be, the repairs were ordered to be executed with all dispatch, and Adam, acting22 for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order with his usual energy. But today, having been occupied elsewhere, he had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the afternoon, and he then discovered that some old roofing, which he had calculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no good to be done with this part of the building without pulling it all down, and Adam immediately saw in his mind a plan for building it up again, so as to make the most convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel for implements23; and all without any great expense for materials. So, when the workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his pocket-book, and busied himself with sketching24 a plan, and making a specification25 of the expenses that he might show it to Burge the next morning, and set him on persuading the squire to consent. To “make a good job” of anything, however small, was always a pleasure to Adam, and he sat on a block, with his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low every now and then and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible smile of gratification — of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good work, he loved also to think, “I did it!” And I believe the only people who are free from that weakness are those who have no work to call their own. It was nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket again; and on giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, who had been working here today, had left his basket of tools behind him. “Why, th’ lad’s forgot his tools,” thought Adam, “and he’s got to work up at the shop to- morrow. There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he’d leave his head behind him, if it was loose. However, it’s lucky I’ve seen ’em; I’ll carry ’em home.”
The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity26 of the Chase, at about ten minutes’ walking distance from the Abbey. Adam had come thither27 on his pony28, intending to ride to the stables and put up his nag29 on his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had come to look at the captain’s new horse, on which he was to ride away the day after tomorrow; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell how all the servants were to collect at the gate of the courtyard to wish the young squire luck as he rode out; so that by the time Adam had got into the Chase, and was striding along with the basket of tools over his shoulder, the sun was on the point of setting, and was sending level crimson30 rays among the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching31 every bare patch of ground with a transient glory that made it look like a jewel dropt upon the grass. The wind had fallen now, and there was only enough breeze to stir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any one who had been sitting in the house all day would have been glad to walk now; but Adam had been quite enough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home, and he bethought himself that he might do so by striking across the Chase and going through the Grove32, where he had never been for years. He hurried on across the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, with Gyp at his heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes of the light — hardly once thinking of it — yet feeling its presence in a certain calm happy awe33 which mingled34 itself with his busy working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling it? The very deer felt it, and were more timid.
Presently Adam’s thoughts recurred35 to what Mr. Craig had said about Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the changes that might take place before he came back; then they travelled back affectionately over the old scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelt on Arthur’s good qualities, which Adam had a pride in, as we all have in the virtues37 of the superior who honours us. A nature like Adam’s, with a great need of love and reverence38 in it, depends for so much of its happiness on what it can believe and feel about others! And he had no ideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men in the past; he must find the beings to whom he could cling with loving admiration39 among those who came within speech of him. These pleasant thoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into his keen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened the old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp and say a kind word to him.
After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding40 path through the Grove. What grand beeches41! Adam delighted in a fine tree of all things; as the fisherman’s sight is keenest on the sea, so Adam’s perceptions were more at home with trees than with other objects. He kept them in his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks43 and knots in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs44, and had often calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he stood looking at it. No wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to get on, he could not help pausing to look at a curious large beech42 which he had seen standing45 before him at a turning in the road, and convince himself that it was not two trees wedded46 together, but only one. For the rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly examining the beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the home where his youth was passed, before the road turned, and he saw it no more. The beech stood at the last turning before the Grove ended in an archway of boughs that let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from the tree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures about twenty yards before him.
He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale. The two figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped hands about to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who had been running among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of them, and gave a sharp bark. They separated with a start — one hurried through the gate out of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, with a sort of saunter, towards Adam who still stood transfixed and pale, clutching tighter the stick with which he held the basket of tools over his shoulder, and looking at the approaching figure with eyes in which amazement47 was fast turning to fierceness.
Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to make unpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking a little more wine than usual at dinner today, and was still enough under its flattering influence to think more lightly of this unwished-for rencontre with Adam than he would otherwise have done. After all, Adam was the best person who could have happened to see him and Hetty together — he was a sensible fellow, and would not babble48 about it to other people. Arthur felt confident that he could laugh the thing off and explain it away. And so he sauntered forward with elaborate carelessness — his flushed face, his evening dress of fine cloth and fine linen49, his hands half-thrust into his waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening light which the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now shedding down between the topmost branches above him.
Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He understood it all now — the locket and everything else that had been doubtful to him: a terrible scorching50 light showed him the hidden letters that changed the meaning of the past. If he had moved a muscle, he must inevitably51 have sprung upon Arthur like a tiger; and in the conflicting emotions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that he would not give loose to passion, he would only speak the right thing. He stood as if petrified52 by an unseen force, but the force was his own strong will.
“Well, Adam,” said Arthur, “you’ve been looking at the fine old beeches, eh? They’re not to be come near by the hatchet53, though; this is a sacred grove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to my den3 — the Hermitage, there. She ought not to come home this way so late. So I took care of her to the gate, and asked for a kiss for my pains. But I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly damp. Good-night, Adam. I shall see you tomorrow — to say good-bye, you know.”
Arthur was too much preoccupied54 with the part he was playing himself to be thoroughly55 aware of the expression in Adam’s face. He did not look directly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at the trees and then lifted up one foot to look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say no more — he had thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam’s eyes — and as he spoke56 the last words, he walked on.
“Stop a bit, sir,” said Adam, in a hard peremptory57 voice, without turning round. “I’ve got a word to say to you.”
Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible58 persons are more affected59 by a change of tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had the susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was still more surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but stood with his back to him, as if summoning him to return. What did he mean? He was going to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his temper rising. A patronising disposition60 always has its meaner side, and in the confusion of his irritation61 and alarm there entered the feeling that a man to whom he had shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a position to criticize his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels himself in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he cares for. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation as anger in his voice when he said, “What do you mean, Adam?”
“I mean, sir”— answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still without turning round —”I mean, sir, that you don’t deceive me by your light words. This is not the first time you’ve met Hetty Sorrel in this grove, and this is not the first time you’ve kissed her.”
Arthur felt a startled uncertainty62 how far Adam was speaking from knowledge, and how far from mere63 inference. And this uncertainty, which prevented him from contriving64 a prudent65 answer, heightened his irritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, “Well, sir, what then?”
“Why, then, instead of acting like th’ upright, honourable66 man we’ve all believed you to be, you’ve been acting the part of a selfish light-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what it’s to lead to when a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to a young woman like Hetty, and gives her presents as she’s frightened for other folks to see. And I say it again, you’re acting the part of a selfish light-minded scoundrel though it cuts me to th’ heart to say so, and I’d rather ha’ lost my right hand.”
“Let me tell you, Adam,” said Arthur, bridling67 his growing anger and trying to recur36 to his careless tone, “you’re not only devilishly impertinent, but you’re talking nonsense. Every pretty girl is not such a fool as you, to suppose that when a gentleman admires her beauty and pays her a little attention, he must mean something particular. Every man likes to flirt68 with a pretty girl, and every pretty girl likes to be flirted69 with. The wider the distance between them, the less harm there is, for then she’s not likely to deceive herself.”
“I don’t know what you mean by flirting,” said Adam, “but if you mean behaving to a woman as if you loved her, and yet not loving her all the while, I say that’s not th’ action of an honest man, and what isn’t honest does come t’ harm. I’m not a fool, and you’re not a fool, and you know better than what you’re saying. You know it couldn’t be made public as you’ve behaved to Hetty as y’ have done without her losing her character and bringing shame and trouble on her and her relations. What if you meant nothing by your kissing and your presents? Other folks won’t believe as you’ve meant nothing; and don’t tell me about her not deceiving herself. I tell you as you’ve filled her mind so with the thought of you as it’ll mayhap poison her life, and she’ll never love another man as ’ud make her a good husband.”
Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he perceived that Adam had no positive knowledge of the past, and that there was no irrevocable damage done by this evening’s unfortunate rencontre. Adam could still be deceived. The candid70 Arthur had brought himself into a position in which successful lying was his only hope. The hope allayed71 his anger a little.
“Well, Adam,” he said, in a tone of friendly concession72, “you’re perhaps right. Perhaps I’ve gone a little too far in taking notice of the pretty little thing and stealing a kiss now and then. You’re such a grave, steady fellow, you don’t understand the temptation to such trifling73. I’m sure I wouldn’t bring any trouble or annoyance74 on her and the good Poysers on any account if I could help it. But I think you look a little too seriously at it. You know I’m going away immediately, so I shan’t make any more mistakes of the kind. But let us say good-night”— Arthur here turned round to walk on —”and talk no more about the matter. The whole thing will soon be forgotten.”
“No, by God!” Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled no longer, throwing down the basket of tools and striding forward till he was right in front of Arthur. All his jealousy75 and sense of personal injury, which he had been hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped up and mastered him. What man of us, in the first moments of a sharp agony, could ever feel that the fellow- man who has been the medium of inflicting76 it did not mean to hurt us? In our instinctive77 rebellion against pain, we are children again, and demand an active will to wreak78 our vengeance79 on. Adam at this moment could only feel that he had been robbed of Hetty — robbed treacherously80 by the man in whom he had trusted — and he stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring at him, with pale lips and clenched81 hands, the hard tones in which he had hitherto been constraining82 himself to express no more than a just indignation giving way to a deep agitated83 voice that seemed to shake him as he spoke.
“No, it’ll not be soon forgot, as you’ve come in between her and me, when she might ha’ loved me — it’ll not soon be forgot as you’ve robbed me o’ my happiness, while I thought you was my best friend, and a noble-minded man, as I was proud to work for. And you’ve been kissing her, and meaning nothing, have you? And I never kissed her i’ my life — but I’d ha’ worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. And you make light of it. You think little o’ doing what may damage other folks, so as you get your bit o’ trifling, as means nothing. I throw back your favours, for you’re not the man I took you for. I’ll never count you my friend any more. I’d rather you’d act as my enemy, and fight me where I stand — it’s all th’ amends84 you can make me.”
Poor Adam, possessed85 by rage that could find no other vent13, began to throw off his coat and his cap, too blind with passion to notice the change that had taken place in Arthur while he was speaking. Arthur’s lips were now as pale as Adam’s; his heart was beating violently. The discovery that Adam loved Hetty was a shock which made him for the moment see himself in the light of Adam’s indignation, and regard Adam’s suffering as not merely a consequence, but an element of his error. The words of hatred86 and contempt — the first he had ever heard in his life — seemed like scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scars on him. All screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away while others respect us, forsook87 him for an instant, and he stood face to face with the first great irrevocable evil he had ever committed. He was only twenty-one, and three months ago — nay16, much later — he had thought proudly that no man should ever be able to reproach him justly. His first impulse, if there had been time for it, would perhaps have been to utter words of propitiation; but Adam had no sooner thrown off his coat and cap than he became aware that Arthur was standing pale and motionless, with his hands still thrust in his waistcoat pockets.
“What!” he said, “won’t you fight me like a man? You know I won’t strike you while you stand so.”
“Go away, Adam,” said Arthur, “I don’t want to fight you.”
“No,” said Adam, bitterly; “you don’t want to fight me — you think I’m a common man, as you can injure without answering for it.”
“I never meant to injure you,” said Arthur, with returning anger. “I didn’t know you loved her.”
“But you’ve made her love you,” said Adam. “You’re a double-faced man — I’ll never believe a word you say again.”
“Go away, I tell you,” said Arthur, angrily, “or we shall both repent88.”
“No,” said Adam, with a convulsed voice, “I swear I won’t go away without fighting you. Do you want provoking any more? I tell you you’re a coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you.”
The colour had all rushed back to Arthur’s face; in a moment his right hand was clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, which sent Adam staggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly up as Adam’s now, and the two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone before, fought with the instinctive fierceness of panthers in the deepening twilight89 darkened by the trees. The delicate-handed gentleman was a match for the workman in everything but strength, and Arthur’s skill enabled him to protract90 the struggle for some long moments. But between unarmed men the battle is to the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur must sink under a well-planted blow of Adam’s as a steel rod is broken by an iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lying concealed91 in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his darkly clad body.
He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise.
The blow had been given now, towards which he had been straining all the force of nerve and muscle — and what was the good of it? What had he done by fighting? Only satisfied his own passion, only wreaked92 his own vengeance. He had not rescued Hetty, nor changed the past — there it was, just as it had been, and he sickened at the vanity of his own rage.
But why did not Arthur rise? He was perfectly93 motionless, and the time seemed long to Adam. Good God! had the blow been too much for him? Adam shuddered94 at the thought of his own strength, as with the oncoming of this dread95 he knelt down by Arthur’s side and lifted his head from among the fern. There was no sign of life: the eyes and teeth were set. The horror that rushed over Adam completely mastered him, and forced upon him its own belief. He could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur’s face, and that he was helpless before it. He made not a single movement, but knelt like an image of despair gazing at an image of death.
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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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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farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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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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blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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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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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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specification
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| n.详述；[常pl.]规格，说明书，规范 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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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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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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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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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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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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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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constraining
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| 强迫( constrain的现在分词 )； 强使； 限制； 约束 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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protract
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| v.延长，拖长 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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wreaked
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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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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