With spring came trouble. The Saxtons declared they were being bitten off the estate by rabbits. Suddenly, in a fit of despair, the father bought a gun. Although he knew that the Squire1 would not for one moment tolerate the shooting of that manna, the rabbits, yet he was out in the first cold morning twilight2 banging away. At first he but scared the brutes4, and brought Annable on the scene; then, blooded by the use of the weapon, he played havoc5 among the furry6 beasts, bringing home some eight or nine couples.
George entirely7 approved of this measure; it rejoiced him even; yet he had never had the initiative to begin the like himself, or even to urge his father to it. He prophesied8 trouble, and possible loss of the farm. It disturbed him somewhat, to think they must look out for another place, but he postponed9 the thought of the evil day till the time should be upon him.
A vendetta10 was established between the Mill and the keeper, Annable. The latter cherished his rabbits:
"Call 'em vermin!" he said. "I only know one sort of vermin—and that's the talkin sort." So he set himself to thwart11 and harass12 the rabbit slayers.
It was about this time I cultivated the acquaintance of the keeper. All the world hated him—to the people in the villages he was like a devil of the woods. Some miners had sworn vengeance13 on him for having caused their committal to gaol14. But he had a great attraction for me; his magnificent physique, his great vigour15 and vitality16, and his swarthy, gloomy face drew me.
He was a man of one idea:—that all civilisation17 was the painted fungus18 of rottenness. He hated any sign of culture. I won his respect one afternoon when he found me trespassing19 in the woods because I was watching some maggots at work in a dead rabbit. That led us to a discussion of life. He was a thorough materialist—he scorned religion and all mysticism. He spent his days sleeping, making intricate traps for weasels and men, putting together a gun, or doing some amateur forestry20, cutting down timber, splitting it in logs for use in the hall, and planting young trees. When he thought, he reflected on the decay of mankind—the decline of the human race into folly21 and weakness and rottenness. "Be a good animal, true to your animal instinct," was his motto. With all this, he was fundamentally very unhappy—and he made me also wretched. It was this power to communicate his unhappiness that made me somewhat dear to him, I think. He treated me as an affectionate father treats a delicate son; I noticed he liked to put his hand on my shoulder or my knee as we talked; yet withal, he asked me questions, and saved his thoughts to tell me, and believed in my knowledge like any acolyte23.
I went up to the quarry24 woods one evening in early April, taking a look for Annable. I could not find him, however, in the wood. So I left the wildlands, and went along by the old red wall of the kitchen garden, along the main road as far as the mouldering25 church which stands high on a bank by the road-side, just where the trees tunnel the darkness, and the gloom of the highway startles the travellers at noon. Great trees growing on the banks suddenly fold over everything at this point in the swinging road, and in the obscurity rots the Hall church, black and melancholy26 above the shrinking head of the traveller.
The grassy27 path to the churchyard was still clogged28 with decayed leaves. The church is abandoned. As I drew near an owl22 floated softly out of the black tower. Grass overgrew the threshold. I pushed open the door, grinding back a heap of fallen plaster and rubbish and entered the place. In the twilight the pews were leaning in ghostly disorder29, the prayer-books dragged from their ledges31, scattered32 on the floor in the dust and rubble33, torn by mice and birds. Birds scuffled in the darkness of the roof. I looked up. In the upward well of the tower I could see a bell hanging. I stooped and picked up a piece of plaster from the ragged30 confusion of feathers, and broken nests, and remnants of dead birds. Up into the vault34 overhead I tossed pieces of plaster until one hit the bell, and it "tonged" out its faint remonstrance35. There was a rustle36 of many birds like spirits. I sounded the bell again, and dark forms moved with cries of alarm overhead, and something fell heavily. I shivered in the dark, evil-smelling place, and hurried to get out of doors. I clutched my hands with relief and pleasure when I saw the sky above me quivering with the last crystal lights, and the lowest red of sunset behind the yew37-boles. I drank the fresh air, that sparkled with the sound of the blackbirds and thrushes whistling their strong bright notes.
I strayed round to where the headstones, from their eminence38 leaned to look on the Hall below, where great windows shone yellow light on to the flagged court-yard, and the little fish pool. A stone staircase descended39 from the graveyard40 to the court, between stone balustrades whose pock-marked grey columns still swelled41 gracefully43 and with dignity, encrusted with lichens44. The staircase was filled with ivy45 and rambling46 roses—impassable. Ferns were unrolling round the big square halting place, half way down where the stairs turned.
A peacock, startled from the back premises47 of the Hall, came flapping up the terraces to the churchyard. Then a heavy footstep crossed the flags. It was the keeper. I whistled the whistle he knew, and he broke his way through the vicious rose-boughs48 up the stairs. The peacock flapped beyond me, on to the neck of an old bowed angel, rough and dark, an angel which had long ceased sorrowing for the lost Lucy, and had died also. The bird bent49 its voluptuous50 neck and peered about. Then it lifted up its head and yelled. The sound tore the dark sanctuary51 of twilight. The old grey grass seemed to stir, and I could fancy the smothered52 primroses53 and violets beneath it waking and gasping54 for fear.
The keeper looked at me and smiled. He nodded his head towards the peacock, saying:
"Hark at that damned thing!"
Again the bird lifted its crested55 head and gave a cry, at the same time turning awkwardly on its ugly legs, so that it showed us the full wealth of its tail glimmering56 like a stream of coloured stars over the sunken face of the angel.
"The proud fool!—look at it! Perched on an angel, too, as if it were a pedestal for vanity. That's the soul of a woman—or it's the devil."
He was silent for a time, and we watched the great bird moving uneasily before us in the twilight.
"That's the very soul of a lady," he said, "the very, very soul. Damn the thing, to perch57 on that old angel. I should like to wring58 its neck."
Again the bird screamed, and shifted awkwardly on its legs; it seemed to stretch its beak59 at us in derision. Annable picked up a piece of sod and flung it at the bird, saying:
"Get out, you screeching61 devil! God!" he laughed. "There must be plenty of hearts twisting under here,"—and he stamped on a grave, "when they hear that row."
He kicked another sod from a grave and threw at the big bird. The peacock flapped away, over the tombs, down the terraces.
"Just look!" he said, "the miserable62 brute3 has dirtied that angel. A woman to the end, I tell you, all vanity and screech60 and defilement63."
He sat down on a vault and lit his pipe. But before he had smoked two minutes, it was out again. I had not seen him in a state of perturbation before.
"The church," said I, "is rotten. I suppose they'll stand all over the country like this, soon—with peacocks trailing the graveyards64."
"Ay," he muttered, taking no notice of me.
"This stone is cold," I said, rising.
He got up too, and stretched his arms as if he were tired. It was quite dark, save for the waxing moon which leaned over the east.
"It is a very fine night," I said. "Don't you notice a smell of violets?"
"You?" I said. "You don't expect anything exciting do you?"
"Exciting!—No—about as exciting as this rotten old place—just rot off—Oh, my God!—I'm like a good house, built and finished, and left to tumble down again with nobody to live in it."
"Why—what's up—really?"
He laughed bitterly, saying, "Come and sit down."
He led me off to a seat by the north door, between two pews, very black and silent. There we sat, he putting his gun carefully beside him. He remained perfectly66 still, thinking.
"Whot's up?" he said at last, "Why—I'll tell you. I went to Cambridge—my father was a big cattle dealer—he died bankrupt while I was in college, and I never took my degree. They persuaded me to be a parson, and a parson I was.
I went a curate to a little place in Leicestershire—a bonnie place with not many people, and a fine old church, and a great rich parsonage. I hadn't overmuch to do, and the rector—he was the son of an Earl—was generous. He lent me a horse and would have me hunt like the rest. I always think of that place with a smell of honeysuckle while the grass is wet in the morning. It was fine, and I enjoyed myself, and did the parish work all right. I believe I was pretty good.
A cousin of the rector's used to come in the hunting season—a Lady Crystabel, lady in her own right. The second year I was there she came in June. There wasn't much company, so she used to talk to me—I used to read then—and she used to pretend to be so childish and unknowing, and would get me telling her things, and talking to her, and I was hot on things. We must play tennis together, and ride together, and I must row her down the river. She said we were in the wilderness67 and could do as we liked. She made me wear flannels68 and soft clothes. She was very fine and frank and unconventional—ripping, I thought her. All the summer she stopped on. I should meet her in the garden early in the morning when I came from a swim in the river—it was cleared and deepened on purpose—and she'd blush and make me walk with her. I can remember I used to stand and dry myself on the bank full where she might see me—I was mad on her—and she was madder on me.
We went to some caves in Derbyshire once, and she would wander from the rest, and loiter, and, for a game, we played a sort of hide and seek with the party. They thought we'd gone, and they went and locked the door. Then she pretended to be frightened and clung to me, and said what would they think, and hid her face in my coat. I took her and kissed her, and we made it up properly. I found out afterwards—she actually told me—she'd got the idea from a sloppy69 French novel—the Romance of A Poor Young Man. I was the Poor Young Man.
We got married. She gave me a living she had in her parsonage, and we went to live at her Hall. She wouldn't let me out of her sight. Lord!—we were an infatuated couple—and she would choose to view me in an aesthetic70 light. I was Greek statues for her, bless you: Croton, Hercules, I don't know what! She had her own way too much—I let her do as she liked with me.
Then gradually she got tired—it took her three years to be really glutted71 with me. I had a physique then—for that matter I have now."
He held out his arm to me, and bade me try his muscle. I was startled. The hard flesh almost filled his sleeve.
"Ah," he continued, "You don't know what it is to have the pride of a body like mine. But she wouldn't have children—no, she wouldn't—said she daren't. That was the root of the difference at first. But she cooled down, and if you don't know the pride of my body you'd never know my humiliation72. I tried to remonstrate—and she looked simply astounded73 at my cheek. I never got over that amazement74.
She began to get souly. A poet got hold of her, and she began to affect Burne-Jones—or Waterhouse—it was Waterhouse—she was a lot like one of his women—Lady of Shalott, I believe. At any rate, she got souly, and I was her animal—son animal—son boeuf. I put up with that for above a year. Then I got some servants' clothes and went.
I was seen in France—then in Australia—though I never left England. I was supposed to have died in the bush. She married a young fellow. Then I was proved to have died, and I read a little obituary75 notice on myself in a woman's paper she subscribed76 to. She wrote it herself—as a warning to other young ladies of position not to be seduced77 by plausible78 "Poor Young Men."
Now she's dead. They've got the paper—her paper—in the kitchen down there, and it's full of photographs, even an old photo of me—"an unfortunate misalliance." I feel, somehow, as if I were at an end too. I thought I'd grown a solid, middle-aged-man, and here I feel sore as I did at twenty-six, and I talk as I used to.
One thing—I have got some children, and they're of a breed as you'd not meet anywhere. I was a good animal before everything, and I've got some children."
He sat looking up where the big moon swam through the black branches of the yew.
"So she's dead—your poor peacock!" I murmured.
He got up, looking always at the sky, and stretched himself again. He was an impressive figure massed in blackness against the moonlight, with his arms outspread.
"I suppose," he said, "it wasn't all her fault."
"A white peacock, we will say," I suggested.
He laughed.
"Go home by the top road, will you!" he said. "I believe there's something on in the bottom wood."
"All right," I answered, with a quiver of apprehension80.
"Yes, she was fair enough," he muttered.
"Ay," said I, rising. I held out my hand from the shadow. I was startled myself by the white sympathy it seemed to express, extended towards him in the moonlight. He gripped it, and cleaved81 to me for a moment, then he was gone.
I went out of the churchyard feeling a sullen82 resentment83 against the tousled graves that lay inanimate across my way. The air was heavy to breathe, and fearful in the shadow of the great trees. I was glad when I came out on the bare white road, and could see the copper84 lights from the reflectors of a pony-cart's lamps, and could hear the amiable85 chat-chat of the hoofs86 trotting87 towards me. I was lonely when they had passed.
Over the hill, the big flushed face of the moon poised88 just above the treetops, very majestic89, and far off—yet imminent90. I turned with swift sudden friendliness91 to the net of elm-boughs spread over my head, dotted with soft clusters winsomely92. I jumped up and pulled the cool soft tufts against my face for company; and as I passed, still I reached upward for the touch of this budded gentleness of the trees. The wood breathed fragrantly93, with a subtle sympathy. The firs softened94 their touch to me, and the larches95 woke from the barren winter-sleep, and put out velvet96 fingers to caress97 me as I passed. Only the clean, bare branches of the ash stood emblem98 of the discipline of life. I looked down on the blackness where trees filled the quarry and the valley bottoms, and it seemed that the world, my own home-world, was strange again.
Some four or five days after Annable had talked to me in the churchyard, I went out to find him again. It was Sunday morning. The larch-wood was afloat with clear, lyric99 green, and some primroses scattered whitely on the edge under the fringing boughs. It was a clear morning, as when the latent life of the world begins to vibrate afresh in the air. The smoke from the cottage rose blue against the trees, and thick yellow against the sky. The fire, it seemed, was only just lighted, and the wood-smoke poured out.
Sam appeared outside the house, and looked round. Then he climbed the water-trough for a better survey. Evidently unsatisfied, paying slight attention to me, he jumped down and went running across the hillside to the wood. "He is going for his father," I said to myself, and I left the path to follow him down hill across the waste meadow, crackling the blanched100 stems of last year's thistles as I went, and stumbling in rabbit holes. He reached the wall that ran along the quarry's edge, and was over it in a twinkling.
When I came to the place, I was somewhat nonplussed101, for sheer from the stone fence, the quarry-side dropped for some twenty or thirty feet, piled up with unmortared stones. I looked round—there was a plain dark thread down the hillside, which marked a path to this spot, and the wall was scored with the marks of heavy boots. Then I looked again down the quarry-side, and I saw—how could I have failed to see?—stones projecting to make an uneven102 staircase, such as is often seen in the Derbyshire fences. I saw this ladder was well used, so I trusted myself to it, and scrambled103 down, clinging to the face of the quarry wall. Once down, I felt pleased with myself for having discovered and used the unknown access, and I admired the care and ingenuity104 of the keeper, who had fitted and wedged the long stones into the uncertain pile.
It was warm in the quarry: there the sunshine seemed to thicken and sweeten; there the little mounds105 of overgrown waste were aglow106 with very early dog-violets; there the sparks were coming out on the bits of gorse, and among the stones the colt-foot plumes107 were already silvery. Here was spring sitting just awake, unloosening her glittering hair, and opening her purple eyes.
I went across the quarry, down to where the brook108 ran murmuring a tale to the primroses and the budding trees. I was startled from my wandering among the fresh things by a faint clatter109 of stones.
"What's that young rascal110 doing?" I said to myself, setting forth111 to see. I came towards the other side of the quarry: on this, the moister side, the bushes grew up against the wall, which was higher than on the other side, though piled the same with old dry stones. As I drew near I could hear the scrape and rattle112 of stones, and the vigorous grunting113 of Sam as he laboured among them. He was hidden by a great bush of sallow catkins, all yellow, and murmuring with bees, warm with spice. When he came in view I laughed to see him lugging114 and grunting among the great pile of stones that had fallen in a mass from the quarry-side; a pile of stones and earth and crushed vegetation. There was a great bare gap in the quarry wall. Somehow, the lad's labouring earnestness made me anxious, and I hurried up.
He heard me, and glancing round, his face red with exertion115, eyes big with terror, he called, commanding me:
"Pull 'em off 'im—pull 'em off!" Suddenly my heart beating in my throat nearly suffocated116 me. I saw the hand of the keeper lying among the stones. I set to tearing away the stones, and we worked for some time without a word. Then I seized the arm of the keeper and tried to drag him out. But I could not.
When we got him out I saw at once he was dead, and I sat down trembling with exertion. There was a great smashed wound on the side of the head. Sam put his face against his father's and snuffed round him like a dog, to feel the life in him. The child looked at me:
I shook my head. Then the boy began to whimper. He tried to close the lips which were drawn120 with pain and death, leaving the teeth bare; then his fingers hovered121 round the eyes, which were wide open, glazed122, and I could see he was trembling to touch them into life.
"He's not asleep," he said, "because his eyes is open—look!"
I could not bear the child's questioning terror. I took him up to carry him away, but he struggled and fought to be free.
"Ma'e 'im get up—ma'e 'im get up," he cried in a frenzy, and I had to let the boy go.
He ran to the dead man, calling "Feyther! Feyther!" and pulling his shoulder; then he sat down, fascinated by the sight of the wound; he put out his finger to touch it, and shivered.
"Come away," said I.
"Is it that?" he asked, pointing to the wound. I covered the face with a big silk handkerchief.
"Now," said I, "he'll go to sleep if you don't touch him—so sit still while I go and fetch somebody. Will you run to the Hall?"
He shook his head. I knew he would not. So I told him again not to touch his father, but to let him lie still till I came back. He watched me go, but did not move from his seat on the stones beside the dead man, though I know he was full of terror at being left alone.
I ran to the Hall—I dared not go to the Kennels123. In a short time I was back with the squire and three men. As I led the way, I saw the child lifting a corner of the handkerchief to peep and see if the eyes were closed in sleep. Then he heard us, and started violently. When we removed the covering, and he saw the face unchanged in its horror, he looked at me with a look I have never forgotten.
"A bad business—an awful business!" repeated the squire. "A bad business. I said to him from the first that the stones might come down when he was going up, and he said he had taken care to fix them. But you can't be sure, you can't be certain. And he'd be about half way up—ay—and the whole wall would come down on him. An awful business, it is really; a terrible piece of work!"
They decided124 at the inquest that the death came by misadventure. But there were vague rumours125 in the village that this was revenge which had overtaken the keeper.
They decided to bury him in our churchyard at Greymede under the beeches126; the widow would have it so, and nothing might be denied her in her state.
It was a magnificent morning in early spring when I watched among the trees to see the procession come down the hillside. The upper air was woven with the music of the larks127, and my whole world thrilled with the conception of summer. The young pale wind-flowers had arisen by the wood-gale, and under the hazels, when perchance the hot sun pushed his way, new little suns dawned, and blazed with real light. There was a certain thrill and quickening everywhere, as a woman must feel when she has conceived. A sallow tree in a favoured spot looked like a pale gold cloud of summer dawn; nearer it had poised a golden, fairy busby on every twig129, and was voiced with a hum of bees, like any sacred golden bush, uttering its gladness in the thrilling murmur79 of bees, and in warm scent130. Birds called and flashed on every hand; they made off exultant131 with streaming strands132 of grass, or wisps of fleece, plunging133 into the dark spaces of the wood, and out again into the blue.
A lad moved across the field from the farm below with a dog trotting behind him,—a dog, no, a fussy134, black-legged lamb trotting along on its toes, with its tail swinging behind. They were going to the mothers on the common, who moved like little grey clouds among the dark grose.
I cannot help forgetting, and sharing the spink's triumph, when he flashes past with a fleece from a bramble bush. It will cover the bedded moss135, it will weave among the soft red cow-hair beautifully. It is a prize, it is an ecstasy136 to have captured it at the right moment, and the nest is nearly ready.
Ah, but the thrush is scornful, ringing out his voice from the hedge! He sets his breast against the mud, and models it warm for the turquoise137 eggs—blue, blue, bluest of eggs, which cluster so close and round against the breast, which round up beneath the breast, nestling content. You should see the bright ecstasy in the eyes of a nesting thrush, because of the rounded caress of the eggs against her breast!
What a hurry the jenny wren138 makes—hoping I shall not see her dart139 into the low bush. I have a delight in watching them against their shy little wills. But they have all risen with a rush of wings, and are gone, the birds. The air is brushed with agitation140. There is no lark128 in the sky, not one; the heaven is clear of wings or twinkling dot——.
Till the heralds141 come—till the heralds wave like shadows in the bright air, crying, lamenting142, fretting143 forever. Rising and falling and circling round and round, the slow-waving peewits cry and complain, and lift their broad wings in sorrow. They stoop suddenly to the ground, the lapwings, then in another throb144 of anguish145 and protest, they swing up again, offering a glistening147 white breast to the sunlight, to deny it in black shadow, then a glisten146 of green, and all the time crying and crying in despair.
The pheasants are frightened into cover, they run and dart through the hedge. The cold cock must fly in his haste, spread himself on his streaming plumes, and sail into the wood's security.
There is a cry in answer to the peewits, echoing louder and stronger the lamentation148 of the lapwings, a wail149 which hushes150 the birds. The men come over the brow of the hill, slowly, with the old squire walking tall and straight in front; six bowed men bearing the coffin151 on their shoulders, treading heavily and cautiously, under the great weight of the glistening white coffin; six men following behind, ill at ease, waiting their turn for the burden. You can see the red handkerchiefs knotted round their throats, and their shirt-fronts blue and white between the open waistcoats. The coffin is of new unpolished wood, gleaming and glistening in the sunlight; the men who carry it remember all their lives after the smell of new, warm elm-wood.
Again a loud cry from the hill-top. The woman has followed thus far, the big, shapeless woman, and she cries with loud cries after the white coffin as it descends152 the hill, and the children that cling to her skirts weep aloud, and are not to be hushed by the other woman, who bends over them, but does not form one of the group. How the crying frightens the birds, and the rabbits; and the lambs away there run to their mothers. But the peewits are not frightened, they add their notes to the sorrow; they circle after the white, retreating coffin, they circle round the woman; it is they who forever "keen" the sorrows of this world. They are like priests in their robes, more black than white, more grief than hope, driving endlessly round and round, turning, lifting, falling and crying always in mournful desolation, repeating their last syllables153 like the broken accents of despair.
The bearers have at last sunk between the high banks, and turned out of sight. The big woman cannot see them, and yet she stands to look. She must go home, there is nothing left.
They have rested the coffin on the gate posts, and the bearers are wiping the sweat from their faces. They put their hands to their shoulders on the place where the weight has pressed.
The other six are placing the pads on their shoulders, when a girl comes up with a jug154 and a blue pot. The squire drinks first, and fills for the rest. Meanwhile the girl stands back under the hedge, away from the coffin which smells of new elm-wood. In imagination she pictures the man shut up there in close darkness, while the sunlight flows all outside, and she catches her breast with terror. She must turn and rustle among the leaves of the violets for the flowers she does not see. Then, trembling, she comes to herself, and plucks a few flowers and breathes them hungrily into her soul, for comfort. The men put down the pots beside her, with thanks, and the squire gives the word. The bearers lift up the burden again, and the elm-boughs rattle along the hollow white wood, and the pitiful red clusters of elm-flowers sweep along it as if they whispered in sympathy—"We are so sorry, so sorry——"; always the compassionate155 buds in their fulness of life bend down to comfort the dark man shut up there. "Perhaps," the girl thinks, "he hears them, and goes softly to sleep." She shakes the tears out of her eyes on to the ground, and, taking up her pots, goes slowly down, over the brooks156.
In a while, I too got up and went down to the mill, which lay red and peaceful, with the blue smoke rising as winsomely and carelessly as ever. On the other side of the valley I could see a pair of horses nod slowly across the fallow. A man's voice called to them now and again with a resonance157 that filled me with longing158 to follow my horses over the fallow, in the still, lonely valley, full of sunshine and eternal forgetfulness. The day had already forgotten. The water was blue and white and dark-burnished with shadows; two swans sailed across the reflected trees with perfect blithe159 grace. The gloom that had passed across was gone. I watched the swan with his ruffled160 wings swell42 onwards; I watched his slim consort161 go peeping into corners and under bushes; I saw him steer162 clear of the bushes, to keep full in view, turning his head to me imperiously, till I longed to pelt163 him with the empty husks of last year's flowers, knap-weed and scabius. I was too indolent, and I turned instead to the orchard164.
There the daffodils were lifting their heads and throwing back their yellow curls. At the foot of each sloping, grey old tree stood a family of flowers, some bursten with golden fulness, some lifting their heads slightly, to show a modest, sweet countenance165, others still hiding their faces, leaning forward pensively166 from the jaunty167 grey-green spears; I wished I had their language, to talk to them distinctly.
Overhead, the trees, with lifted fingers shook out their hair to the sun, decking themselves with buds as white and cool as a water-nymphs breasts.
I began to be very glad. The colts-foot discs glowed and laughed in a merry company down the path; I stroked the velvet faces, and laughed also, and I smelled the scent of black-currant leaves, which is full of childish memories.
The house was quiet and complacent168; it was peopled with ghosts again; but the ghosts had only come to enjoy the warm place once more, carrying sunshine in their arms and scattering169 it through the dusk of gloomy rooms.
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1
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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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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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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7
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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13
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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14
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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15
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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16
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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17
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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18
fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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19
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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20
forestry
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| n.森林学；林业 | |
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21
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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22
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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23
acolyte
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| n.助手，侍僧 | |
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24
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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25
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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26
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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27
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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28
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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29
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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30
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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31
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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32
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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33
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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34
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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35
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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36
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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37
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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38
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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39
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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40
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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41
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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42
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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43
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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44
lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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45
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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46
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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47
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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48
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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49
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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50
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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51
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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52
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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53
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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54
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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55
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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56
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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57
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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58
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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59
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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60
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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61
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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62
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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63
defilement
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| n.弄脏，污辱，污秽 | |
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64
graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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65
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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66
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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67
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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68
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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69
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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70
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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71
glutted
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| v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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72
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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73
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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74
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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75
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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76
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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77
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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78
plausible
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|
| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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79
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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80
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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81
cleaved
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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83
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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84
copper
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|
| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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85
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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86
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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88
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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89
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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90
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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91
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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92
winsomely
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93
fragrantly
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| adv.芬芳地；愉快地 | |
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94
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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95
larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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96
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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97
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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98
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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99
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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100
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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101
nonplussed
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|
| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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103
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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104
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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105
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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106
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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107
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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108
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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109
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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110
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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111
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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112
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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113
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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114
lugging
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| 超载运转能力 | |
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115
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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116
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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117
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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118
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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119
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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120
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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121
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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122
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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123
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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124
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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125
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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126
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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127
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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128
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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129
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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130
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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131
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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132
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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134
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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135
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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136
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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137
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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138
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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139
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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140
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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141
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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142
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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143
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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144
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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145
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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146
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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147
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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148
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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149
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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150
hushes
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| n.安静，寂静( hush的名词复数 ) | |
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151
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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152
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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153
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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154
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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155
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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156
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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157
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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158
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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159
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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160
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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161
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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162
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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163
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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164
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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165
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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166
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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167
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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168
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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169
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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