When Professor Hewlett resigned from the chair of English Literature and Letters at B—— College and returned, avowedly1, to spend the rest of his days in the home of his forefathers2, all Oakland was very glad, but, at the same time, not a little puzzled as to the outcome of the change.
There is certainly nothing extraordinary when a man of sixty-five, even though he is still at his intellectual prime, wishes to free himself from harness, and, without wholly leaving the road for the pasture, travel at his own gait; it was the domestic side of the man’s life toward which interest turned, and this side consisted of the possibility of adjusting his family and work under the same roof, for even in his hours of leisure, no one could believe that John Hewlett would let his mental faculties3 lie dormant4.
To an outsider this adjustment would have seemed the simplest matter possible, for though the Professor had been twice married, he had survived both wives, each of whom had left an only daughter; but these two, who composed his family, were as unlike in temperament5 as in personal appearance.
The first Mrs. Hewlett, a very handsome woman, whom the Professor had married the year after leaving college, was several years his senior. The Hewletts and Bartons had been people of culture as well as neighbours, and the marriage was the logical outcome of long friendship, rather than the focus of spontaneous love. Father, who was the friend of both, says that at this time John Hewlett was a dreamer, who walked head and shoulders in the air, never heeded6 his footing, and knew nothing of life; while Catharine Barton had made up her mind on practically every matter of importance, a quality upon which she prided herself being that if she once made a decision, she never allowed circumstances to change it. Aggressively devoted7 to what she considered her husband’s best interests, had she lived, it is very doubtful if John Hewlett would either have gained fame as a scholar, or won a host of friends by his delightful8 personality. In half a dozen years he found himself alone with a little daughter Catharine, who was turning four, a beautiful child, but having the ice of her mother’s blood in her veins10, and rigid11 even at that tender age, sitting bolt upright in her father’s lap and checking him with wide-eyed reproof12 if, in clasping her to him, her gown or hair was rumpled13. Then the Professor gave the child over to his people to rear, and, turning his face away from women, save in the polite abstract, devoted himself to work.
The Hewlett homestead—a square, substantial structure of the type that has four large rooms on a floor with an L, a wide, central hall, and large fireplaces—fell at this time to the Professor and an older sister, to whom he confided14 the little Catharine. Without plan or premeditation the house naturally divided itself in half, Miss Hewlett instinctively15 occupying the northern portion where the strong sunlight did not persist in penetrating16 to the fading of the much-treasured Turkey carpet that was an heirloom, while the southern portion the Professor filled with his books and such simple fittings as he needed,—a high chest of drawers, and a bed that had been his mother’s, with carved spiral posts and head and foot-rail, being his only ambitious possessions; but in this part of the house the windows were never closed on the sun, that seemed to come in and transfigure and vitalize the Professor’s solitude17.
As Catharine grew up, she became more and more incomprehensible to her father, and kept even her very precise, ancestor-worshipping aunt in a state of constant repression18 by her ideas of propriety19 and etiquette20. At twelve, she never committed the indiscretion of biting an apple, but always pared and cut it with a silver fruit-knife; at eighteen she left school and convinced her aunt that it was time for her to take charge of her father’s mending and the dusting of his study, in which she sat for an hour or so every day that he was at home, this being in the order of her preconceived ideas of duty and pride in his mental achievements, rather than from the love that makes ministry21 of every form a necessity.
Professor Hewlett, yearning22 for some sign of affection, took heart at these demonstrations23 and prepared at once to make Catharine a partner in his simple pleasures as well as a companion in his work, going so far as to suggest that together they establish a winter home in the college town where heretofore he had merely had bachelor accommodations.
To this, Catharine showed quiet, respectful, but determined24 opposition25: she did not wish to leave her quarters at the homestead where she had built around herself an imaginary position of importance. It was one thing to chide26 her father for always wearing his stockings on the same feet and so poking27 through the big toe unnecessarily (as though any one does such things on purpose or could if he tried); to persist in sorting his letters and papers, labelling them “answered,” “unanswered,” “lecture notes,” and “proof sheets,” until he was no longer able to find anything; or to hold up her forehead for a good-night kiss,—but to change her plan of living and be submerged by numbers in a larger place was quite another, and asking too much.
Poor old young Professor! He went back to his work that autumn more fully28 convinced than ever that in it lay all that life had to offer him. Winter had never seemed so long as this, in which his fortieth birthday was creeping toward him with the spring and May. Some of his associates planned a little festival to celebrate the birthday, quite among themselves, arranging that Adela Heyl, a sister of one of the number, who had a fine voice and was coming to pass the spring in the town, should sing some of his songs, that she, without knowing more than the initials of the author, had found sympathetic and had set to music. For as a reflex to the serious student side of the man, he had both a vein9 of romance in him and a love of nature so exquisite29 and so delicately keyed that it was in itself an art.
It was a little late when Professor Hewlett entered the Heyls’ cosey, unpretentious house, and while he was touched by the comradeship that was the motive30 of the festival, yet he at once drew within himself and became diffident at sight of the feminine element that had been introduced in what he had expected was to be a sort of bachelor gathering31; for, seated at the piano was a young woman clad in white with a cluster of the white “Poet’s Narcissus” set against her low-coiled dark hair. Shoulder curve and cheek told of the glory of a perfect development; the chin was dimple cleft32 and dark lashes33 veiled the colour of the eyes that were fixed34 on the keys of the instrument, as the accompaniment trickled35 through her fingers, and her throat began to quiver with song like the vibratory prelude36 of the wood-thrush.
?Love may dream but never sleeps,”
ran the words.
John Hewlett, who had drawn38 himself into a niched doorway39 on seeing the singer, hearing his own words written long ago and almost forgotten, half started forward and paused with both hands resting on the end of the piano, looking across its length at the singer, who at his motion raised her eyes unconsciously to his. They were a deep violet-blue in colour, but he did not know this then; what he saw was the woman’s heart that lay behind, that seemed at once to awaken40 and spring to meet his own.
The first song glided41 into a second, and when, at the end of half an hour, Adela stopped and let her hands drop to her knees, the pallor of emotion rather than fatigue42 replaced her rich colour; and when her brother presented his friend Hewlett as the writer of the words to which her music had given new meaning, there was not one among the onlookers43 but who realized in some degree what this birthday festival foreshadowed.
John Hewlett travelled quickly over the fourteen years that separated him from Adela Heyl, back toward enthusiastic youth. In a month’s time, when he said that he loved her, there was really no need of words, and though he never gave the fact utterance44, she knew, beyond doubt, that it was the first and only love of his life, as was his marriage that followed in October. For no matter whether a man marries once or thrice, there is but one real marriage, be it the first or the last, and no one knows this better than himself.
Miss Hewlett and Catharine went up from Oaklands to the wedding—the sister, in a flutter of mixed feelings in which sorrow at the probable ceasing to be mistress of the homestead, and delight at having new life come into the house, were mingled45. The daughter went purely46 from a wish not to appear to censure47 her father’s actions in public, and thereby48 gained added reputation for being dutiful. In private she expressed her views in words well chosen for their diamond-edged cutting power. She did not approve of matrimony on general principles; in her father’s case she entirely49 disapproved50. Having but a faint memory of her mother, as that of a vague person who had often said “You must not,” and never “I love you,” yet she taxed her father with shortness of memory in no gentle terms, and when he had come down to arrange some household matters prior to the wedding, he found his first wife’s picture placed upon his desk together with a prayer-book he had given her, and which she had carried at their marriage, while at the same time Catharine asked if he was willing that her mother’s furniture should remain in her rooms, or if it was to be sold.
Now, however, nothing could cloud his sunshine, and the technical and loveless remembrances that his daughter cultivated like a crop of birch rods were wholly devoid51 of sting. (By the way, the development of memory is supposed to be one of the best results of education, but father has often said, out of his experience as a physician who sees behind and below the scenes, that memory is often a destroyer of tenderness, and he thinks a capacity for wise forgetting is often a better quality.)
Being themselves happy, Adela and John Hewlett must, perforce, see all about them happy also, and instead of jostling and overturning the old, they merely planned to expand upon their own lines. The ample homestead was divided, and in the half with the primly52 drawn blinds and dark green door Miss Hewlett and Catharine reigned53, while in the other part with the white door, where the honeysuckle climbed up to the open windows and the fearless Ph?bes nested atop the never closed blinds, the Professor lived the indoor part of his new life, the only shadow in it being the twilight of the forest where love dreamed but never slept.
People who predicted trouble were amazed, for, strange to say, Catharine, after the first, never measured swords with Adela so few years her senior; it seemed as though the very intensity54 of the new wife’s nature was so incomprehensible to her that she shrank from stirring its depths.
Three years passed, and John Hewlett’s name was spoken among English scholars as that of a great power, even though not yet at its height. In the fourth a deeper note was struck upon his heartstrings, a note above the joy of which was an instant reverberation55 of sadness, for the cry of his new-born child had apprehension56 for its echo,—a sudden and unaccountable fragility that had come upon Adela, against which science and love, though hand in hand, fought in vain.
“Her name is Rosalind,” he had said in the first happy days of reaction before, for him at least, the apprehension had taken shape, “for she came to us out of the forest of Arden.” Adela, raising herself by a great effort, put the child into his arms, and folding her in them against his breast, whispered, “Rosalind—that is the name I wished, so that I knew you would say it. Take her, and whatever happens, no matter what else she must lack, let it not be love.”
Two months later, in October, the fifth year of the marriage, and he sat alone with the little Rosalind again gathered in his arms, for Adela as a visible presence had gone.
Catharine, more moved than any one had supposed possible, offered to care for the baby when it became necessary for her father to return to college, while Miss Hewlett fairly begged for the child; but to both he turned a deaf ear. Under no circumstances should the child be separated from him, so Rosalind and a kindly57 middle-aged58 nurse, of father’s choosing, went back with Professor Hewlett to the university.
During her first five years it seemed that the little girl would be fairly killed with kindness; report of every tooth was carried from house to house, as if it had been the news of the endowment of a new chair. At five, Rosalind had the direct manners of her father enveloped59 in a bit of coy, feminine charm quite her own. While she was gracious to every one, she belonged only to him, who was also the measure by which she gauged60 the actions of the outward world. She slept in a crib beside him, breakfasted with him, dined when he lunched, and had a little table and chair in the corner of his study.
“It’s all very well for now,” people said, “but wait until she is a few years older, and she will need younger companionship.”
At ten, Rosalind began to pour her father’s coffee, perched in a high-backed chair with her toes hardly touching61 the footstool. She was a child at heart and full of the whims62 and tempers of childhood; she both loved and hated with a will, but as she took all her perplexities to her father to be sifted63, he still managed to shield her from trouble, and in the next years that followed, the love of books, woods, flowers, and birds were woven into the fabric64 that bound the pair together. The little crib by his bedside had been replaced by a white, draped bed in the adjoining dressing-room, but she still knelt at his knees to say “Our Father,” and in her love blended the actual and spiritual father in her prayers.
“Wait until she is eighteen and the beaux begin to come,” said the croakers; “her father will then have to give up first place, and may not be able to shield her from disappointment.”
But at twenty the change had not yet come; all the younger men flocked to her, but her fraternal comradeship was so decided65 that one boundary-line served for all. One, Henry Benton, a man of thirty, a favourite of her father’s and likely to succeed him also, showed others what he felt, even though Rosalind did not see it, and one of those who saw was the Professor, and he stood appalled66.
To him Rosalind was still a child to whom his love was sufficient; as a woman she found him still all in all, but did he wish it to be so now that he realized? He was nearing sixty-five and soon to retire from the university, for though his mental vigour67 was unimpaired, he had oftentimes an unaccountable fatigue that made father tell him that one cannot expect the heart at threescore to stand the pressure it did at two. What would happen after him? It might then be too late. Had he been selfish all these years, selfish through blind contentment?
Father love is often the most unselfish of all affections and best able to act free from hope of reward, and less self-centred than the mother love, even as her body is centred and dependent upon her maternity68. Yet he felt himself at that moment an egotist.
Though it cut the Professor to the quick, he did all that a tactful man might to throw Benton and Rosalind naturally together, until, though she showed no tell-tale eagerness or emotion, she looked for his coming as a matter of course.
At this juncture69, the spring of his retiring came, and the Professor and Rosalind came back to Oaklands, where Catharine, now over forty, was living alone, Miss Hewlett having decided the fall before upon a year’s trip abroad; and it was toward the possible spectacle of the daughters as rivals and the father’s position between the two, that village attention was turned, for it would be very marked should two separate households be maintained for only three people.
Rosalind did not seem to care for the title or prerogative70 of “housekeeper” so long as she was her father’s companion. Together they had made a plan for a garden entirely encircling the house, where even the shady corners should be forced to yield bloom, but this scheme was laid away until another season, because the Professor seemed to feel an ever increasing weariness now that the harness had been laid aside and there was no real necessity for exertion71. No, there was one thing more,—there was still a volume of critical essays, prepared for the work of the university, to go to press. Rosalind begged her father to wait for a while and rest, but when he still persevered72, she, too, threw herself into the work, that was completed at midsummer.
Then came a month of golden days, yet through them ran a thrill as of coming harm that Rosalind felt, but could not formulate73; her father clung to her more closely than ever, but when she glanced up at him, instead of meeting a quick response as of old, his eyes seemed fixed upon something in the far-away horizon.
One day when father dropped in for a friendly rather than a professional call, he found the Professor alone,—in itself quite an unusual happening,—his face drawn and white with pain, hand pressed to side, and then together they faced the inevitable74 as they had done twice before. It might be months hence or even a year or two, or it might be any day, such is angina’s subtle cruelty.
“Shall I tell Rosalind?” asked father; “it is best that she should know.”
“The time has come at last, then, when I can no longer stand between her and sorrow,” said the Professor, scanning father’s face with a piteous clinging to hope that was heartbreaking.
“No, John,” replied father, taking the hands that were fast becoming veined and transparent75, between his own; “the time has come when you may no longer stand between her and either sorrow or love, for one is born of the other, and it is not in the plan of God or nature that she be spared; but if in her love for you she has learned to keep the windows open wide to the sun of things, you will not have failed in your hope.”
“Then all may yet be well with her,” he said slowly, making an evident effort to steady his voice, while at the same time as he glanced out of the window near which they sat, his pained expression changed to one of complete content, and, following his gaze, father looked into the upturned face of Rosalind, who stood below, her mother’s wonderful violet eyes flashing greeting between their long lashes, her arms filled with the crimson76, gold, and sapphire77 glory of late September—boughs of swamp maple78, pepperidge, birch, candelebra of fringed gentian, and smoke of seeded clematis.
Once in the room and her plunder79 arranged in some great blue jars, something either in the air or in an unconscious glance exchanged between the men made her start and then look from one to the other, and kneeling by her father’s chair, she took his face between her hands, and scanning every line said:—
“You are more tired to-day, Daddy, when I thought the bright frosty air would begin to make you better, or did I stay too long and make you worry, dearest?” Then springing up lightly, she followed father, who, without leavetaking, was stealing from the room.
“What is it, Dr. Russell?” she panted, when they had reached the end of the passage; “has anything happened since I went away? Are there any new symptoms?”
“Your father and I have been talking of grave things, dear child,” he answered; “no, there is nothing new,” and afterward80 he confessed that he was coward enough almost to run away. Re?ntering the room, she again dropped to her place by her father’s knee; now it was his turn to take her face between his hands and draw her to him, seeking by unavailing tenderness to break the force of the blow that must come.
“What is it, father?” asked the lips, but before the words were framed, her heart knew the truth. Hiding her head against the breast where her mother had pressed it, more than twenty years before, and forgetting everything except that she had become a child again in her dread81, she sobbed82, “You must not go without me, for I cannot stay behind alone; wait, oh, father, do wait a little longer.”
“Beloved,—my heart flower,—your mother went alone, and yet I have stayed until now. Do you know what she said when she knew that she must first tread the path and she laid you in my arms? ‘Whatever else she must lack, let it not be love,’ and for this I have lived and hoped. Some day there will dawn in and for you a love to which mine will become as the shadow. Keep the soul windows open lest it pass by, even as we open the house windows to air and sun.”
Then for another whole month the arrow lay hid in the quiver, until Rosalind sometimes dreamed that it was not there at all. Oftentimes they would sit all day in the deep bay-window of her father’s chamber83 with the October sunshine piercing them and the call notes of the migrant birds falling from the trees now scant84 of leaf, until plans had been made between the two as for the separation of a necessary journey. But all this time, Catharine held aloof85 as of old; grieved she was, but with her sorrow was a formality; by temperament she was one of those unfortunates who always look backward to the morning that has passed rather than forward to that which shall be.
Frosts came, and under the leafless trees below the window Rosalind scattered86 food for the birds as her father sat by watching her, now he did not leave his chair. Soon the arrow was poised87 again in the bow, and, conscious of its vibration88, her father said at the end of a day when he had kept his bed, after Catharine, coming in, had drawn down the blinds to shut out the moonlight, lest it trouble him: “Open the windows, beloved, and when I go away in spirit, yet still lie here, do not close them, for moon or sun, nor place things near me that cast black shadows, lest the habit of darkness follow you.”
That night father was sent for, but this time he could not stay the hand that drew the bow: in the morning, strange people came to the room with the bay-window about which the honeysuckle still bloomed in spite of frost. As they went in, Rosalind said, “Leave him on his bed, and do not close the blinds.”
Catharine’s side of the house was soon in utter darkness, and a dry-eyed figure clad in black sat in a sepulchral89 room refusing herself to those who came to sympathize. As the morning lengthened90, she crossed the hallway and went upstairs, pausing with an exclamation91 of horror upon her lips before the open door of the great room. There her father lay upon his bed, across which the sun streamed, a smile upon his lips as if in sleep, while upon the counterpane and scattered all about were flowers. Clad in a soft white gown that had belonged to summer, Rosalind was garlanding the slender rails at top and foot of bed; yet as Catharine looked, the words of reproof she meant to say, halted and remained unuttered, and she crept down the stairs again, realizing for the first time in her life the loneliness of heart that was hers.
While daylight stayed, Rosalind never faltered92, and a sort of exaltation took the place of tears. “How do you keepers of the faith reconcile the going of those whose lives are not lived out?” she suddenly asked the Anglican Catholic priest, who had been the family friend since before her father’s first marriage, an ecclesiastic93 of the type more often found in cathedral than in New England towns, a quiet man and very human.
“What others think, I do not know,” he replied; “for myself, I believe that each one of us is taken at the time, best, not for those that he leaves behind, but for himself, and this has been my experience.”
“But my mother was young and had all life before her,” said Rosalind, in doubt.
“She had tasted all the bliss94 of love and loving, and she left it before one bitter drop had entered the draught95.”
“But father was still happy in spite of past sorrow; why was it best for him?”
“Because he had reached the summit of his life and work; is it a good thing to find one’s self groping backward?”
“Why do I stay behind then?” she pleaded with outstretched hands.
“Because your work of love begun must find its culmination;” and when he had gone, Rosalind sat with hands clasped in her lap, lost in wonder.
With night came tears. Ah, for one word, a sign or token; if any one could send a word back, surely it would be the father to his “heart child.”
She lighted candles and grouped them on mantel-shelf and stand, but their light was pale compared to that of the moon. Then she stole away outside the door for rest that must be had. How long she slept she did not know, but awakening96 with beating heart at a dream that was half reality, she thought she heard a rustling97 in the great room: opening the door, she saw a snowbird circling about, gray and white, against the moonlight, and even as she looked, it lighted on the rail above her father’s head and settled to sleep, head under wing.
“The open window,” whispered Rosalind, and peace filled her heart.
Among all those who came to sympathize by word or deed in the three days that followed, one face was missed; Rosalind wondered at it, and then questioned her own disappointment as the days went by, each tense with readjustment, not knowing that absent on a journey at first, he had in tenderness dreaded98 to push into a house of mourning.
At last one day, a man, whose resolute99 yet self-restrained face was unfamiliar100 in the village, came slowly up the street, pausing afar off to look at the house that from his point of view only showed closed shutters101. Presently he walked slowly on, and as he passed the gate, turned quickly as for a last look at a place where he did not dare intrude102.
In the open window of the sunlit half sat Rosalind, dressed in white, a flower at her throat, an open book before her, while on her sweet human face rested the reflected light as from another world.
Then the man took courage, and, turning back, he knocked at the white door.
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1
avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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2
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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instinctively
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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opposition
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chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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motive
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gathering
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cleft
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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40
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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42
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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43
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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45
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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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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48
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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62
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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76
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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81
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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82
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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83
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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84
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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85
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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86
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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87
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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88
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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89
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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90
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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92
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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95
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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96
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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97
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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98
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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99
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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100
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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101
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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102
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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