Mr. James Conyers made himself very much at home at Mellish Park. Poor Langley, the invalid1 trainer, who was a Yorkshireman, felt himself almost bewildered by the easy insolence2 of the town-bred trainer. He looked so much too handsome and dashing for his office that the grooms3 and stable-boys bowed down to him, and paid court to him as they had never done to simple Langley, who had been very often obliged to enforce his commands with a horsewhip or a serviceable leather strap4. James Conyers’ handsome face was a capital with which that gentleman knew very well how to trade, and he took the full amount of interest that was to be got for it without compunction. I am sorry to be obliged to confess that this man, who had sat in the artists’ studios and the life academies for Apollo and Antinous, was selfish to the backbone5; and, so long as he was well fed, and clothed, and housed, and provided for, cared very little whence the food and clothing came, or who kept the house that sheltered him, or filled the purse which he jingled6 in his trowsers-pocket. Heaven forbid that I should be called upon for his biography. I only know that he sprang from the mire7 of the streets, like some male Aphrodite rising from the mud; that he was a blackleg in the gutter8 at four years of age, and a welsher in the matter of marbles and hardbake before his fifth birthday. Even then he was for ever reaping the advantage of a handsome face; for tender-hearted matrons, who would have been deaf to the cries of a snub-nosed urchin9, petted and compassionated10 the pretty boy.
In his earliest childhood he learned therefore to trade upon his beauty, and to get the most that he could for that merchandise; and he grew up utterly11 unprincipled, and carried his handsome face out into the world to help him on to fortune. He was extravagant13, lazy, luxurious14, and selfish; but he had that easy, indifferent grace of manner which passes with shallow observers for good-nature. He would not have gone three paces out of his way to serve his best friend; but he smiled and showed his handsome white teeth with equal liberality to all his acquaintance, and took credit for being a frank, generous-hearted fellow on the strength of that smile. He was skilled in the uses of that gilt15 gingerbread of generosity16 which so often passes current for sterling17 gold. He was dexterous18 in the handling of those cogged dice19 which have all the rattle20 of the honest ivories. A slap on the back, a hearty21 shake of the hand, often went as far from him as the loan of a sovereign from another man; and Jim Conyers was firmly believed in by the doubtful gentlemen with whom he associated as a good-natured fellow who was nobody’s enemy but his own. He had that superficial Cockney cleverness which is generally called knowledge of the world — knowledge of the worst side of the world — and utter ignorance of all that is noble upon earth, it might perhaps be more justly called; he had matriculated in the streets of London, and graduated on the race-course; he had never read any higher literature than the Sunday papers and the Racing22 Calendar, but he contrived24 to make a very little learning go a long way, and was generally spoken of by his employers as a superior young man, considerably26 above his station.
Mr. Conyers expressed himself very well contented27 with the rustic28 lodge29 which had been chosen for his dwelling-house. He condescendingly looked on while the stable-lads carried the furniture selected for him by the housekeeper30 from the spare servants’ rooms from the house to the lodge, and assisted in the arrangement of the tiny rustic chambers31, limping about in his shirt-sleeves, and showing himself wonderfully handy with a hammer and a pocket full of nails. He sat upon a table and drank beer with such charming affability that the stable-lads were as grateful to him as if he had treated them to that beverage32. Indeed, seeing the frank cordiality with which James Conyers smote33 the lads upon the back, and prayed them to be active with the can, it was almost difficult to remember that he was not the giver of the feast, and that it was Mr. John Mellish who would have to pay the brewer’s bill. What, among all the virtues34 which adorn35 this earth, can be more charming than the generosity of upper servants! With what hearty hospitality they pass the bottle! how liberally they throw the seven-shilling gunpowder36 into the teapot! how unsparingly they spread the twenty-penny fresh butter on the toast! and what a glorious welcome they give to the droppers-in of the servants’ hall! It is scarcely wonderful that the recipients37 of their bounty38 forget that it is the master of the household who will be called upon for the expenses of the banquet, and who will look ruefully at the total of the quarter’s housekeeping.
It was not to be supposed that so dashing a fellow as Mr. James Conyers could, in the lodging39-house-keeper’s patois40, “do for” himself. He required a humble41 drudge42 to black his boots, make his bed, boil his kettle, cook his dinner, and keep the two little chambers at the lodge in decent order. Casting about in a reflective mood for a fitting person for this office, his recreant43 fancy hit upon Steeve Hargraves, the softy. He was sitting upon the sill of an open window in the little parlor44 of the lodge, smoking a cigar and drinking out of a can of beer, when this idea came into his head. He was so tickled45 by the notion that he took his cigar from his mouth in order to laugh at his case.
“The man’s a character,” he said, still laughing, “and I’ll have him to wait upon me. He’s been forbid the place, has he? turned out neck and crop because my Lady Highropes horsewhipped him. Never mind that; I’ll give him leave to come back, if it’s only for the fun of the thing.”
He limped out upon the high-road half an hour after this, and went into the village to find Steeve Hargraves. He had little difficulty in doing this, as everybody knew the softy, and a chorus of boys volunteered to fetch him from the house of the doctor, in whose service he did odd jobs, and brought him to Mr. Conyers five minutes afterward46, looking very hot and dirty, but as pale of complexion47 as usual.
Stephen Hargraves agreed very readily to abandon his present occupation, and to wait upon the trainer, in consideration of five shillings a week and his board and lodging; but his countenance48 fell when he discovered that Mr. Conyers was in the service of John Mellish, and lived on the outskirts49 of the Park.
“You’re afraid of setting foot upon his estate, are you?” said the trainer, laughing. “Never mind, Steeve, I give you leave to come, and I should like to see the man or woman in that house who’ll interfere50 with any whim51 of mine. I give you leave. You understand.”
The softy touched his cap, and tried to look as if he understood; but it was very evident that he did not understand, and it was some time before Mr. Conyers could persuade him that his life would be safe within the gates of Mellish Park; but he was ultimately induced to trust himself at the north lodge, and promised to present himself there in the course of the evening.
Now, Mr. James Conyers had exerted himself as much in order to overcome the cowardly objections of this rustic clown as he could have done if Steeve Hargraves had been the most accomplished52 body-servant in the three ridings. Perhaps there was some deeper motive53 than any regard for the man himself in this special preference for the softy; some lurking54 malice55, some petty spite, the key to which was hidden in his own breast. If, while standing56 smoking in the village street, chaffing the softy for the edification of the lookers-on, and taking so much trouble to secure such an ignorant and brutish esquire — if one shadow of the future, so very near at hand, could have fallen across his path, surely he would have instinctively57 recoiled58 from the striking of that ill-omened bargain.
But James Conyers had no superstition59; indeed, he was so pleasantly free from that weakness as to be a disbeliever in all things in heaven and on earth, except himself and his own merits; so he hired the softy, for the fun of the thing, as he called it, and walked slowly back to the Park gates to watch for the return of Mr. and Mrs. Mellish, who were expected that afternoon.
The woman at the lodge brought him out a chair, and begged him to rest himself under the portico60. He thanked her with a pleasant smile, and sat down among the roses and honeysuckles, and lighted another cigar.
“You’ll find the north lodge dull, I’m thinking, sir,” the woman said, from the open window, where she had reseated herself with her needle-work.
“Well, it is n’t very lively, ma’am, certainly,” answered Mr. Conyers, “but it serves my purpose well enough. The place is lonely enough for a man to be murdered there and nobody be any the wiser; but, as I have nothing to lose, it will answer well enough for me.”
He might, perhaps, have said a good deal more about the place, but at this moment the sound of wheels upon the high-road announced the return of the travellers, and two or three minutes afterward the carriage dashed through the gate, and past Mr. James Conyers.
Whatever power this man might have over Aurora61, whatever knowledge of a compromising secret he might have obtained and traded upon, the fearlessness of her nature showed itself now as always, and she never flinched62 at the sight of him. If he had placed himself in her way on purpose to watch the effect of his presence, he must have been disappointed; for, except that a cold shadow of disdain64 passed over her face as the carriage drove by him, he might have imagined himself unseen. She looked pale and careworn65, and her eyes seemed to have grown larger since her illness; but she held her head as erect66 as ever, and had still the air of imperial grandeur67 which constituted one of her chief charms.
“So that is Mr. Mellish,” said Conyers, as the carriage disappeared. “He seems very fond of his wife.”
“Yes, sure; and he is, too. Fond of her! Why, they say there is n’t another such couple in all Yorkshire. And she’s fond of him, too, bless her handsome face! But who would n’t be fond of Master John?”
Mr. Conyers shrugged68 his shoulders; these patriarchal habits and domestic virtues had no particular charm for him.
“She had plenty of money, had n’t she?” he asked, by way of bringing the conversation into a more rational channel.
“Plenty of money! I should think so. They say her pa gave her fifty thousand pounds down on her wedding-day; not that our master wants money; he’s got enough, and to spare.”
“Ah! to be sure,” answered Mr. Conyers; “that’s always the way of it. The banker gave her fifty thousand, did he? If Miss Floyd had married a poor devil, now, I don’t suppose her father would have given her fifty sixpences.”
“Well, no; if she’d gone against his wishes, I don’t suppose he would. He was here in the spring — a nice, white-haired old gentleman, but failing fast.”
“Failing fast. And Mrs. Mellish will come into a quarter of a million, at his death, I suppose. Good afternoon, ma’am. It’s a queer world.” Mr. Conyers took up his stick, and limped away under the trees, repeating this ejaculation as he went. It was a habit with this gentleman to attribute the good fortune of other people to some eccentricity69 in the machinery70 of life, by which he, the only really deserving person in the world, had been deprived of his natural rights. He went through the wood into a meadow where some of the horses under his charge were at grass, and spent upward of an hour lounging about the hedge-rows, sitting on gates, smoking his pipe, and staring at the animals, which seemed about the hardest work he had to do in his capacity of trainer. “It is n’t a very hard life, when all’s said and done,” he thought, as he looked at a group of mares and foals, who, in their eccentric diversions, were performing a species of Sir Roger de Coverly up and down the meadow. “It is n’t a very hard life; for as long as a fellow swears hard and fast at the lads, and gets rid of plenty of oats, he’s right enough. These country gentlemen always judge a man’s merits by the quantity of corn they have to pay for. Feed their horses as fat as pigs, and never enter ’em except among such a set of screws as an active pig could beat, and they’ll swear by you. They’d think more of having a horse win the Margate plate, or the Hampstead Heath sweepstakes, than if he ran a good fourth in the Derby. Bless their innocent hearts! I should think fellows with plenty of money and no brains must have been invented for the good of fellows with plenty of brains and no money; and that’s how we contrive23 to keep our equilibrium71 in the universal see-saw.”
Mr. James Conyers, puffing72 lazy clouds of transparent73 blue smoke from his lips, and pondering thus, looked as sentimental74 as if he had been ruminating75 upon the last three pages of the Bride of Abydos, or the death of Paul Dombey. He had that romantic style of beauty peculiar76 to dark blue eyes and long black lashes77, and he could not wonder what he should have for dinner without a dreamy pensiveness78 in the purple shadows of those deep blue orbs79. He had found the sentimentality of his beauty almost of greater use to him than the beauty itself. It was this sentimentality which always put him at an advantage with his employers. He looked like an exiled prince doing menial service in bitterness of spirit and a turned-down collar. He looked like Lara returned to his own domains80 to train the horses of a usurper81. He looked, in short, like anything but what he was — a selfish, good-for-nothing, lazy scoundrel, who was well up in the useful art of doing the minimum of work, and getting the maximum of wages.
He strolled slowly back to his rustic habitation, where he found the softy waiting for him; the kettle boiling upon a handful of bright fire, and some tea-things laid out upon the little round table. Mr. Conyers looked rather contemptuously at the humble preparations.
“I’ve mashed82 the tea for ‘ee,” said the softy; “I thought you’d like a coop.”
The trainer shrugged his shoulders.
“I can’t say I am particularly attached to the cat-lap,” he said, laughing; “I’ve had rather too much of it when I’ve been in training — half-and-half, warm tea, and cold-drawn castor-oil. I’ll send you into Doncaster for some spirits to-morrow, my man — or to-night, perhaps,” he added, reflectively, resting his elbow upon the table and his chin in the hollow of his hand.
He sat for some time in this thoughtful attitude, his retainer, Steeve Hargraves, watching him intently all the while, with that half wondering, half admiring stare with which a very ugly creature — a creature so ugly as to know it is ugly — looks at a very handsome one.
At the close of his reverie, Mr. Conyers took out a clumsy silver watch, and sat for a few minutes staring vacantly at the dial.
“Close upon six,” he muttered at last. “What time do they dine at the house, Steeve?”
“Seven o’clock,” answered the softy.
“Seven o’clock. Then you’d have time to run there with a message, or a letter, and catch ’em just as they’re going in to dinner.”
The softy stared aghast at his new master.
“A message or a letter,” he repeated, “for Mr. Mellish?”
“No; for Mrs. Mellish.”
“But I dare n’t,” exclaimed Stephen Hargraves; “I dare n’t go nigh the house, least of all to speak to her. I don’t forget the day she horsewhipped me. I’ve never seen her since, and I don’t want to see her. You think I am a coward, don’t ‘ee?” he said, stopping suddenly, and looking at the trainer, whose handsome lips were curved into a contemptuous smile. “You think I’m a coward, don’t ‘ee, now?” he repeated.
“Well, I do n’t think you are over valiant,” answered Mr. Conyers, “to be afraid of a woman, though she was the veriest devil that ever played fast and loose with a man.”
“Shall I tell you what it is I’m afraid of?” said Steeve Hargraves, hissing83 the words through his closed teeth in that unpleasant whisper peculiar to him. “It is n’t Mrs. Mellish. It’s myself. It’s this“— he grasped something in the loose pocket of his trowsers as he spoke25 —“it’s this. I’m afraid to trust myself anigh her, for fear I should spring upon her, and cut her throat from ear to ear. I’ve seen her in my dreams sometimes, with her beautiful white throat laid open, and streaming oceans of blood; but, for all that, she’s always had the broken whip in her hand, and she’s always laughed at me. I’ve had many a dream about her, but I’ve never seen her dead or quiet, and I’ve never seen her without the whip.”
The contemptuous smile died away from the trainer’s lips as Steeve Hargraves made this revelation of his sentiments, and gave place to a darkly thoughtful expression, which overshadowed the whole of his face.
“I’ve no such wonderful love for Mrs. Mellish myself,” he said; “but she might live to be as old as Methuselah for aught I care, if she’d”— he muttered something between his teeth, and walked up the little staircase to his bedroom, whistling a popular tune12 as he went.
He came down again with a dirty-looking leather desk in his hand, which he flung carelessly on to the table. It was stuffed with crumpled84, untidy-looking letters and papers, from among which he had considerable difficulty in selecting a tolerably clean sheet of note-paper.
“You’ll take a letter to Mrs. Mellish, my friend,” he said to Stephen, stooping over the table and writing as he spoke, “and you’ll please to deliver it safely into her own hands. The windows will all be open this sultry weather, and you can watch till you see her in the drawing-room; and when you do, contrive to beckon85 her out, and give her this.”
He had folded the sheet of paper by this time, and had sealed it carefully in an adhesive86 envelope.
“There’s no need of any address,” he said, as he handed the letter to Steeve Hargraves; “you know who it’s for, and you won’t give it to anybody else. There, get along with you. She’ll say nothing to you, man, when she sees who the letter comes from.”
The softy looked darkly at his new employer; but Mr. James Conyers rather piqued87 himself upon a quality which he called determination, but which his traducers designated obstinacy88, and he made up his mind that no one but Steeve Hargraves should carry the letter.
“Come,” he said, “no nonsense, Mr. Stephen. Remember this: if I choose to employ you, and if I choose to send you on any errand whatsoever89, there’s no one in that house will dare to question my right to do it. Get along with you.”
He pointed63 as he spoke, with the stem of his pipe, to the Gothic roof and ivied chimneys of the old house gleaming among a mass of foliage90. “Get along with you, Mr. Stephen, and bring me an answer to that letter,” he added, lighting91 his pipe, and seating himself in his favorite attitude upon the windowsill — an attitude which, like everything about him, was a half careless, half defiant92 protest of his superiority to his position. “You need n’t wait for a written answer. Yes or no will be quite enough, you may tell Mrs. Mellish.”
The softy whispered something half inaudible between his teeth; but he took the letter, and, pulling his shabby rabbit-skin cap over his eyes, walked slowly off in the direction to which Mr. Conyers had pointed, with a half contemptuous action, a few moments before.
“A queer fish,” muttered the trainer, lazily watching the awkward figure of his attendant; “a queer fish; but it’s rather hard if I can’t manage him. I’ve twisted his betters round my little finger before to-day.”
Mr. Conyers forgot that there are some natures which, although inferior in everything else, are strong by reason of their stubbornness, and not to be twisted out of their natural crookedness93 by any trick of management or skilfulness94 of handling.
The evening was sunless, but sultry; there was a lowering darkness in the leaden sky, and an unnatural95 stillness in the atmosphere that prophesied96 the coming of a storm. The elements were taking breath for the struggle, and lying silently in wait against the wreaking97 of their fury. It would come by and by, the signal for the outburst, in a long, crackling peal98 of thunder, that would shake the distant hills and flutter every leaf in the wood.
The trainer looked with an indifferent eye at the ominous99 aspect of the heavens. “I must go down to the stables, and send some of the boys to get the horses under shelter,” he said; “there’ll be a storm before long.” He took his stick and limped out of the cottage, still smoking; indeed, there were very few hours in the day, and not many during the night, in which Mr. Conyers was unprovided with his pipe or cigar.
Steeve Hargraves walked very slowly along the narrow pathway which led across the Park to the flower-garden and lawn before the house. This north side of the Park was wilder and less well-kept than the rest; but the thick undergrowth swarmed100 with game, and the young hares flew backward and forward across the pathway, startled by the softy’s shambling tread. while every now and then the partridges rose in pairs from the tangled101 grass, and skimmed away under the low roof of foliage.
“If I was to meet Mr. Mellish’s keeper here, he’d look at me black enough, I dare say,” muttered the softy, “though I a’n’t after the game. Looking at a pheasant’s high treason in his mind, curse him.”
He put his hands low down in his pockets, as if scarcely able to resist the temptation to wring102 the neck of a splendid cock-pheasant that was strutting103 through the high grass, with a proud serenity104 of manner that implied a knowledge of the game-laws. The trees on the north side of the Park formed a species of leafy wall which screened the lawn, so that, coming from this northern side, the softy emerged at once from the shelter into the smooth grass bordering this lawn, which was separated from the Park by an invisible fence.
As Steeve Hargraves, still sheltered from observation by the trees, approached this place, he saw that his errand was shortened, for Mrs. Mellish was leaning upon a low iron gate, with the dog Bow-wow, the dog that he had beaten, at her side.
He had left the narrow pathway and struck in among the undergrowth, in order to make a shorter cut to the flower-garden, and as he came from under the shelter of the low branches which made a leafy cave about him, he left a long track of parted grass behind him, like the track of the footstep of a tiger, or the trail of a slow, ponderous105 serpent creeping toward its prey106.
Aurora looked up at the sound of the shambling footsteps, and, for the second time since she had beaten him, she encountered the gaze of the softy. She was very pale, almost as pale as her white dress, which was unenlivened by any scrap107 of color, and which hung about her in loose folds that gave a statuesque grace to her figure. She was dressed with such evident carelessness that every fold of muslin seemed to tell how far away her thoughts had been when that hasty toilet was made. Her black brows contracted as she looked at the softy.
“I thought Mr. Mellish had dismissed you,” she said, “and that you had been forbidden to come here.”
“Yes, ma’am, Muster108 Mellish did turn me out of the house I’d lived in, man and boy, nigh upon forty year, but I’ve got a new place now, and my new master sent me to you with a letter.”
Watching the effect of his words, the softy saw a leaden change come over the pale face of his listener.
“What new master?” she asked.
Steeve Hargraves lifted his hand and pointed across his shoulder. She watched the slow motion of that clumsy hand, and her eyes seemed to grow larger as she saw the direction to which it pointed.
“Your new master is the trainer, James Conyers, the man who lives at the north lodge?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What does he want with you?” she asked.
“I keep his place in order for him, ma’am, and run errands for him; and I’ve brought a letter.”
“A letter? Ah! yes, give it me.”
The softy handed her the envelope. She took it slowly, without removing her eyes from his face, but watching him with a fixed109 and earnest look that seemed as if it would have fathomed110 something beneath the dull red eyes which met hers — a look that betrayed some doubtful terror hidden in her own breast, and a vague desire to penetrate111 the secrets of his.
She did not look at the letter, but held it half crushed in the hand hanging by her side.
“You can go,” she said.
“I was to wait for an answer.”
The black brows contracted again, and this time a bright gleam of fury kindled112 in the great black eyes.
“There is no answer,” she said, thrusting the letter into the bosom113 of her dress, and turning to leave the gate; “there is no answer, and there shall be none till I choose. Tell your master that.”
“It was n’t to be a written answer,” persisted the softy; “it was to be yes or no, that’s all; but I was to be sure and wait for it.”
The half-witted creature saw some feeling of hate and fury in her face beyond her contemptuous hatred114 of himself, and took a savage115 pleasure in tormenting116 her. She struck her foot impatiently upon the grass, and, plucking the letter from her breast, tore open the envelope, and read the few lines it contained. Few as they were, she stood for nearly five minutes with the open letter in her hand, separated from the softy by the iron fence, and lost in thought. The silence was only broken during this pause by an occasional growl117 from the mastiff, who lifted his heavy lip and showed his feeble teeth for the edification of his old enemy.
She tore the letter into a hundred morsels118, and flung it from her before she spoke. “Yes,” she said at last; “tell your master that.”
Steeve Hargraves touched his cap, and went back through the grassy119 trail he had left, to carry this message to the trainer.
“She hates me bad enough,” he muttered, as he stopped once to look back at the quiet white figure on the lawn, “but she hates him worse.”
收听单词发音 |
1
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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2
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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10
compassionated
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| v.同情（compassionate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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11
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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12
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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13
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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16
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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21
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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24
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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25
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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26
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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27
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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28
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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29
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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30
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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31
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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32
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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33
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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34
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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35
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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36
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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37
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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38
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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39
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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40
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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41
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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42
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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43
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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44
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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45
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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46
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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47
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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48
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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49
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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50
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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51
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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52
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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53
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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54
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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55
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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56
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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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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58
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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59
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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60
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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61
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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62
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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64
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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65
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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66
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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67
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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68
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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69
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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70
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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71
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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72
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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73
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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74
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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75
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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76
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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77
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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78
pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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79
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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81
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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82
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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83
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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84
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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85
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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86
adhesive
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| n.粘合剂；adj.可粘着的，粘性的 | |
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87
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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88
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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89
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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90
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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91
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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92
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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93
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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94
skilfulness
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| 巧妙 | |
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95
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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96
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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98
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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99
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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100
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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101
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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103
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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104
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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105
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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106
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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107
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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108
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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109
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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110
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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111
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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112
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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113
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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114
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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115
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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116
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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117
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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118
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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119
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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