The slave sat upon one of the bowlders in the old Indian circle, holding his jaw1 with his hand, and rocking himself like a child with the colic.
He could give me no account whatever of the marvellous escape he had had from instant death, and I was forced to conclude that his fall had been more than once broken by the interposition of branches or clumps2 of vines. He seemed to have fortunately landed on his head. His jaw was broken, and some of his teeth loosened, but none of his limbs were fractured, though all were bruised3. I bound up his chin with my handkerchief, and put my neckcloth over one of his eyes, which was scratched and swollen4 shut, as by some poisonous thing. Thus bandaged, he hobbled along behind me over the short remaining distance. The rain and cold increased as nightfall came on, and, no longer sustained by my anger, I found the walk a very wet and miserable5 affair.
When I reached the Cedars6, and had sent Tulp to his parents with a promise to look in upon him later, I was still without any definite plan of what to say or do upon entering. The immensity of the crisis which had overtaken me had not shut my mind to the fact that the others, so far from being similarly overwhelmed, did not even suspect any reason on my part for revolt or sorrow. I had given neither of them any cause, by word or sign, to regard me as a rival to Cross--at least, of late years. So far as they were concerned, I had no ground to stand upon in making a protest. Yet when did this consideration restrain an angry lover? I had a savage7 feeling that they ought to have known, if they didn't. And reflection upon the late scene on the gulf8 side--upon the altercation9, upon the abortive10 way in which I had allowed mastery of the situation to slip through my fingers, and upon poor Tulp's sufferings--only served to swell11 my mortification12 and rage.
When I entered--after a momentary13 temptation to make a stranger of myself by knocking at the door--Daisy was sitting by the fire beside Mr. Stewart; both were looking meditatively14 into the fire, which gave the only light in the room, and she was holding his hand. My heart melted for a second as this pretty, home-like picture met my eyes, and a sob15 came into my throat at the thought that I was no longer a part of this dear home-circle. Then sulkiness rose to the top again. I muttered something about the weather, lighted a candle at the fire, and moved past them to the door of my room.
"Why, Douw," asked Daisy, half rising as she spoke16, "what has happened? There's blood on your ruffles17! Where is your neckcloth?"
I made answer, standing18 with my hand upon the latch19, and glowering20 at her:
"The blood comes from my Tulp's broken head: I used my neckcloth to tie it up. He was thrown over the side of Kayaderosseros gulf, an hour ago, by the gentleman whom it is announced you are going to marry!"
Without waiting to note the effect of these words, I went into my room, closing the door behind me sharply. I spent a wretched hour or so, sorting over my clothes and possessions, trinkets and the like, and packing them for a journey. Nothing was very clear in my mind, between bitter repining at the misery21 which had come upon me and the growing repulsion I felt for making these two unhappy, but it was at least obvious that I must as soon as possible leave the Cedars.
When at last I reentered the outer room, the table was spread for supper. Only Mr. Stewart was in the room, and he stood in his favorite attitude, with his back to the fire and his hands behind him. He preserved a complete silence, not even looking at me, until my aunt had brought in the simple evening meal. To her he said briefly22 that Mistress Daisy had gone to her room, weary and with a headache, and would take no supper. I felt the smart of reproof23 to me in every word he uttered, and even more in his curt24 tone. I stood at the window with my back to him, looking through the dripping little panes25 at the scattered26 lights across the river, and not ceasing for an instant to think forebodingly of the scene which was impendent.
Dame27 Kronk had been out of the room some moments when he said, testily28:
"Well, sir! will you do me the honor to come to the table, or is it your wish that I should fetch your supper to you?" The least trace of softness in his voice would, I think, have broken down my temper. If he had been only grieved at my behavior, and had shown to me sorrow instead of truculent29 rebuke30, I would have been ready, I believe, to fall at his feet. But his scornful sternness hardened me.
"Thank you, sir," I replied, "I have no wish for supper."
More seconds of silence ensued. The streaming windows and blurred31 fragments of light, against the blackness outside, seemed to mirror the chaotic32 state of my mind. I ought to turn to him--a thousand times over, I knew I ought--and yet for my life I could not. At last he spoke again:
"Perhaps, then, you will have the politeness to face me. My association has chiefly been with gentlemen, and I should mayhap be embarrassed by want of experience if I essayed to address you to your back."
I had wheeled around before half his first sentence was out, thoroughly33 ashamed of myself. In my contrition34 I had put forth35 my hand as I moved toward him. He did not deign36 to notice--or rather to respond to--the apologetic overture37, and I dropped the hand and halted. He looked me over now, searchingly and with a glance of mingled38 curiosity and anger. He seemed to be searching for words sufficiently39 formal and harsh, meanwhile, and he was some time in finding them.
"In the days when I wore a sword for use, young man, and moved among my equals," he began, deliberately40, "it was not held to be a safe or small matter to offer me affront41. Other times, other manners. The treatment which then I would not have brooked42 from Cardinal43 York himself, I find myself forced to submit to, under my own roof, at the hands of a person who, to state it most lightly, should for decency's sake put on the appearance of respect for my gray hairs."
He paused here, and I would have spoken, but he held up his slender, ruffled44 hand with a peremptory45 "Pray, allow me!" and presently went on:
"In speaking to you as I ought to speak, I am at the disadvantage of being wholly unable to comprehend the strange and malevolent46 change which has come over you. Through nearly twenty years of close and even daily observation, rendered at once keen and kindly47 by an affection to which I will not now refer, you had produced upon me the impression of a dutiful, respectful, honorable, and polite young man. If, as was the case, you developed some of the to me less attractive and less generous virtues48 of your race, I still did not fail to see that they were, in their way, virtues, and that they inured49 both to my material profit and to your credit among your neighbors. I had said to myself, after much consideration, that if you had not come up wholly the sort of gentleman I had looked for, still you were a gentleman, and had qualities which, taken altogether, would make you a creditable successor to me on the portions of my estate which it was my purpose to entail50 upon you and yours."
"Believe me, Mr. Stewart," I interposed here, with a broken voice, as he paused again, "I am deeply--very deeply grateful to you."
He went on as if I had not spoken:
"Judge, then, my amazement51 and grief to find you returning from your voyage to the West intent upon leaving me, upon casting aside the position and duties for which I had trained you, and upon going down to Albany to dicker for pence and ha'pence with the other Dutchmen there. I did not forbid your going. I contented52 myself by making known to you my disappointment at your selection of a career so much inferior to your education and position in life. Whereupon you have no better conception of what is due to me and to yourself than to begin a season of sulky pouting53 and sullenness54, culminating in the incredible rudeness of open insults to me, and, what is worse, to my daughter in my presence. She has gone to her chamber56 sick in head and heart alike from your boorish57 behavior. I would fain have retired58 also, in equal sorrow and disgust, had it not seemed my duty to demand an explanation from you before the night passed."
The blow--the whole crushing series of blows--had fallen. How I suffered under them, how each separate lash59 tore savagely60 through heart and soul and flesh, it would be vain to attempt to tell.
Yet with the anguish61 there came no weakening. I had been wrong and foolish, and clearly enough I saw it, but this was not the way to correct or chastise62 me. A solitary63 sad word would have unmanned me; this long, stately, satirical speech, this ironically elaborate travesty64 of my actions and motives65, had an opposite effect. I suffered, but I stubbornly stood my ground.
"If I have disappointed you, sir, I am more grieved than you can possibly be," I replied. "If what I said was in fact an affront to you, and to--her--then I would tear out my tongue to recall the words. But how can the simple truth affront?"
"What was this you called out so rudely about the gulf--about Tulp's being thrown over by--by the gentleman my daughter is to marry? since you choose to describe him thus."
"I spoke the literal truth, sir. It was fairly by a miracle that the poor devil escaped with his life."
"How did it happen? What was the provocation67? Even in Caligula's days slaves were not thrown over cliffs without some reason."
"Tulp suffered for the folly68 of being faithful to me--for not understanding that it was the fashion to desert me," I replied, with rising temerity69. "He threw himself between me and this Cross of yours, as we faced each other on the ledge--where we spoke this morning of the need for a chain--and the Englishman flung him off."
"Threw himself between you! Were you quarrelling, you two, then?"
"I dare say it would be described as a quarrel. I think I should have killed him, or he killed me, if the calamity70 of poor Tulp's tumble had not put other things in our heads."
"My faith!" was Mr. Stewart's only comment. He stared at me for a time, then seated himself before the fire, and looked at the blaze and smoke in apparent meditation71. Finally he said, in a somewhat milder voice than before: "Draw a chair up here and sit down. Doubtless there is more in this than I thought. Explain it to me."
I felt less at my ease, seated now for a more or less moderate conference, than I had been on my feet, bearing my part in a quarrel.
"What am I to explain?" I asked.
"Why were you quarrelling with Philip?"
"Because I felt like it--because I hate him!"
"Tut, tut! That is a child's answer. What is the trouble between you two? I demand to know!"
"If you will have it"--and all my resentment72 and sense of loss burst forth in the explanation--"because he has destroyed my home for me; because he has ousted73 me from the place I used to have, and strove so hard to be worthy74 of, in your affections; because, after a few months here, with his fine clothes and his dashing, wasteful75 ways, he is more regarded by you and your friends than I am, who have tried faithfully all my life to deserve your regard; because he has taken--" But I broke down here. My throat choked the sound in sobs76, and I turned my face away that he might not see the tears which I felt scalding my eyes.
My companion kept silent, but he poked77 the damp, smudging sticks about in the fire-place vigorously, took his spectacles out of their case, rubbed them, and put them back in his pocket, and in other ways long since familiar to me betrayed his uneasy interest. These slight signs of growing sympathy--or, at least, comprehension--encouraged me to proceed, and my voice came back to me.
"If you could know," I went mournfully on, "the joy I felt when I first looked on the Valley--our Valley--again at Fort Stanwix; if you could only realize how I counted the hours and minutes which separated me from this home, from you and her, and how I cried out at their slowness; if you could guess how my heart beat when I walked up the path out there that evening, and opened that door, and looked to see you two welcome me--ah, then you could feel the bitterness I have felt since! I came home burning with eagerness, homesickness, to be in my old place again near you and her--and the place was filled by another! If I have seemed rude and sullen55, that is the reason. If I had set less store upon your love, and upon her--her--liking for me, then doubtless I should have borne the displacement78 with better grace. But it put me on the rack. Believe me, if I have behaved to your displeasure, and hers, it has been from very excess of tenderness trampled79 underfoot."
At least the misunderstanding had been cleared up, and for a time, at all events, the heart of my life-long friend had warmed again to me as of old. He put his hand paternally80 upon my knee, and patted it softly.
"My poor boy," he said, with a sympathetic half-smile, and in his old-time gravely gentle voice: "even in your tribulation81 you must be Dutch! Why not have said this to me--or what then occurred to you of it--at the outset, the first day after you came? Why, then it could all have been put right in a twinkling. But no! in your secretive Dutch fashion you must needs go aloof82, and worry your heart sore by all sorts of suspicions and jealousies83 and fears that you have been supplanted--until, see for yourself what a melancholy84 pass you have brought us all to! Suppose by chance, while these sullen devils were driving you to despair, you had done injury to Philip--perhaps even killed him! Think what your feelings, and ours, would be now. And all might have been cleared up, set right, by a word at the beginning."
I looked hard into the fire, and clinched85 my teeth.
"Would a word have given me Daisy?" I asked from between them.
He withdrew his hand from my knee, and pushed one of the logs petulantly86 with his foot. "What do you mean?" he demanded.
"I mean that for five years I have desired--for the past six months have, waking or sleeping, thought of nothing else but this desire of my heart--to have Daisy for my wife."
As he did not speak, I went on with an impassioned volubility altogether strange to my custom, recalling to him the tender intimacy87 in which she and I had grown up from babyhood; the early tacit understanding that we were to inherit the Cedars and all its belongings88, and his own not infrequent allusions90 in those days to the vision of our sharing it, and all else in life, together. Then I pictured to him the brotherly fondness of my later years, blossoming suddenly, luxuriantly, into the fervor91 of a lover's devotion while I was far away in the wilds, with no gracious, civilizing92 presence (save always Mr. Cross) near me except the dear image of her which I carried in my heart of hearts. I told him, too, of the delicious excitement with which, day by day, I drew nearer to the home that held her, trembling now with nervousness at my slow progress, now with timidity lest, grasping this vast happiness too swiftly, I should crush it from very ecstasy93 of possession. I made clear to him, moreover, that I had come without ever dreaming of the possibility of a rival--as innocently, serenely94 confident of right, as would be a little child approaching to kiss its mother.
"Fancy this child struck violently in the face by this mother, from whom it had never before received so much as a frown," I concluded; "then you will understand something of the blow which has sent me reeling."
His answering words, when finally he spoke, were sympathetic and friendly enough, but not very much to the point. This was, doubtless, due to no fault of his; consolation95 at such times is not within the power of the very wisest to bestow96.
He pointed66 out to me that these were a class of disappointments exceedingly common to the lot of young men; it was the way of the world. In the process of pairing off a generation, probably ninety-nine out of every hundred couples would secretly have preferred some other distribution; yet they made the best of it, and the world wagged on just the same as before. With all these and many other jarring commonplaces he essayed to soothe97 me--to the inevitable98 increase of my bitter discontent. He added, I remember, a personal parallel:
"I have never spoken of it to you, or to any other, but I too had my grievous disappointment. I was in love with the mother of this young Philip Cross. I worshipped her reverently99 from afar; I had no other thought or aim in life but to win her favor, to gain a position worthy of her; I would have crossed the Channel, and marched into St. James's, and hacked100 off the Hanoverian's heavy head with my father's broadsword, I verily believe, to have had one smile from her lips. Yet I had to pocket this all, and stand smilingly by and see her wedded101 to my tent-mate, Tony Cross. I thought the world had come to an end--but it hadn't. Women are kittle cattle, my boy. They must have their head, or their blood turns sour. Come! where is the genuineness of your affection for our girl, if you would deny her the gallant102 of her choice?"
"If I believed," I blurted103 out, "that it was her own free choice!"
"Whose else, then, pray?"
"If I felt that she truly, deliberately preferred him--that she had not been decoyed and misled by that Lady Ber--"
"Fie upon such talk!" said the old gentleman, with a shade of returning testiness104 in his tone. "Do you comprehend our Daisy so slightly, after all these years? Is she a girl not to know her own mind? Tut! she loves the youngster; she has chosen him. If you had stopped at home, if you had spoken earlier instead of mooning, Dutch fashion, in your own mind, it might have been different. Who can say? But it may not be altered now. We who are left must still plan to promote her happiness. A hundred bridegrooms could not make her less our Daisy than she was. There must be no more quarrels between you boys, remember! I forbid it, your own judgment105 will forbid it. He will make a good husband to the girl, and I mistake much if he does not make a great man of himself in the Colony. Perhaps--who knows?--he may bring her a title, or even a coronet, some of these days. The Crown will have need of all its loyal gentlemen here, soon enough, too, as the current runs now, and rewards and honors will flow freely. Philip will lose no chance to turn the stream Cairncross way."
My aunt came in to take away the untouched dishes--Mr. Stewart could never abide106 negroes in their capacity as domestics--and soon thereafter we went to bed; I, for one, to lie sleepless107 and disconsolate108 till twilight109 came.
The next morning we two again had the table to ourselves, for Daisy sent down word that her head was still aching, and we must not wait the meal for her. It was a silent and constrained110 affair, this breakfast, and we hurried through it as one speeds a distasteful task.
It was afterward111, as we walked forth together into the garden, where the wet earth already steamed under the warm downpour of sunlight, that I told Mr. Stewart of my resolution to go as soon as possible to Albany, and take up the proffered112 agency.
He seemed to have prepared himself for this, and offered no strong opposition113. We had both, indeed, reached the conclusion that it was the best way out of the embarrassment114 which hung over us. He still clung, or made a show of clinging, to his regret that I had not been satisfied with my position at the Cedars. But in his heart, I am sure, he was relieved by my perseverance115 in the project.
Two or three days were consumed in preparations at home and in conferences with Jonathan Cross, either at Johnson Hall or at our place, whither he was twice able to drive. He furnished me with several letters, and with voluminous suggestions and advice. Sir William, too, gave me letters, and much valuable information as to Albany ways and prejudices. I had, among others from him, I remember, a letter of presentation to Governor Tryon, who with his lady had visited the baronet during my absence, but which I never presented, and another to the uncle of the boy-Patroon, which was of more utility.
In the hurry and occupation of making ready for so rapid and momentous116 a departure, I had not many opportunities of seeing Daisy. During the few times that we were alone together, no allusion89 was made to the scene of that night, or to my words, or to her betrothal117. How much she knew of the incident on the gulf-side, or of my later explanation and confession118 to Mr. Stewart, I could not guess. She was somewhat reserved in her manner, I fancied, and she seemed to quietly avoid being alone in the room with me. At the final parting, too, she proffered me only her cheek to touch with my lips. Yet I could not honestly say that, deep in her heart, she was not sorry for me and tender toward me, and grieved to have me go.
It was on the morning of the last day of September, 1772, that I began life alone, for myself, by starting on the journey to Albany. If I carried with me a sad heart, there yet were already visible the dawnings of compensation. At least, I had not quarrelled with the dear twain of the Cedars.
As for Philip Cross, I strove not to think of him at all.
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1
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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2
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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3
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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4
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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5
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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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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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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15
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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16
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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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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40
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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41
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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42
brooked
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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44
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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45
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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46
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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48
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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49
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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50
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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51
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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52
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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53
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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54
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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58
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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60
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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61
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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62
chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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63
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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64
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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65
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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67
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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68
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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69
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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70
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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71
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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72
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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73
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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76
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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displacement
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| n.移置，取代，位移，排水量 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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81
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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82
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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83
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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84
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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85
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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86
petulantly
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87
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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89
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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90
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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91
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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92
civilizing
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| v.使文明，使开化( civilize的现在分词 ) | |
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93
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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94
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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95
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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96
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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97
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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98
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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99
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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100
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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101
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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103
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
testiness
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| n.易怒，暴躁 | |
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105
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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106
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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107
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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108
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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109
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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110
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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111
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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112
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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114
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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115
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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116
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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117
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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118
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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